SORROW

WHY does the thin grey strand

Floating up from the forgotten

Cigarette between my fingers,

Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;

When I carried my mother downstairs,

A few times only, at the beginning

Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand

To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs

On the breast of my coat; and one by one

I let them float up the dark chimney.