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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

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

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

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...



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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