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Smoking Poems

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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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