The first requisite of style is choice of words, and this comes under the head of Diction, the property of style which has reference to the words and phrases used in speaking and writing. The secret of literary skill from any standpoint cons... Read more of DICTION at Speaking Writing.comInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

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

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

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



EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.








Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire,
Your fame to raise,
Upon its blaze,
Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre!
Tempting Fate's stroke;
Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke.
Safe in my chair from wounds and woe,
_My_ fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.

Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs,
The public smokes,
You and your hoax,
And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs.
Ye through the nose
Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows,
It does not run me into debt;
And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.

Authors! created to be puff'd to death,
And fill the mouth
Of some uncouth
Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath,
Your leaves thus far
(Without its fire) resemble my cigar;
But vapid, uninspired, and flat:
When, when, O Bards, will ye _compose_ like _that_?

Since life and the anxieties that share
Our hopes and trust,
Are smoke and dust,
Give me the smoke and dust that banish care.
The roll'd leaf bring,
Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring;
The fragrant leaf whose magic balm
Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.

Oh, what supreme beatitude is this!
What soft and sweet
Sensations greet
My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss!
I soar above
Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove,
And from my empyrean height
Look down upon the world with calm delight.

HORACE SMITH.





Next: A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Previous: CIGARS AND BEER.



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