The Pipe

Poem by Charles Baudelaire Collection The Flowers of EvilThemes MiscellaneousPeriod 19th centuryPrint

I am a writer’s pipe; one sees,
When one beholds my sable face,
Abyssinian or Cafrine,
That my master is a great smoker.

When he is filled with grief,
I smoke like the cottage
Where the meal is being prepared
For the laborer’s return.

I entwine and lull his soul
In the shifting blue web
That rises from my burning mouth,

And I roll a powerful balm
That charms his heart and heals
His spirit of its weariness.

Charles Baudelaire

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