Dura Matters

SEPTEMBER 5TH , 2014

By: Dave Marcon

I never told anybody about my motorcycle accident in 1985 that left me permanently disabled. I never told anybody because it almost crushed my psyche and my spirit and made me feel ashamed.

The accident affected most of my cognitive functions. It stifled my personality, and my ability to express myself. My potential for growth and development was interrupted. I suffered a permanent disability after I hit a Safeway shopping cart on February 2, 1985. The cart was left in the middle of Bay Street one night, while I was driving 30-40 mph without a helmet in San Francisco’s Marina District two miles from the Fort Mason Youth Hostel.

I suffered a contrecoup injury to my brain when I hit the shopping cart. This is when the brain ricochets off the opposite side of the skull upon impact with a surface. The left side of my body became paralyzed. I sustained multiple skull fractures and significant damage to the sensory and cognitive areas of my brain after it bounced inside my inside my skull like a pinball on impact with the curb at Bay and Laguna. I was knocked unconscious and was comatose for 3 weeks. My memory was erased from the night of my accident back to August 1984.

The impact of my head against the curb hindered the cerebral spinal fluid the brain floats in. The fluid cushions the brain when a person falls or bumps their head. Fortunately, the speech and language areas in my cerebrum, in the upper part of my skull, were unimpaired.

Unfortunately, the curb at Bay and Laguna streets left a small hole in my cranium after my left brow struck the curb. I landed on my stomach that now has a faint red vertical scar. A Good Samaritan parked in a red van, who spoke little English and could habla Espanol, saw the accident. He phoned 911 from a Chevron station at the corner of Bay and Laguna, where I landed.

An ambulance took me to San Francisco General Hospital, where I was strapped to a gurney and immediately given a CAT scan of the brain, which is a detailed X-ray. Immediate medical attention was necessary in a case like mine, because I sustained head injuries and would have died if the ambulance had not arrived as soon as it did.

When the doctors first examined me when I arrived at San Francisco General, they thought I was bleeding internally and cut my stomach open after the CAT scan was taken.

I was taken to the operating room after the CAT scan where my neurosurgeon Dr. Griffith Harsh (who was a big fan of Star Trek) looked at my supine form, scratched his forehead and said, “He’s dead, Jim, but we have the technology to effect repairs on this biological unit and put in some overtime.”

The other neurosurgeon, an aspiring singer, picked up a scalpel looked at Dr. Harsh and began to sing a line from Mack the Knife “you know this sharp blade has such teeth dear, and it shows its pearly whites.” The neurosurgeons used a cement cutter and various Black and Decker power tools to make five hours worth of repairs to my brain.

They cut open my skull and evacuated the area of my brain that was bleeding because a subdural hematoma was forming on an area of my brain that swelled up. They wanted to prevent my brain from swelling up so blood clots would not form — YIKES! I spent one month in intensive care in a comatose state, without a map.

When I came out of my coma at San Francisco General Hospital on February 21, I was transferred to St. Mary’s Hospital in the morning on February 22nd where I lived for 3 1/2 months until my discharge in May. I was placed in a private room on the 4th floor which is the area at St. Mary’s where patients are rehabilitated from serious injuries — like strokes and head injuries. I received intensive rehabilitation in physical, speech and occupational therapy. My room faced the hospital parking lot across from Golden Gate Park next to Stanyan Street.

I remember sitting on my bed the morning of my transfer. I began staring at my new living environment. I felt like a stranger in a strange land. White walls to the left and right and a blank television screen. The most exciting thing about the room was the window which I stared out and watched traffic. Where are all my books?

I began to feel claustrophobic. Most of the space in my room was taken up by the bathroom. There was a sign on the wall outside my room above the door. It had a picture of a human body in the act of falling down, arms and legs making flailing motions. The sign alerted nurses and hospital staff that the patient in the room had balance problems. I didn’t have the balance skills to walk to the bathroom without falling down. I had to push a red button on the side of my electric bed to call the nursing station and have a nurse escort me to it. I felt like a small child dependent on the needs of others to perform basic functions. I became filled with feelings of frustration and helplessness. My disability was something I was aware of but couldn’t see or control.

