By CHARLES W. ANDERSON, of New York [Note 24: An address delivered before the Tennessee Centennial Exposition, Nashville, Tenn., June 5, 1897.] Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: I sometimes feel that we, as a race, do not fully appre... Read more of The Limitless Possibilities Of The Negro Race at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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


I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey,
Were singing together a blithe duet,
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me,--
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.

As they sang together, the whole scene fled,
The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her proud blond head,
And I seemed to see in her place instead
A wealth of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah! your face--yours, Lisette;
A face it were wiser I should forget.

We were back--well, no matter when or where;
But you remember, I know, Lisette.
I saw you, dainty and debonair,
With the very same look that you used to wear
In the days I should forget.
And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed,
Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.

Two small slippers with big rosettes
Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there,
While we sat smoking our cigarettes
(Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!)
And singing that self-same air:
And between the verses, for interlude,
I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.

You were so full of a subtle fire,
You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette;
You were everything men admire;
And there were no fetters to make us tire,
For you were--a pretty grisette.
But you loved as only such natures can,
With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.

They have ceased singing that old duet,
Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey.
"You are burning your coat with your cigarette,
And _qu'avez vous_, dearest, your lids are wet,"
Maud says, as she leans o'er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
"Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."



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