JO POETRY OF SMOKE. 



I close my eyes, and a. rustle of wheat 

 Comes borne on a. breeze whose breath is a 



balm; 

 A breeze heavy with sweet clover-bloom at my 



feet, 

 . Which brings to my spirit an infinite calm. 



And once more I see, though my eyes are 



closed fast, 



A face kindly tender, and manly, and true 

 A friendship once vowed that was given to 



last, 



And eyes that reflected the heaven's own 

 blue. 



As two sailing ships in mid-ocean meet. 

 Salute, and pass on to far distant lands, 



We met, to find only friendship was sweet, 

 When we were compelled to clasp parting 

 hands. 



And the voice of that comrade who strolled by 



my side 

 Comes again to my ear, thro' days vanished 



afar, 



And that's why I cherish it, almost with pride, 

 This poor, little, wasted, sad stub of cigar ! 

 VOLNEY STREAMER. 

 July .,1889. 



