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Smoking Poems

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

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

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



SMOKE AND CHESS.








We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown,
With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.

And, looking out through the early green,
He called on his patron saint, I ween,--
That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,--

While ever rested that crown so fair,
Poised in the warm and pulseless air,
On the carven chessman's ivory hair.

Dreamily wandered the game along,
Quietly moving at even-song,
While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

Until that one which of late was crowned
Flinched from a knight's determined bound,
And in sullen majesty left the ground,

Reeling back; and it came to pass
That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass,
A bishop had dealt him the _coup de grace_.

And so, as we sat, we reasoned still
Of fate and of fortune, of human will,
And what are the purposes men fulfil.

For we see at last, when the truth arrives,
The moves on the chess-board of our lives,--
That fields may be lost, though the king survives.

Not always he whom the world reveres
Merits its honor or wins its cheers,
Standing the best at the end of the years.

Not always he who has lost the fight
Rises again with the coming light,
Battles anew for his ancient right.

SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.





Next: INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Previous: SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.



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