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Smoking Poems

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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



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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