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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 toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

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

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

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...



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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