Music became important. Whenever I felt uncomfortable during my therapy sessions, lines from songs I liked would pop into my mental jukebox. “Where do I go from here to a better state than this?” popped into my mental jukebox as I was sitting on my bed waiting to begin my therapies on my 1st day at St. Mary’s.

My thoughts were interrupted when my primary care nurse Karen, one of several I had at the hospital, walked into my room. She asked me what I wanted to eat for breakfast. When I saw her I thought, ROOM SERVICE! I was really hungry after being in a coma. I looked at her and placed my order. “I’ll have eggs Florentine with bacon and a glass of orange juice, can you also bring me the New York Times, I want to keep abreast of current events. I have a lot of catching up to do.”

By the look on her face I realized I was in the wrong restaurant. They didn’t serve Continental cuisine here. I settled for 2 scrambled eggs, a bowl of Wheaties, and glass of Minute Made orange juice made from concentrate. When I had realized what happened after regaining consciousness, it felt like someone had played a cruel joke on me.

When I learned on my first day of my intensive therapy from my speech therapist, Cheryl, I was at St. Mary’s hospital and Medical Center. It made me think about faith. I had my first tests of faith during my childhood. I had two traumatic experiences.

I almost drowned when I was six years old. I fell into the above-ground pool that was surrounded by a fence in the backyard of the house where I grew up in Flat Rock, Michigan.

The trauma I experienced from the near-drowning occurred one week later. My dad bought me a life preserver that made me feel confident about learning how to swim. When he placed me into the pool again I had an anxiety attack. I began bobbing up and down on the surface of the water like a top. I became terrified. I was going down to the bottom of the pool. My little body, arms, and legs began flailing again. I began punching the water in terror. My dad picked me up out of the pool again and put me on the grass. I had the same feelings my first day at the hospital when I fell to the floor in my room. It really shook my confidence.

A few years after this I experienced another traumatic event. My dad passed away one week after Christmas in 1971. He fell into a comatose state after surgery and never came out. He was only 45 years old.

His death came so suddenly. It was an unprecedented event in my young life. I didn’t have a blueprint or model to follow when things like this happened. I kept my grief and the intense sorrow I felt to myself that I still hold to this day. I didn’t understand why he had to die. I knew how he died, but as young as I was I didn’t realize the significance his death and the ongoing effects a motorcycle accident would have on my life.

My motorcycle accident has made me feel the same way. Personally I feel a bittersweet irony. We were both so young. My dad was 45 when he died after being in a comatose state. I was only 22 but I survived mine.

Due to nature of my injury in the frontal lobe that controls my cognitive functions like memory, judgement, problem solving, impulse control, and social behavior have made it difficult to learn how express my emotions. I usually restrain my emotions and keep any grief or sadness I feel to myself like I did when my dad died.

St. Mary’s hospital. It turned out to be a litmus test. My identity and my dreams were shattered from the effects of the accident. I was born and raised Catholic. I had to go to church every Sunday. I respected my dad too much not to go. I wasn’t going to argue, he outweighed me by abut 100 pounds. He was active during his short life in the affairs of the church. He believed in the teachings of the Catholic church. He was a friend of the priest, Father Kaznowski, who did the services at Sunday Mass. My dad also believed in having a large family. There were five boys and two girls in mine. Most of my family went to parochial school that was run by the church.

For me, faith doesn’t mean I’m religious. I don’t attend church services. My faith I’ve developed is a belief that things in life will work out the way you plan them and hope.

At the time of my accident I was accepted for enrollment to McGill University in Montreal, Canada, as a journalism major. I was taking classes part-time at San Francisco State University. My major was French language and its culture. My dream was to get a degree in journalism from McGill and move to Paris, France, and get a job working as a journalist. I had faith in my ability to achieve my dream. But my faith was shattered by my accident. Faith became something bad. It was invisible to me. Something I couldn’t see or control. It left me feeling devastated.

The damage to my brain in the frontal lobe that controls my memory social and sexual behavior along with my ability to plan, my impulse control, and judgement. My faith was shaken my first day at St. Mary’s when I fell down after trying to stand up straight from my bed. When I remember this I was shocked at how quickly my body was introduced to the floor.

My initial thought after I picked myself up from the floor was, Am I going to need help doing everything in my life from this day forward? Is my luck this bad? will I be doomed to a life of takeout foods after my release from St. Mary’s? For example, if you work hard at a job or vocation for say 30 or 40 years you will be rewarded when you retire, you believe you will be financially secure for the rest of your life, what you’ve come to believe that your efforts in life will be rewarded or appreciated, no more stress or physical or emotional tension that life creates on your journey or travels through life.

