Henry David Thoreau



                   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 and blotting out the sun; 
                   Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, 
                   And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.


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