O that my hand, as pale as a whisp of smoke,
Could take the hand of that sweet girl, whose voice is calling
From the hill, voice clear as light, light as smoke.
That I could see her sitting beside me, her love my comfort,
That I could be in her presence, potent wine to the soul,
I'd trade a thousand yesterdays, when I was alone;
I have only one today to give, meager wages.
Tomorrow is worthy of a lover's promise, enough for love,
To purchase it at some fatanstical altar by troth.
Do not lovers promise tomorrow? So would I,
Though my tomorrows are shorter, more piercing than yours.
Will you be my joy in them, and I your guide through their perils?
But all of this is smoke, as meaningless as ash,
I say, hoping you will not laugh. The fire is put out.
The smoke rises, the voice goes forth, and I go home;
You've sung in the day, but I've played in the night, until the hour
Tells me the journey home must be in the dark and cold.