Smoke-Rings.

Around the corner, whistling sounds of greeting,
My friend the wind comes panting in his haste,
Like some young fellow rushing to a meeting
With her who all his thoughts has lately graced.
The smack of brine is still within his taste,
And while to me the freshest news he brings
Of streaming horses over surges raced,
I sit aloof in peace and blow my rings.

He tells me tales of wild sea-breakers beating
Against the cliffs distorted and defaced;
Of avalanches treacherously cheating
The glaciers of the finery they've traced.
The slender boughs along my lattice laced
He takes and in his clutches roughly swings;
But, telling him his anger is mere waste,
I sit aloof in peace and blow my rings.
I blow my rings and watch them softly fleeting
Within the shadows; see the phantoms chased
By memory from their silent dim retreating,
Of youth and years which seem too closely spaced.

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Go back, old wind! The mountains you've embraced
May be your pleasure, and the sea that sings,
And while you go your way with step swift-paced,
I sit aloof in peace and blow my rings.

Envoi.
My friend, the lords on high may be abased,
And pussy-cats may look their fill at kings,
But while this orb remains where it was placed,
I sit aloof in peace and blow my rings.

—S.E.