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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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



LATAKIA.








I.

When all the panes are hung with frost,
Wild wizard-work of silver lace,
I draw my sofa on the rug,
Before the ancient chimney-place.
Upon the painted tiles are mosques
And minarets, and here and there
A blind muezzin lifts his hands,
And calls the faithful unto prayer.
Folded in idle, twilight dreams,
I hear the hemlock chirp and sing,
As if within its ruddy core
It held the happy heart of Spring.
Ferdousi never sang like that,
Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay;
I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke,
And watch them rise and float away.


II.

The curling wreaths like turbans seem
Of silent slaves that come and go,--
Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime,
Whom I behead from time to time,
With pipe-stem, at a single blow.
And now and then a lingering cloud
Takes gracious form at my desire,
And at my side my lady stands,
Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,--
A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!

O Love, if you were only here
Beside me in this mellow light,
Though all the bitter winds should blow,
And all the ways be choked with snow,
'Twould be a true Arabian night!

T.B. ALDRICH.





Next: MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.

Previous: 'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.



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