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.