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Smoking Poems

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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



THE FARMER'S PIPE.








Make a picture, dreamy smoke,
In my still and cosey room;
From the fading past evoke
Forms that breathe of summer's bloom.

Bashful Will and rosy Nell--
Ah, I watch them now at play
By the mossy wayside well
As I did twelve years to-day.

We were younger then, my pipe:
You are dingy now and worn;
And my fruit is more than ripe,
And my fields are brown and shorn.

Nell has merry eyes of blue,
And is timid, pure, and mild;
Will is fair and brave and true,
And a neighboring farmer's child.

Little maid is busy, too,
Making rare, fictitious pies,
Just as any wife would do,
Looking, meanwhile, wondrous wise.

Drawing water from the well,
Delving sand upon the hill,
Going here and there for Nell,--
That's her helpmate, willing Will.

Yonder, in the waning light,
Hand in hand the truants come,
Nell so fearful lest the night
Should fall around her far from home.

Fading, fading, skyward flies
This joy-picture you have limned;
Pipe of mine, the quiet skies
Of my life you leave undimmed.

Nell and Will are lovers now;
There they stray in dying light.
That's a kiss! Ah, well, somehow
Nell's no more afraid at night!

GEORGE COOPER.





Next: SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.

Previous: MY PIPE.



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