LXXXI
Oh, like the Smoke that rises and is gone,
Let your own Spirit lift from Dawn to Dawn
And so bestartle Ennui that at last
Even the Grave will quite forget to yawn!
* * * * * * *
LXXXII
As hooded Eve behind her rosy Bars
Her soft Kinoon betinkled to the Stars,
Again to the Tobacconist's I came
And stood among the Stogies and Cigars.
LXXXIII
Some were whose Scent exhaled the Asphodel,
And some whose Smoke gave forth a roseate Smell,
And some poor Weeds that told you at a Whiff
How they were made to Give Away, not Sell.
LXXXIV
One said, "And can no wiser Law revoke
The Edict that foredestined me to Smoke,
My stump to be a Byword and a Jest? -
But if a Jest I fail to see the Joke."