Hail, sorceress! whose cloudy spells
      About my senses driven,
  Alone can loose their prison cells
      And waft my soul to heaven. 
  Above all earthly loves, I swear,
      I hold thee best—­and yet,
  Would I could see a match for thee,
      My darling cigarette.

  With lips unstained to thee I bring
      A lover’s gentle kiss,
  And woo thee, see, with this fair ring,
      And this, and this, and this. 
  But ah, the rings no sooner cease
      (Inconstant, vain coquette!)
  Than, like the rest, thou vanishest
      In smoke, my cigarette.

Pall Mall Gazette.