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Smoking Poems

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

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

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

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

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

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



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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