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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

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

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

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



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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