Sorrow

Why does the thin grey strand Floating up from the forgotten Cigarette between my fingers, Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand; When I carried my mother downstairs, A few times only, at the beginning Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs On the breast of my coat; and one by one I let them float up the dark chimney.