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Smoking Poems

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

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



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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