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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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



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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