I've the right thing on my watch-chain
Which some fool or other gave me—
Takes the end off in a second—
Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.
See! The soft wreath upward curling,
Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;
Blue as skies in mild October;
Vague, elusive as delight is.
Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to
When they're looked at by a dreamer!