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Smoking Poems

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

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

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

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

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



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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