No, Hamlet has not been here. If he had,
He would have seen how very big a dream’s
Encompassed by my shell: a noble plan,
Complete in every part from germ to seam,
Distilled, condensed, intensified, compact,
Thus rounded to a lovely oval fit
That’s neither loose nor tight; no room, in fact,
For any second thoughts or thoughtless fits:
Forget the zero—empty brittle clown;
Forget infinity—it is a cheat.
And yet there’s room here, Hamlet, room to count
The still-uncounted wonders of the seed,
A living dream that grows, not for a king,
But simply for the song it has to sing.