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Smoking Poems

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

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...

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

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



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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