With crusted eyes from little sleep
I stepped out on the sand,
the morning mist a coverlet
o'er all, both lake and land.
And then as if a waking dream
or flight of fancy to my sight
I thought I saw a spritely nymph
come dancing in the dark and light.
Entranced was I to see such sport
displayed in front of me,
she swooped on wings of gossamer,
In and out of my purview
she flew with graceful ease,
accompanied by flute and lyre
to decorate the breeze.
Then rooted to the spot I watched
the vapors disappear,
with them the image of the nymph
whom I had held so dear.
Was she a daydream, fancy's flight,
a soulless apparition,
or is she real, and can she feel
the moment, and her mission?