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.
