Informational Site NetworkInformational Site Network
Privacy
 
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

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

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

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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



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 Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
ADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 4029