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.

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