VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.giveup.ca Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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...

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 3593