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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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 ...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

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

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...



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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