62. The wainscoting or dado should be the same as the top border or frieze, but of a darker tone. The intermixture of white or black is always permissible; thus a paper as a side-wall might have as its frieze the complementary coloring with mo... Read more of Wall Proportions at Pigment.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

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

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

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

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

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

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...



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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