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Smoking Poems

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

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

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...



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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