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Smoking Poems

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...



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.





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Previous: ANOTHER MATCH.



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