Pipe and Pouch

Song of the Smoke-Wreaths

Sung to the Smokers

Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
  Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,—
  Soft and clear and warm are we.

Hear the tempest, how its minions
  Tear the clouds and heap the snows!
No storm-rage is in our pinions;
  Who knows us, ’tis peace he knows.

Soaring from the burning censers,
  Stealing forth through all the air,
Hovering as the mild dispensers
  Over you of blisses rare,

Softly float we, softly blend we,
  Tinted from the deep blue sky,
Scented from the myrrh-lands, bend we
  Downward to you ere we die.

Ease we bring, and airy fancies,
  Sober thoughts with visions gay,
Peace profound with daring glances
  Through the clouds to endless day.

Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
  Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,—
  Soft and clear and warm are we.

L.T.A., in London Society.