Chapter 4

And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand, With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle, Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band Could tackle:

Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile (Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder, Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile In wonder!

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Let none approach me now, for I have dined; The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma Infects my being with a pleasant kind Of coma;

Calmly I contemplate my future lot: I reconstruct the past--it fails to strike me With aught of horror (pity there are not More like me!)--

My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast; The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it Imparts a richer brightness to the West, Good luck to it!

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