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Smoking Poems

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

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

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

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



MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.








Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.

When Fear and Care and grim Despair
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

'Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour--
With dread not easy to express.

And yet for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,--
I like it better on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say,
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.

For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd;
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends
In columns from the weed beneath,
My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends
A vivid shape to every wreath.

Strange memories of life or death
Up from the cradle to the shroud,
Come forth as, with enchanter's breath,
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care
To quit the present for the past,
And summon back the things that were,
Which only thus in vapor last?

What wonder if I envy not
The rich, the giddy, and the proud,
Contented in this quiet spot
To blow my after-dinner cloud?

HENRY S. LEIGH.





Next: THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

Previous: LATAKIA.



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