Sweet smelling, sweet to handle, fair of hue
Tobacco is. The soldier everywhere
Takes it as friend, its friendliness to share,
Whether in fragrant wreaths it mount faint blue
In dug-out low, or surreptitiously to
Parapet in rimy night, from hidden lair
Of sentry; staying hunger, stilling fear—
The old dreams of comfort bringing anew.
For from that incense grows the stuff of dreams,
And in those clouds a drowsing man may find
All that was ever sweet to his starved mind,
Heart long denied—dear friends, hills, horses, trees,
Slopes of brown ploughland, sunset’s fading gleams ...
The bane of care, the spur to memories.