The pipe I intend to consume
⁠Is full, and fairly alight:
It scatters a fragrant perfume,
⁠Blue smoke-wreaths are heaving in sight
⁠I sink on the heathery height,
And lo! there is borne unto me
⁠From a sweet little stream on my right
The song of the drowning fusee.

The monarch of waterfowl, whom
⁠On the brink of an infinite night
A strange irresistible doom
⁠Converts to a musical wight,
⁠Is akin, in his glory's despite,
To a moribund match, as we see,
⁠While we listen, in speechless delight,
To the song of the drowning fusee.