  Mark her as she stands, Blue eyes bright, match alight, Shielding with her hands The growing flame, Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips, The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure, Cigarette by name. There! it makes her cough. If she smoke, must she choke When blue whirls come off? Now she denies The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss, Holds it burning, to ash turning, Till at last it dies. Thus she lit my heart, By the fell magic spell Of love’s witching art, And just as I Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire, Let my yearning and heart-burning Into ashes die. |
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