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Smoking Poems

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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

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

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...



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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