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Smoking Poems

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

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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 ...

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

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



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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