Smoke
Breath of the mine,
Wraith of the oak —
Who shall divine
The riddle of smoke?
I
Weave me a cloud,
Cover the sky;
Weave me a shroud:
Life is a lie!
Weave it not thin,
Weave it not fine;
Vivid as sin,
This, the design:
Beings of might
Toiling with death;
Frail things, affright,
Gasping for breath;
Cities of doom,
Blackened and grim;
Battle-cloud's gloom;
Charred forests dim;
Crater and pit,
Furnace and pyre; —
Boldly in-knit
With garlands of fire.
Weave it! The dust
Lies in the urn:
So at last must
All the world burn.
Take then your toll,
Weaver of cloud.
Follows the whole:
Weave me a shroud.
Weave me it true,
Weave me it well —
Weave me it, weave me it,
Vapor of Hell!
II
I built for myself a lodge in a fringe of the forest.
With joy I labored — the joy of the builder, the homemaker, —
Building a dream with the sills and the joists and the rafters:
Oh, the smell of the sweet wood, and the triumph-song of the hammer!
And last of all I gathered flat stones from the lakeside,
And split them, and fitted them, filling the spaces with mortar,
And fashioned a goodly hearth for the friendly fire.
Now for the crowning moment! — the fire is kindled,
The light smoke rises, and eddies, and sucks up the chimney.
Out of doors! — quick! — or lost the supreme satisfaction.
There it comes! — puff — puff. . . . The birds in the branches were singing,
The sun shone, the breeze fanned the perfume of hay from the meadows,
The lake laughed: all Nature insistent was wooing;
Yet I stood, heeding not, while wonder and joy filled my spirit
As I watched the sweet smoke from my hearth curling upward to Heaven.
III
Beyond a sky-swept crest of hills
I see a smoke-plume rise;
And who shall tell me if a god
Or devil in it flies?
Does it write black the Curse of Cain,
Portend a bitter wrong?
Or does it from the feet of Love
Float upward like a song?
Of shame, of ruin, and of death
Behold the baleful sign!
Of friendship, faith, and goodly cheer —
Who shall the truth divine?
Is there no good without the ill?
No shadow without sun?
What know we yet of false and true,
When all is said and done?
Wraith of the oak —
Who shall divine
The riddle of smoke?
I
Weave me a cloud,
Cover the sky;
Weave me a shroud:
Life is a lie!
Weave it not thin,
Weave it not fine;
Vivid as sin,
This, the design:
Beings of might
Toiling with death;
Frail things, affright,
Gasping for breath;
Cities of doom,
Blackened and grim;
Battle-cloud's gloom;
Charred forests dim;
Crater and pit,
Furnace and pyre; —
Boldly in-knit
With garlands of fire.
Weave it! The dust
Lies in the urn:
So at last must
All the world burn.
Take then your toll,
Weaver of cloud.
Follows the whole:
Weave me a shroud.
Weave me it true,
Weave me it well —
Weave me it, weave me it,
Vapor of Hell!
II
I built for myself a lodge in a fringe of the forest.
With joy I labored — the joy of the builder, the homemaker, —
Building a dream with the sills and the joists and the rafters:
Oh, the smell of the sweet wood, and the triumph-song of the hammer!
And last of all I gathered flat stones from the lakeside,
And split them, and fitted them, filling the spaces with mortar,
And fashioned a goodly hearth for the friendly fire.
Now for the crowning moment! — the fire is kindled,
The light smoke rises, and eddies, and sucks up the chimney.
Out of doors! — quick! — or lost the supreme satisfaction.
There it comes! — puff — puff. . . . The birds in the branches were singing,
The sun shone, the breeze fanned the perfume of hay from the meadows,
The lake laughed: all Nature insistent was wooing;
Yet I stood, heeding not, while wonder and joy filled my spirit
As I watched the sweet smoke from my hearth curling upward to Heaven.
III
Beyond a sky-swept crest of hills
I see a smoke-plume rise;
And who shall tell me if a god
Or devil in it flies?
Does it write black the Curse of Cain,
Portend a bitter wrong?
Or does it from the feet of Love
Float upward like a song?
Of shame, of ruin, and of death
Behold the baleful sign!
Of friendship, faith, and goodly cheer —
Who shall the truth divine?
Is there no good without the ill?
No shadow without sun?
What know we yet of false and true,
When all is said and done?
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