When you're weary, night or day, Smoke a cheery yard of clay! When I'm smoking, jesting, joking, There is no king half so gay. Lying lazy, far from crowds, Weaving hazy mental shrouds; Watching furling smoke up whirling, Softly curling to the clouds. Minds are lifted from mere mirth; Thoughts then sifted have more worth. I am thinking, as the shrinking Sunset, sinking, fires the earth. Thoughts that sages may have had, In their pages, grave and glad: Thoughts thus seething, like smoke wreathing, Sadness breathing, make me sad. Cigar ended—twilight broke— Night descended—thus I spoke: All that's jolly, wisdom, folly, Melancholy, end in smoke. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |