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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

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



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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