Summah night an' sighin' breeze, 'Long de lovah's lane; Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, 'Long de lovah's lane. White folks' wo'k all done up gran'-- Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' Struttin' lak we owned de lan', 'Long de lovah's lane. ... Read more of Lover's Lane at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...



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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