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Smoking Poems

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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



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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