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Smoking Poems

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

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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



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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