Here the voice faltered, ceased. God, can it be
The morn has dawned on him and not on me?
Is this the Publican, I Pharisee?
To My Pipe.
Others their nectar from the goblet sip;
I draw sweet solace from thine amber lip.
"A feast of reason and a flow of soul"
Lurk in the perfumed vapors of thy bowl.
Some scoff, and say I err from nature's rules—
Tobacco's poison; but, friend, some are fools.
If times are hard, no comrade like to thee;
If prosperous, thou'rt the priest of jollity.
Browned in my service, silver-rimmed through age,
Thy smouldering fire, reflection's heritage;
When the day comes, old friend, and I'm dead broke,
Then just one puff—we'll both go up in smoke.
Supposing.
HE.