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Smoking Poems

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

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

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

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

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

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

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

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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



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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