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Smoking Poems

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

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

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

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

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

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...


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.




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