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Smoking Poems

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

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

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

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

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



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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