My daily life fell onto a routine after I was admitted. My therapies would begin after I got dressed and had breakfast. My day would begin with speech therapy, then physical therapy followed by occupational therapy. I would usually wake up at about 7 a.m. and use the bathroom. Karen would come in and ask me, “Do you feel like having a bowel movement, I need to give you a suppository?” That was the 1st time I’d ever heard the words bowel and suppository mentioned in the same sentence together in my life. When Karen took out a latex glove and slid each finger into the glove, I instinctively knew what to do, bend over in a most undignified position.Then she would insert the suppository, a drug delivery system made of plastic that was shaped like a bullet into my rear end.

The suppository contained a stool softener. After removing the suppository I would brush my teeth and step back into my room where clothes were laid out on the bed. My occupational therapist Jolee would come in after Karen left and help me dress.

I had limited use of the left side of my body and getting dressed became a challenge. I put my clothes on one side at a time, beginning with the left pant leg then my right pant leg then my left sock and right sock. I would put my left arm in a t-shirt 1st then push my right arm through the other hole. I usually wore a t-shirt or sweat shirt over my pants while I was at St. Mary’s. A shirt with buttons became a spatial issue, since the parietal area which allows the brain to recognize form and shape was impaired. I had difficulty lining up the buttons so both sides of my shirt matched. Getting dressed was time consuming. The easy part was putting my shoes on. They had Velcro straps, not laces.

I learned how to compensate for the weakness on the left side. I put my right shoe on first since my right foot was stronger and was more flexible than my left. Then I would use a shoe horn to slide my left foot into my shoe. I stood in front of a mirror in my bathroom so I could see where to slide a belt through the loops when I wore pants.

The damage to the right side of my brain caused a whiplash motion when my head smashed against the curb. My brain was jerked forward against the inside of my skull. The impact caused a weakness to the left side of my body, a condition called hemiparesis. This affected my balance and coordination. I lacked the ability to use both my hands to dress myself. My fine motor skill movements, i.e. using a fork and knife, grabbing things like shoe laces, and playing the guitar — which I could do before my accident — were also affected.

I looked down at my body the morning of my transfer. My left arm hung lame on my body, frozen to my side. I brushed my right hand over my forehead to brush the hair away, but there was none. My head was shaved, my hair grew back slowly. All I felt was beard stubble. I would not be able to play chess, write to my congressman, protest or play ping-pong.

I received physical therapy immediately after my transfer. My body had been inactive for 3 weeks while I was comatose. I was ready to feel the burn again and become AMERICA’S SKINNIEST AND MOST FLEXIBLE LOSER! The range of motion of the left side of my body was severely but not completely impaired. I had limited movement of my arms and legs. The hemiparesis had knocked the left and right sides my body out of sync.

To improve the weakness on my left side, one of the physical therapists named Ann put me through a variety of balance and stretching exercises in the gym area on a padded mattress in 4 West that was near the nursing station. The exercises were designed to stimulate the left side of my body. Ann stretched my left arm above my shoulder away from my body, a movement called abduction, a painful motion that made me think of a line from a Ray Charles song: “Now baby listen baby don’t treat me this way cause I’ll be back on my feet someday.”

The same therapy was done to my left leg. It was lifted up away from the surface where I was laying down and stretched, and my leg was flexed at my knee. She also had me do a quadruped, a balance exercise where I got down on my hands and knees. I put one arm straight out in front of me and lifted the opposite leg. I also had to balance on both legs, one at a time using a wall for support. My body felt it was being mistreated after my 1st physical therapy session. But, I reacquired the use of some basic motor skills from this kind of torture which became useful in my daily life in the hospital.

I relearned how to walk, and perform other basic functions at St. Mary’s, such as tying my shoes, eating, using my hands, paying my income taxes and balancing a checkbook.

Before my discharge in May, my sister Nancy would come to the hospital every 2 weeks. We would meet in my room with my primary care doctor at the hospital, Dr. Stanley Yarnell, and my therapists. Dr. Yarnell was head of the Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation Department at he hospital. He was in charge of the team of therapists who were rehabilitating me. I would get a progress report from each of my therapists. Dr. Yarnell would give his prognosis. Due to the nature of my injury, I made a speedier recovery than was usual for the kind of injury I experienced. I was eager for my release.

