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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

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

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

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...



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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