THE SMOKER'S REVERIE.

(_OCTOBER._)


I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beechen tree,
With its leaves by the autumn made ripe;
While they cling to the stems like old age unto life,
I dream of the days when I'll rest from this strife,
And in peace smoke my brierwood pipe.

O my brierwood pipe!--of bright fancy the twin,
What a medley of forms you create;
Every puff of white smoke seems a vision as fair
As the poet's bright dream, and like dreams fades in air,
While the dreamer dreams on of his fate.

The fleecy white clouds that now float in the sky,
Form the visions I love most to see;
Fairy shapes that I saw in my boyhood's first dreams
Seem to beckon me on, while beyond them there gleams
A bright future, in waiting for me.

O my brierwood pipe! I ne'er loved thee as now,
As that fair form and face steal above;
See, she beckons me on to where roses are spread,
And she points to my fancy the bright land ahead,
Where the winds whisper nothing but love.

Oh, answer, my pipe, shall my dream be as fair