People think of Henry Thoreau (1817-1862) as the man who lived in a cabin by Walden Pond, and as the man who got arrested for not paying his poll tax in protest of the Mexican War. Others know him as a naturalist, a nature writer, an advocate of simplicity in life. And of course, as the author of Walden. Indeed,the more you know of him the more there is to know. Admirable man.
One thing few people seem to realize. He was a true poet, at a time (the 1840s) when America had few true poets to its name. “Smoke” is perhaps my all-time favorite poem of his. Read it out loud to yourself and see if it isn’t a treat.
SMOKE
Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.