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Smoking Poems

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...



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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