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Smoking Poems

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

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



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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