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Smoking Poems

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

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

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

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

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



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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