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Smoking Poems

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...



A POET'S PIPE.








_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._


A poet's pipe am I,
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by.
When his soul is with grief o'erworn
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapors moving and blue
That mount from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.





Next: MY CIGAR.

Previous: WITH PIPE AND BOOK.



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