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Smoking Poems

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

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

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

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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



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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