Classic Poem

COME to my lips, my brown cigar!
And while, in circling train,
Thy puffs cerulean slowly curl
Around my busy brain,
Bring to my mind, as thou hast often brought,
Some pensive thought.

With careful art the maker's hand
Hath formed and fashioned thee;
" Wrapper " without, " filler " within,
A two-fold unity:
And slowly, like an old gray-hooded friar,
On creeps thy fire.

Not for thyself thy balmy leaves
Were thus together laid,
Nor was the glowing coal for thee,
But thou for it wast made;
My breath still draws thy silent fire aright,
And keeps thee bright.

And as the red slow-moving line
Creeps up along thy side,
Thy ashes sinking down to earth
Or mingling with the tide,
Aloft I see thy pure aroma rise,
To seek the skies!

Yet perish not, my brown cigar,
Nor end in smoke alone,
But show me, in thy brief career,
An image of my own:
So shall thy fragrant memory still live on
When thou art gone.

With wondrous art my M AKER'S hand
Hath formed and fashioned me,
Body without, and soul within,
A mystic unity;
And in me burns, to purge each gross desire,
A holy Fire.

Not for my earthly self was I
With this my body clad,
Nor was that holy Flame for me,
But I for it was made.
His breath still draws the sacred Fire, His light
Still keeps it bright.

Lord ! while within my mortal part
Thy heavenly Fire is burning;
Ashes to ashes, earth to earth,
And dust to dust returning:
Still homeward let the ethereal spirit rise,
And find the skies!