The Smoke Tree To the smoke tree that stands all alone, And drapes a mist of gray in sun, I came to make a world a home And leave for others when I’m gone.
Leave them gray, narrow, and slow, And take a harvest that seems fair And to unwind from below here’s show, An out-loud smoke that lingers there.
But stand brings no better wish Than other to loiter safe in sky Like some soul can wind its bliss And over who has lost a sigh.
- Robert Frost