by Johann Sebastian Bach

Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it

And smoke to pass the time away,

My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,

Dwell on a picture sad and grey:

It teaches me that very like

Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning

Is made of naught but earth and clay;

To earth I too shall be returning.

It falls and, ere I’d think to say,

It breaks in two before my eyes;

In store for me a like fate lies.

No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken;

It remains white. Thus do I know

That when to death’s call I must harken

My body too, all pale will grow

To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.

Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,

Behold then, instantaniously,

The smoke off into thin air going,

Till naught but ash is left to see.

Man’s frame likewise away will burn

And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one’s smoking:

The stopper’s missing from the shelf,

And one goes with one’s finger poking

Into the bowl and burns oneself.

If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,

How hot must be the pains of Hell.

Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation

Of such things, I can constantly

Indulge in fruitful meditation

And so, puffing contentedly,

On land, on sea, at home, abroad,

I smoke my pipe and worship God.