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,
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!
