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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...



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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