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Smoking Poems

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...



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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