IV.

How sweet it were, seeing the rising fog, With half-cigar and half a smile, Dozing in a half-and-half the while, To dream and dream like yonder aged frog, Which only leaves his hole, the smoky log, To muse amid abandoned stumps near by; Chewing Tobacco, here to lie And see the waves rush up, our joy to share, Clutching with eager arms the vacant air, To grasp the sweets the scented breezes bear; To give our minds up to it wholly, To chase away blue-thoughted melancholy, To put rich flavorous, antique fine-cut tobacco, Into these pipes by steady use grown blacker; Pressed down with thumb to make it stay; Two pinches of black dust shut in a bowl of clay.