As are the hues that, rich and slow,
On this Hungarian bowl have blended?
Can artist paint the fiery glints
Of this quaint finger here beside it,
With amber nail,—the lustrous tints,
A thousand Partagas have dyed it?
"And this old silver patched affair?"
Well, sir, that meerschaum has its reasons
For showing marks of time and wear;
For in its smoke through fifty seasons