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Smoking Poems

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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



IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.








In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,
Faces of olden days uprise,
And in his dreamers revery
They haunt the smoker's brain, and he
Breathes for the past regretful sighs.

Mem'ries of maids, with azure eyes,
In dewy dells, 'neath June's soft skies,
Faces that more he'll only see
In wreaths of smoke.

Eheu, eheu! how fast Time flies,--
How youth-time passion droops and dies,
And all the countless visions flee!
How worn would all those faces be,
Were they not swathed in soft disguise
In wreaths of smoke!

FRANK NEWTON HOLMAN.





Next: ASHES.

Previous: ANOTHER MATCH.



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