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Smoking Poems

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

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

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

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

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



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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