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Smoking Poems

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

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

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...



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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