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Smoking Poems

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

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

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...



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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