Float­ing on a wisp of air,
Per­haps an exha­la­tion in despair,
Or ris­ing from those many fires lit,
Of human ori­gin, and human wit,
To a rus­tic tune, ascend­ing from a pit.
And to his soli­tary plight,
Gloat­ed those dis­tant stars,
From their celes­tial height.
A windy night ’twas, in the sties,
In the dark, it all lay, as it all lies
That ring of smoke came to him,
In a willy-nil­ly, it flew past,
Absolved it was of all doubt,
Not a tantrum it threw,
Of labor and of leisure too.
But this ethe­re­al ring did prompt,
Mem­o­ries from ’71, when in the thoughts,
He had seen, rings of smoke through the trees.
From the cor­ner of his eye,
He glanced again,as it passed by,
In the moon­light it gleamed,
Flowed thou­sands of them in a river,
And could make a heart quiver.
Fas­ci­nat­ed was the loony,
By this shy acquain­tance of his,
Lit he the charred paper,
And curled he,those scorched lips,
A mul­ti­tude sprung from the smoke,
The indo­lent fool, fan­cied a thing or two,
From those lips, came forth a few,
And still float­ed; pon­dered he, Why ?
With ambi­tions as huge as swal­low­ing the sky,
Ges­tures, which grav­i­ty did defy,
Van­ished they, with­out a solemn goodbye.

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