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Smoking Poems

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

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

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

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

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

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

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

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

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



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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