IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.





In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,

Faces of olden days uprise,

And in his dreamers revery

They haunt the smoker's brain, and he

Breathes for the past regretful sighs.



Mem'ries of maids, with azure eyes,

In dewy dells, 'neath June's soft skies,

Faces that more he'll only see

In wreaths of smoke.



Eheu, eheu! how fast Time flies,--

How youth-time passion droops and dies,

And all the countless visions flee!

How worn would all those faces be,

Were they not swathed in soft disguise

In wreaths of smoke!



FRANK NEWTON HOLMAN.





IN THE OL' TOBACKER PATCH. INGIN SUMMER. facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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