In somber forest, when the sun was low, I saw from unseen pools a mist of flies, 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 In their quadrillions rise, And animate a ragged patch of glow, With sudden glittering - as when a crowd 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 Of stars appear, Through a brief gap in black and driven cloud One arc of their great round-dance showing clear. It was no muddled swarm I witnessed, for In *entrechats* each fluttering insect there 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 Rose two steep yards in air, Then slowly floated down to climb once more, So that they all composed a manifold 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 And figured scene, And seemed the weavers of some cloth of gold, Or the fine pistons of some bright machine. Watching those lifelong dancers of a day As night closed in, I felt myself alone 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 In a life too much my own, More mortal in my separateness than they — Unless, I thought, I had been called to be 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 󠀠 Not fly or star But one whose task is joyfully to see How fair the fiats of the caller are.