Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke! Icarian bird,

Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;

Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,

Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;

Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form

Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;

By night star-veiling, and by day

Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;

Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,

And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.