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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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

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

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...



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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