Mirage

The footfalls of many feet are on the prairies, Treading softly, like the rustling of shaken grasses; In the air about me is a sound scarce audible, As of the wings of silent birds, low-flying. . . . What are they that move in the luminous mid-day, Invisibly, intangibly? . . . It is hot and whisperingly still; I see only the quivering air, there on the far horizon, And beyond it a lake of cool water lifted into the sky: Pleasant groves are growing beside it, Very distant I see them. . . . Are these men come out of the silence to walk beside me? Are these gods who flit with invisible wings?