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Smoking Poems

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

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

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

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

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

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

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...



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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