A Breath Drawn of the Gloaming

Words drawn of the gloaming are odd, wistful things, pensive and speculative of themselves. Never are they so clearly formed and defined, beyond what tentative fingertips might shape or express. I am reminded of something, a fanciful musing... 'the spider's web catches the moonlight, but can not keep it'. The words catch the dew, each bejeweled and glimmering for only a moment's time. I am thankful for this moment, whatever its breadth, though I am myself wistful with the words, and know not which first shapes the other...

This will be the beginning of what promises to be a rather lengthy musing, interspersed ideally with crystalline moments of clarity along the way. Be welcome, and if your eyes are likewise open at a likened silvery hour, allow me to offer you this, a small snippet from Keat's Lamia with a small alteration of my own, and one deemed fitting.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine---
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The vesprous pleiad into a shade.

Walk amid the dew-laden grasses and hesitate not in the slightest to dream.