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Smoking Poems

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

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

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

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



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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