VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.giveup.ca Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2811