TO MY MEERSCHAUM.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills,
In the quivering light of a star,
In the flash of a silvery rill,
Yet to me thou art lovelier far,
There's a love in her witching dark eye,
There's a love in her tresses at play,
Yet her love would be worth not a sigh,
If from thee she could lure me away,
Let revellers sing of their wine,
As they toss it in ecstasy down,
But the bowl I call for is thine,
With its deepening amber and brown,
For when trouble would bid me despair,
I call for a flagon of beer,
And puff a defiance to care,
Till sorrows in smoke disappear,
Though mid pleasures unnumbered I whirl,
Though I traverse the billowy sea,
Yet the waving and beautiful curl
Of thy smoke's ever dearer to me,
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