36. Mist at Fleshwick

Miasmic shapes that writhe and whirl

In robes diaphanous and white,

That round the hedges coil and furl,

And make a moon of every light;

They dance and weave in silent hosts

Like armies of forgotten ghosts.

 

There is a world beyond the veil

Remembered from a clearer day,

But now it seems so thin and frail

A gust would scatter all away:

And what did once so solid seem

Is now the phantom of a dream.

 

So hangs a screen before our eyes,

When we the future try to probe

And seek a glimpse of Paradise

That permeates our earthly globe.

All is dissolved in God’s quick breath;

We see the real world, meeting death.