Heaven gives its glimpses only to those
Not in a position to look too close.
Robert Frost, "A Passing Glimpse"

To me, it used to be a rabid dog,
Some Baskerville or Dartmoor howling out
Until I'd find my stream of thought would clog
With fears of future nightmares, or with doubt.

In those foul nights I saw the world so sharp
It used to slice my arms almost clean off
And use the bleeding stumps to drain my heart
To goblets, from which demons used to quaff.

Then, one night, in the usual burning pit,
An angel suddenly appeared as well.
He hauled me out, then trained me up a bit
On how I should avoid return to hell.

So nowadays my dreams are all deceit,
Formed cunningly from images I miss,
Which fly by gracefully but far too fleet
To recognise the witches I would kiss.