In reverie they emulate the noble mood Of giant sphinxes stretched in depths of solitude Who seem to slumber in a never-ending dream. Baudelaire.

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IN WREATHS OF SMOKE

In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,
Faces of olden days uprise,
And in his dreamer’s reverie
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 tine flies–
How youth-time passion droops and dies,
And all the countless visions flee!
How worn would all those faces be,
Were they not swaithed in soft disguise
In wreaths of smoke!

Frank Newton Holman

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