Rose's red, vi'lets blue. Sugar is sweet but not lak you. De vi'lets fade, de roses fall; But you gits sweeter, all in all. As shore as de grass grows 'round de stump, You is my darlin' Sugar Lump. W'en de sun d... Read more of Roses Red at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...


A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

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

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


Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Boughton, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant,
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
He, the onion head, the doubter!
But to rhyme of this one--Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must fail,
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,--
All those Rip Van Winkle jokers,
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber,
In the dark-beamed Council Chamber.

Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified--and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine logs gleam and glow,
Till the firelight laughs and passes
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.

Then I come and write beneath:
Boughton, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue--
This the Muse can never do!



Previous: TO MY CIGAR.

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