Informational Site NetworkInformational Site Network
Privacy
 
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

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

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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

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

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



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 2366