It scarce can be thou art the last

To fade before my watchful gaze;

So short the part that each one plays,

A flickering flame, and life is past.

And thou wert clothed in robe of snow,

A crimson veil around thy head,

And now thou liest, charred and dead,

Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.

I held thee in a fond embrace

To guard thee from the whistling wind;

And not another can I find

To comfort me and take thy place.

And though I lay aside my weeds,

Yet like a widow I bemoan;

Nor all the wealth the Indies own,

Could satisfy my present needs.

Thy spark has vanished from my sight,

Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe;

Of perfect misery the type,

A man without another light.