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 they 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. 

- Henry David Thoreau