Gossamers
In the breathing of a breath—
How, who shall say?
Ghostly mist has flowered
Into flaming day.
Dewy from furze to furze
Gossamers are spun,
Frail forgotten threads
Of moonshine in the sun.
As I stray, I stop;
And suddenly I seem
With all I am on earth
To have become a dream,
And mingle with the dreams
Wandering silent air
Out of the souls of men,
None knows nor guesses where.
No human voice is heard;
Yet the air is full, full
Of sighs, desires, and want,
And hope invisible.
Each thinks to be alone;
Yet separate is none.
Of such a quivering web
The human soul is spun.
Loose as the idle clouds
My thoughts float as they may.
Now I am here, and now
Ten thousand miles away.
