By the side of a wood, in a country a long way off, ran a fine stream of water; and upon the stream there stood a mill. The miller's house was close by, and the miller, you must know, had a very beautiful daughter. She was, moreover, very shrew... Read more of Rumpelstiltskin at Children Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

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



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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