Interlude

There are some times, moments of fleeting worth,
As when one blinks, and discerns his place on earth;
When twitching his finger, flexing his long arms,
One's vision clears, and pierces the earhly charms;
And when in the dew on morning blossoms he sees,
The sense that has eluded him, and as it flees,
He grasps its peacock-tail, and wonders for a while,
How such innocence has come to have such guile?
Such are those times, as though without dreams,
Freed of beguiling mist, and cleared of false sense,
We are still fog-filled, and enamoured with pretence,
So that few nights after, that same man must deem,
Though ungainly with a new love, that some days past,
He saw a fairer dream- a shame though it could not last.