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Smoking Poems

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...



ASHES.








Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown,
Alone I puff my brier brown,
And watch the ashes settle down
In lambent flashes;
While thro' the blue, thick, curling haze,
I strive with feeble eyes to gaze,
Upon the half-forgotten days
That left but ashes.

Again we wander through the lane,
Beneath the elms and out again,
Across the rippling fields of grain,
Where softly flashes
A slender brook 'mid banks of fern,
At every sigh my pulses burn,
At every thought I slowly turn
And find but ashes.

What made my fingers tremble so,
As you wrapped skeins of worsted snow,
Around them, now with movements slow
And now with dashes?
Maybe 'tis smoke that blinds my eyes,
Maybe a tear within them lies;
But as I puff my pipe there flies
A cloud of ashes.

Perhaps you did not understand,
How lightly flames of love were fanned.
Ah, every thought and wish I've planned
With something clashes!
And yet within my lonely den
Over a pipe, away from men,
I love to throw aside my pen
And stir the ashes.

DE WITT STERRY.





Next: CHOOSING A WIFE BY A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Previous: IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.



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