TOBACCO LEAVES 



Thy brown and polished bowl I'll fill with 



care, 

 And then, with lips pressed close unto 



thine own 



No lover drinks a sweeter draught, I swear 

 I'm happier than a king upon his 



throne ! 

 For in the wreaths of smoke which from 



thee rise 

 No perfume sweeter from the rarest 



rose; 

 No greater j oy this side of Paradise ! 



Thou sweet and mighty antidote of woes ! 



Ah, often have I come with care-worn 



mind, 

 And placed thee to my lips in fretful 



mood; 

 In thy companionship relief I'd find, 



Thy touch would calm the fever in my 

 blood. 





