VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.giveup.ca Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

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

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

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



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2678