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Smoking Poems

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...



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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