Dr. Yarnell explained to me and Nancy in layman terms that I suffered a closed head injury, when my head slammed against the curb and I sustained multiple skull fractures along with damage to the frontal area of my brain when it ricocheted off my skull in the frontal area along with the parietal area at the point of impact. Some of my brain tissue died from the impact. I also experienced something he called retrograde amnesia, a condition where someone can’t remember things right before a traumatic injury occurred for a period of time. My injury affected my short and long term memory of events for a period of 8 months before the night of my accident. I could remember things that occurred in my life before August 1984 before the night of my accident.

My injury affected the speed at which my brain processed information and body could react to things I saw or felt. My physical therapist Ann mentioned to Dr. Yarnell that I experienced muscle fatigue which was a common symptom of a head-injured person. I became tired easily during physical therapy after walking up and down stairs during our physical therapy sessions along with some of the balance or fine motor skill exercises we did . I learned how to walk independently without her assistance back to my room after 2 weeks of physical therapy. In the morning she would usually come to my room and escort me to the gym area.

My speech therapist told Dr. Yarnell that my language and vocabulary skills were excellent due to the nature of my injury but I had trouble grasping concepts and ideas. My occupational therapist mentioned that my motor skills were improving . I was able to get dressed without any assistance and could walk independently. The consensus from each of my therapists was I had made great strides in my recovery based on the nature of my injury but I still needed more therapy.

I made plans for life after my discharge from St. Mary’s. But my plans were put on hold after a visit by the clinical director of a transitional care facility in Berkeley. After my discharge, I wanted to go back and work as a waiter Scott’s Carriage House where I worked for 5 years and had so many friends. I wanted to live independently by myself again in an apartment.

One month before my discharge I was given a series of neuropsychological tests by Jim Cole. He was the clinical director of a transitional care facility in Berkeley. Jim was the clinical director of The Bay Area Head Injury Recovery Center or BAHIRC as I called it. I still needed more therapy after my discharge according to Dr. Yarnell. Jim suggested to my sister Nancy, who was my primary caretaker, that I live there after my release from St. Mary’s.

Jim gave me a series of neuropsychological tests. Each test had a different name. They were used to measure my cognitive skills in areas where my brain was injured the most in the frontal area which controls executive functions such as tracking and sequencing, problem solving, and planning.

The transitional care facility in Berkeley was located near the University of California campus in Berkeley. The facility was a 2-story house located in a quiet neighborhood about 1 mile from campus. It was also conveniently located near Alta Bates Medical Center near downtown Berkeley. Jim gave me a series of neuropsychological tests. Each test had a different name. They were used to measure my cognitive skills in areas where my brain was injured the most in the frontal area which controls executive functions such as tracking and sequencing, problem solving, and planning. He began the test by giving me the WECHSLER MEMORY SCALE. Jim read me a list of 12-15 words. I had to tell him as many words as I could remember from the list. Jim tested my ability to sequence, another executive function, by giving me the WISCONSIN CARD SORTING TEST. He put some cards on the table in front of me which had pictures on them. I was supposed to put the cards back on the table so the cards showed a story from beginning to end.

Jim tested my spatial skills with THE REY OSTERRIETH COMPLEX FIGURE DEMENTIA. For this test I was shown a picture that was drawn with different geometric shapes. I had to draw the picture from memory in freehand using a pencil on a blank piece of paper. The final test Jim gave was a test of my motor skills. I had to place little round metal pegs into holes on a piece of wood that resembled a cribbage board with my left and right hand.

Jim discussed the test results with Nancy and myself. He convinced Nancy and me that I should live at the transitional care facility where I would meet other people with similar injuries and most importantly receive the cognitive therapy from the staff so I could live independently.

