That you and I’ve been drinking wine,
Embittered by this dull grey day; or must
It be that you too know
That smoke and hopes “grey” both may go?
Grey smoke of yours, grey thoughts o’ mine,
Seem strangely both in one accord to-day.
Perhaps it is that croon-song of the pine,
Recalling memories dear and far away—
Or is it that this grey day’s mystic spell
Foretells the end of hope and smoke in Hell?