The first requisite of style is choice of words, and this comes under the head of Diction, the property of style which has reference to the words and phrases used in speaking and writing. The secret of literary skill from any standpoint consist... Read more of DICTION at Speaking Writing.comInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

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

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

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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



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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