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.