VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.giveup.ca Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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...

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

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2644