So much have I forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years; I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; Forgotten is the special, startling season Of some beloved tree's fl... Read more of Flame-heart at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...



IN FAVOR OF TOBACCO.








Much victuals serves for gluttony
To fatten men like swine;
But he's a frugal man indeed
That with a leaf can dine,
And needs no napkin for his hands,
His fingers' ends to wipe,
But keeps his kitchen in a box,
And roast meat in a pipe.

SAMUEL ROWLANDS: _Knave of Clubs_ (1611).





Next: MY CIGARETTE.

Previous: CLOUDS.



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