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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

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

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

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...



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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