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VISIONS IN THE SMOKE.
VISIONS IN THE SMOKE.
Rest, and be thankful! On the verge
Of the tall cliff rugged and grey,
But whose granite base the breakers surge,
And shiver their frothy spray,
Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath.
That gathers and flits away,
With the surf beneath, and between my teeth
The stem of the “ancient clay.”
Of the tall cliff rugged and grey,
But whose granite base the breakers surge,
And shiver their frothy spray,
Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath.
That gathers and flits away,
With the surf beneath, and between my teeth
The stem of the “ancient clay.”
With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes,
With its spell on my dreamy brain,
As I watch the circling vapours rise
From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies,
My vision becomes more plain,
Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds
Through the smoke rack drifting and veering,
Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds
To a shadowy goal careering.
With its spell on my dreamy brain,
As I watch the circling vapours rise
From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies,
My vision becomes more plain,
Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds
Through the smoke rack drifting and veering,
Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds
To a shadowy goal careering.
