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Smoking Poems

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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



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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