My Little Brown Pipe

I have a little comforter

I carry in my pocket;

It is not any woman’s face

Set in a golden locket;

It is not any kind of purse,

It is not book or letter,

But yet at times, I really think,

That it is something better.

Oh! my pipe! My little brown pipe!

How oft at morning early,

When vexed with thoughts of coming toil

And just a little surly,

I sit with thee till things get clear,

And all my plans grow steady,

And I can face the strife of life

With all my senses ready.

No matter if my temper stands

At stormy, fair, or clearing,

My pipe has not for any mood

A word of angry sneering.

I always find it just the same

In care, or joy, or sorrow,

And what it is to-day, I know

It’s sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life,

It balances my losses;

It adds a charm to household joys,

And lightens household crosses.

For through its wreathing, misty veil

Joy has a softer splendor,

And life grows sweetly possible,

And love more truly tender.

Oh! I have many richer joys!

I do not underrate them,

And every man knows what I mean,

I do not need to state them.

But this I say: I’d rather miss

A deal of what’s called pleasure,

Than lose my little comforter,

My little smoky treasure!