At the time of the accident, I had everything going for me. I had the world in the palm of my hand. I was enrolled at San Francisco State University as a foreign language major. The French language and its culture were my area of emphasis and study. I also worked part-time as a waiter at Scott’s Seafood Grill and Bar in downtown San Francisco at Embarcadero Center # 3. My goal at the time was to get a B.A. in French from San Francisco State. Then I was going to move to Montreal, Canada, the second largest French-speaking city in the world, where I would get a degree in journalism at McGill University, that has two campuses located in downtown Montreal. I would eventually move to Paris, France, where I would foment revolution, teach the French American English and how to speak more eloquently with the proper use of the word ain’t to eliminate the use of bothersome contractions in such words as couldn’t, wouldn’t, haven’t, etc. I would also teach the French to stop being rude to us sometimes-ugly Americanos. I would continue where Napoleon Bonaparte had left off, before he was banished to Club Elba after his downfall at Waterloo in 1815.

My accident diminished the confidence and self-esteem I had. It left me feeling like a little man, and inferior as a person, due to the damage to my limbic system, where executive functions occur, like tracking and sequencing. I found it difficult to do things in order or succession like follow directions, a recipe, or work out a math problem using rules or a formula.

An example of my inability at sequencing occurred in one attempt at a simple shopping trip. My sister Nancy sent me to the store to buy a loaf of wheat bread and a pint of nonfat milk. Something happened in my mind between the time she gave me the list and my tennis shoes hit the road. I came back 1 hour later with a loaf of bread and a Snickers candy bar. She looked at me and shook her head in disbelief. I was equally successful as a cook as I was at running errands. Thank god for takeout food or I would have poisoned myself and Nancy if I had to prepare a meal. A cook I am not. Dave Can’t Cook.

I was eager to do things and remake my life like it was pre-accident, but my social skills were rusty. Social skills are a higher function of the frontal lobe that develop and become manifest in a person’s behavior towards others. I remember going to some restaurants with Nancy where I would begin ordering when I got inside the door, without waiting for the hostess or host to seat me. This became personally embarrassing when the restaurant was crowded and people stared at me as if I were rude and uncouth, like some kind of barbarian, which I really am. I’M HUNGRY, DAMMIT! My impaired cognitive abilities made it difficult for me to process and integrate information into my brain like a course lecture. Socially, it was difficult to have a conversation and stay focused on the subject. Simply put, a neurologist at St. Mary’s hospital explained to me in nonprofessional terms that tracking is literally the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.

I enrolled at City College of San Francisco one year after my accident in 1986. I met with Hortensia Chang, who was the enabler counselor and director of Disabled Student services at City College. She informed me that I qualified for classroom accommodations under the ADA, Americans with Disabilities Act.

All the courses I took in college until I received my Bachelors Degree, letters were sent to my instructors that described my disability and the accommodations I was entitled to, i.e., tape record lectures, extra time to complete tests and assignments, and take tests in a distraction-free environment by myself and a date with the instructor’s wife if she were good-lookin’ and had money. (Heh, heh, heh)

I received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Liberal Studies at San Francisco State University in 1995. I transferred there after taking enough classes at City College and College of Marin to qualify for admission to San Francisco State. I took courses there in English, Speech, the Social Sciences, the Humanities, and some literature courses that were prerequisites for my degree area.

When I received my Bachelors degree from San Francisco State, I felt a more meaningful satisfaction than I would have if I earned it before my accident occurred, when things came so easily to me.

It was difficult for me to relate to people socially after my accident because I had a hard time accepting the fact I might never relearn enough basic skills to work again or become exploited and work in a sweatshop making tennis shoes or clothing and be paid ten cents an hour by huge mega corporations like Nike or the Gap. I didn’t want to be like Mike.

Initially, my accident left me with a chip on my shoulder. I constantly feel like I always have to prove myself because I don’t look disabled, since my disability is invisible; no one can see it. I’m more articulate than the average person, except for the times I start drooling whenever I see an hourglass, or a picture of Pamela Anderson Lee pre- or post-boob job. I have not changed much since my accident, give or take a few years of psychotherapy before and after my accident occurred. I remain basically the same person I ever was (or am). But I’ve persevered and modified my dream of living in Paris, France, as a journalist. I’ve developed a personal philosophy after being told initially by doctors and therapists in the hospital and rehab center that I’m permanently disabled: I will never give up!

Creative writing is something I have used to reinforce this philosophy. The writing classes I’ve taken served as an outlet in which the act of writing has helped me resolve personal issues and relieve the stress of being disabled.

