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Smoking Poems

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...



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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