His cheeks grew white as a linen spread,
While he weakly gasped, as he gazed afar,
“If I live, this here’s my last cigar.”
My Last Cigar.
The mighty Thebes, and Babylon the great,
Imperial Rome, in turn, have bowed to fate;
So this great world, and each particular star,
Must all burn out, like you, my last cigar:
A puff—a transient fire, that ends in smoke,