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Smoking Poems

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

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

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

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

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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



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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