A Poet’s Pipe
From the French of Charles Baudelaire
A poet’s pipe am I,
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by.
When his soul is with grief o’erworn
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the laborer’s return.
I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapors moving and blue
That mount from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.
RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.