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Smoking Poems

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

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

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

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

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...



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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