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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...



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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