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Smoking Poems

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

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, ...

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...



MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.








I have a little comforter,
I carry in my pocket:
It is not any woman's face
Set in a golden locket;
It is not any kind of purse;
It is not book or letter,
But yet at times I really think
That it is something better.

Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe!
How oft, at morning early,
When vexed with thoughts of coming toil,
And just a little surly,
I sit with thee till things get clear,
And all my plans grow steady,
And I can face the strife of life
With all my senses steady.

No matter if my temper stands
At stormy, fair, or clearing,
My pipe has not for any mood
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same,
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day I know
It's sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life;
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to all my joys,
And lightens all my crosses.
For through the wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.

Oh, I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say,--I'd rather miss
A deal of what's called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.




Forsaken of all comforts but these two,--
My fagot and my pipe--I sit to muse
On all my crosses, and almost excuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they do.
When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.
But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
That hopes and dreams are cousins,--both deceive.
Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
It's all one thing,--both tend into one scope,--
To live upon Tobacco and on Hope:
The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.





Next: 'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

Previous: ON RECEIPT OF A RARE PIPE.



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