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

Smoking Poems

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

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

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...



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 2548