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Smoking Poems

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...



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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