Smoke

Smoke

Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,

Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,

Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,

Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;

Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form

Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;

By night star-veiling, and by day

Darkening the light blotting out the sun;

Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,

And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.

---Henry David Thoreau