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Smoking Poems

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

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

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...



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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