Poetry: Charles Baudelaire, “La Pipe”
I am the pipe of an author;
One sees, in contemplating my mien
Of Abyssinian or Kaffir,
Whether my master is a great smoker.
When he is filled with sorrow,
I smoke like a cottage
Where they prepare supper
For the return of the laborer.
I entangle and I nourish his soul
Within the web mobile and blue
That rises from my mouth in fire,
And I roll a calming cloud
That charms his heart and heals
His mind of its fatigue.