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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

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

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



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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