Fog

Somewhere are vales, somewhere are peaks,
Somewhere someone walks a-wondering,
And eyes probe blind and lamely seek.
Someone clouded in reverie and wandering;
Averts a gaze.

Plodding pointless — fingers comb the air,
Neither the sight nor the spirit guide,
Nor dreams, nor visions in the stare,
Without the flame of desire to abide;
No heart ablaze.

And the light that lights the darkness,
But dissipates through the nebular air,
While someone hard in habitual aggress,
Whittles lifeless as life does pare;
With eyes aglaze.

Now Puddleglum, the wise marsh wiggle,
So dour, yet a wiser friend than most,
Remembers the sun and flatly inveigles,
This someone receding like a airy ghost;
Whispering praise.