Smoke

Beneath yon tree sits humble A squalid, hunchbacked house, With roof precipitous, And mossy walls that crumble.

Bolted and barred the shanty. But from its must and mould, Like breath of lips in cold, Comes respiration scanty.

A vapour upward welling, A slender, silver streak, To God bears tidings meek Of the soul in the little dwelling.