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Smoking Poems

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

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

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



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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