The following is an old but good story. The Rev. Joseph Wilkins died, an aged man, in 1800. He left this narrative, often printed; the date of the adventure is 1754, when Mr. Wilkins, aged twenty-three, was a schoolmaster in Devonshire. The ... Read more of The Dream That Knocked At The Door at Scary Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...



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_.



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