Forced by merry winds around;
Piled by childish hands on high,
There, like martyred saints, to die.
Crackle crackle, sound their knells,
Imprisoned sunshine in them dwells
Like tiny tongues, ’twixt earth and sky
They whisper love to passers by.
Falling, ever falling, they,
Consumed to make the world more gay;
The misty cloud of smoke o’erhead