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Smoking Poems

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

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



SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.








_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._


Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,--
Soft and clear and warm are we.

Hear the tempest, how its minions
Tear the clouds and heap the snows!
No storm-rage is in our pinions;
Who knows us, 'tis peace he knows.

Soaring from the burning censers,
Stealing forth through all the air,
Hovering as the mild dispensers
Over you of blisses rare,

Softly float we, softly blend we,
Tinted from the deep blue sky,
Scented from the myrrh-lands, bend we
Downward to you ere we die.

Ease we bring, and airy fancies,
Sober thoughts with visions gay,
Peace profound with daring glances
Through the clouds to endless day.

Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,--
Soft and clear and warm are we.

L.T.A., in _London Society_.





Next: SMOKE AND CHESS.

Previous: THE FARMER'S PIPE.



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