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Smoking Poems

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...



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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