Havanna’s ripe brunettes;
And wafted incense to the stars,
In blue and spiral jets.
Shag, bird’s-eye, twist, and negro-head
This infant doth eschew;
And cavendish he hath “cut” dead:
But “Chacun â son goût.”
One Christmas on an ottoman
I sat, and some turkey
A fair girl brought me in a can—