On 16th November, 1870, Mr. Shchapoff, a Russian squire, the narrator, came home from a visit to a country town, Iletski, and found his family in some disarray. There lived with him his mother and his wife's mother, ladies of about sixty-nine,... Read more of The Dancing Devil at Scary Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...



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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