#728 Interviewer: Watt McKinney Person interviewed: James Gill R.F.D. Marvell, Arkansas Age: 86 Occupation: Farmer "Uncle Jim" Gill, an ex-slave eighty-six years of age, owns a nice two hundred acre farm ... Read more of James Gill at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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



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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