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Smoking Poems

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...



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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