Smoke

By Henry David Thoreau

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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