I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, an... Read more of Sonnet at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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



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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