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Smoking Poems

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

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

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

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

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

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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



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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