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Smoking Poems

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

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...



EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.








_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD BRECK._



As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
To while away the moments glad,
With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
My mind perceives an image sad,
So that I can but clearly see
How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay,
From which my mortal part is wrought;
I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought,
And breaks in two,--puts out its flame;
My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint;
White it remains, and hence 'tis true
That, when in Death's cold arms I faint,
My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
And as it blackens day by day,
So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight
The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must,
E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid;
And, rather than to seek in vain,
I use my finger in its stead,
And fancy as I feel the pain,
If coals can burn to such degree,
How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find,
Lessons of such instructive type;
And hence with calm, contented mind
I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
In reverence where'er I roam,--
On land, on water, and at home.





Next: THE LOST LOTUS.

Previous: INGIN SUMMER.



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