MIST-
I
don't
believe
the
sleepers
in
the
house
know
where
they
are.
SMOKE-
They've
been
here
long
enough
to
push
the
woods
back
from
around
the
house
and
part
them
in
the
middle
with
a
path.
MIST-
And
still
I
doubt
if
they
know
where
they
are.
And
I
begin
to
fear
they
never
will.
All
they
maintain
the
path
for
is
the
comfort
of
visiting
with
the
equally
bewildered.
Nearer
in
plight
their
neighbors
are
than
distance.
SMOKE-
I
am
the
guardian
wraith
of
starlit
smoke
that
leans
out
this
and
that
way
from
their
chimney.
I
will
not
have
their
happiness
despaired
of.
MIST-
No
one
-
not
I
would
give
them
up
for
lost
simply
because
they
don't
know
where
they
are.
I
am
the
damper
counterpart
of
smoke
that
gives
off
from
a
garden
ground
at
night.
But
lifts
no
higher
than
a
garden
grows.
I
cotton
to
their
landscape.
That's
who
I
am.
I
am
no
further
from
their
fate
than
you
are
SMOKE-
They
must
by
now
have
learned
the
native
tongue.
Why
don't
they
ask
the
red
man
where
they
are?
MIST
-
They
often
do,
and
none
the
wiser
for
it.
So
do
they
also
ask
philosophers
who
come
to
look
in
on
them
from
the
pulpit.
They
will
ask
anyone
there
is
to
ask
-
In
the
fond
faith
accumulated
fact
-
will
of
itself
take
fire
and
light
the
world
up.
Learning
has
been
a
part
of
their
religion.
SMOKE
-
If
the
day
ever
comes
when
they
know
who
they
are,
they
may
know
better
where
they
are.
But
who
they
are
is
too
much
to
believe
-
either
for
them
or
the
onlooking
world.
They
are
too
sudden
to
be
credible.
MIST
-
Listen,
they
murmur
talking
in
the
dark
on
what
should
be
their
daylong
theme
continued.
Putting
the
lamp
out
has
not
put
their
thought
out.
Let
us
pretend
the
dewdrops
from
the
leaves
are
you,
and
I
evesdropping
on
their
unrest
-
a
mist
and
smoke
evesdropping
on
a
haze
-
And
see
if
we
can
tell
the
bass
from
the
soprano.
THAN
SMOKE
AND
MIST
WHO
BETTER
COULD
APPRAISE
-
THE
KINDERED
SPIRIT
OF
AN
INNER
HAZE!
SMOKE
-
If
the
day
ever
comes
