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Robert Laurence Binyon - Gossamers
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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.
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