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Smoking Poems

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

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

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

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

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...


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.




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