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 Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling 
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes, 
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling, 
As formless as our talk.
Phil, drawling, bets Cornell will win the relay in a walk, While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances; Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk", John gives large views about the last few dances.
And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless, A few chance phrases; yet I see behind The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless, Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind, Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold -- Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.

by Stephen Vincent Benet
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