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Smoking Poems

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

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

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

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

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...



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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