The ocean can be yours; why should you stop Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew? The secrets of the sun are yours, but you Content yourself with motes trapped in beams.
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
It is true that we are made of dust. And the world is also made of dust. But the dust has motes rising.
It's easier to bleed than sweat, Mr. Motes.
Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more.