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Smoking Poems

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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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