Ii

At twilight, in his room, alone, His careless feet inertly thrown

Across a chair, my fancy can But worship this most worthless man!

I dream what joy it is to set His slow lips round a cigarette,

With idle-humored whiff and puff-- Ah! this is innocent enough!

To mark the slender fingers raise The waxen match's dainty blaze,

Whose chastened light an instant glows On drooping lids and arching nose,

Then, in the sudden gloom, instead, A tiny ember, dim and red,

Blooms languidly to ripeness, then Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.