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Smoking Poems

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

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...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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



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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