I am a writer’s pipe; you see
In looking at my dusky face,
Complexion of the Kaffir race,
My master makes good use of me.
When he is full of grief and gloom
I smoke as if I were a shack
With supper stewing in the back
To feed the ploughman coming home.
I cradle and enwrap his soul
Within the blue and moving net
That from my fiery mouth uncoils,
And is healing balm the rolls
To charm his weary heart, and let
His spirit rest from heavy toils.