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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

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



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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