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

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

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

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...



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 2295