I’ve worked a variety of volunteer jobs after my accident while taking college courses. The volunteer work I hoped would eventually lead to paid employment. I registered with San Francisco School Volunteers after my discharge from St. Mary’s Hospital. With my academic background at San Francisco State in foreign Languages and English, my counselor at School Volunteers, Bruce Stengele, suggested doing clerical work. I worked as a temporary volunteer at Friends of The San Francisco Public Library in 1986 doing light clerical work, stuffing envelopes, filing papers, etc. I worked at Friends in the morning. I also worked as a volunteer teacher’s aid in a bilingual Kindergarten class at a school located in the Haight Ashbury in the afternoon where the children spoke French and English.

I worked at Friends with enthusiasm. I sat behind a behind a desk. However, all I did was stuff about 1 or 200 envelopes. This activity left my tongue with a permanent curl and allowed me to talk to the 5-year-olds at the Bilingual school at their level — like Sylvester the Cat from Bugs Bunny.

After I finished working at Friends and the bilingual school, I worked at St. Mary’s Hospital in the spring of 1987. I wanted to give something back to the hospital for rehabilitating me. I worked on fourth floor west, the rehabilitation ward, where I received rehabilitation as a patient. My job was to assist the physical therapists by filing different-colored forms alphabetically. The forms were blue, yellow, and pink and contained patient info. These forms, I was instructed by a physical therapist, who was my supervisor, were for new patients. The yellow forms were for patients receiving therapy who were transferred to 4 West from other floors. The pink were for patients who had mobility impairments — in wheelchairs, using walkers, etc. This form was placed with the patient’s blue and yellow form in the same file. Gee whiz people, I have a head injury — cut me some slack!

Needless to say, my tenure on 4 West was a short one that lasted 1 week. I became confused as to where the colored forms were supposed to go. I mixed different colored forms together in the same file. I was transferred from four West to the mail room, at the suggestion of a physical therapist. I delivered mail to patients and different departments. This turned out to be less stressful than filing colored forms. Now I only had 1 color, white, to worry about. I began to look for different volunteer work while at the hospital. I became restless and bored sorting and delivering mail.

I met with Rosalind Henning, the director of Volunteer Services at the California Academy of Sciences, in July, 1987. I told her of my interest of being an elementary schoolteacher. Rosalind informed me about a volunteer position in the Discovery Room. The Discovery Room was an interactive room designed for elementary school children. The room was filled with natural science exhibits. It contained a replica of a human skeleton, and a closet filled with clothes from different countries that could be tried on, such as wooden shoes from Denmark, a sari from India, a Sun hat from China, etc.There was also a bookshelf filled with wooden discovery boxes that could be opened, where children could use their natural senses to learn about different aspects of science. My job in the room was to inform people about the exhibits, and record on a clipboard the number of people, usually school-age children and teachers who came in the room. I worked at the Academy of Sciences every Wednesday beginning in July, 1987, in the afternoon from 1-4 p.m. while I was enrolled at San Francisco State University.

I went to Europe for 1 month with my sister Nancy in 1993. I wanted to focus on my course work at San Francisco State and left the museum. The 7 years I spent at the Science Academy were enjoyable. I had control and responsibility of something, the Discovery Room, for the 1st time since my release from the hospital and rehabilitation center.

In my spare time between volunteer jobs, I was searching for an activity or outlet that would help relieve the stress and frustration I experienced of being disabled. Creative writing is something I found to resolve personal issues and relieve the stress of being disabled.

I took creative writing courses at U.C. Berkeley Extension from 1997-2001 after moving across the bay to Berkeley, and some online writing courses through UCLA Extension. The writing courses had a therapeutic effect. I use writing as a way of achieving personal satisfaction. It’s something I’ve used to work out personal issues, writing about relationships with people I’ve met, childhood events, etc.

Now I want to become a famous and world-renowned writer of short stories, hit the cocktail circuit, attend book signings, and appear on C-Span 2. I’d also like to have my books made into successful blockbuster motion pictures that are made for prodigious amounts of money, and reviewed in the New York Times. Then I would develop a drinking problem like Ernest Hemingway, live a decadent lifestyle like Zelda and F. Scott did in Paris, and suffer from depression like Sylvia Plath. Ultimately I’d like the short stories I will write become required reading in every English class in America, Europe, and every English-speaking city in the Free World.

Thank you.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.