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Shall I digress to sing thee, Indian weed!
And praise thy virtues, slandered tho' they be?
The muse to thee before has blown her reed,
As many who have heard will witness me;
But thou art welcome to her minstrelsy!
For she, who now about the smoker sings,
At times, without thine aid, how dull is she!
But let thine incense rise!—on glancing wings
Like birds from spray to spray, from thought to thought she springs.
And praise thy virtues, slandered tho' they be?
The muse to thee before has blown her reed,
As many who have heard will witness me;
But thou art welcome to her minstrelsy!
For she, who now about the smoker sings,
At times, without thine aid, how dull is she!
But let thine incense rise!—on glancing wings
Like birds from spray to spray, from thought to thought she springs.
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