Float

I am often hurried, though I feel
Much too serene to be so. It is strange
The business ahead never seems real,
Nor do the points across which it will range.
I float above, not quite insensible
To what goes on beneath, and yet almost;
Which is not wholly indefensible
But only if I am a sort of ghost,
A specter or illusion of myself,
Condemned to seem the whole, and yet not be,
His soul plucked off some high eternal shelf
To fill the insubstantial wraith of me.
If I am ghostly, then my life is haunted
By everything I am and all I wanted.