Dreaming in water

I realized that all of the books in all of the alcoves were works of “Mister John Keats, five feet high,” as I had once written—John Keats, the consumptive poet who had asked only that his tomb be nameless except for the inscription:

Here lies One

Whose Name was writ in Water.  

I did not stand to look at the books, to read them. I did not have to. Alone in the stillness and leather-and-aged-paper musk of the library, alone in my sanctuary of self and not-self, I closed my eyes. I did not sleep. I dreamed

The Fall of hyperion, chapter 32 - Dan Simmons