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Smoking Poems

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...



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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