A syllable is a distinct sound produced by a single effort of [Transcriber's note: 1-2 words illegible] shall, pig, dog. In every syllable there must be at least one vowel. A word consists of one syllable or a combination of syllables. Man... Read more of SYLLABLES AND WORDS at Speaking Writing.comInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...



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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