Like a Sybil, she knows her smoke.
The tir’d glare, the glaring baroque
Of her sacrosanct, dim chamber
Where crowds uncloud the words she spoke.
Like a cigarette’s coil’d camber,
The coal of her heart black amber;
She is by her prophecy burnt
And hers is an enflam’d timbre.
She wishes the things that she weren’t.
But, it is by her it is learnt
That the future is to man as
The water is to the current.