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Smoking Poems

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

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

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

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...



THE LAST PIPE.








When head is sick and brain doth swim,
And heavy hangs each unstrung limb,
'Tis sweet through smoke-puffs, wreathing slow,
To watch the firelight flash or glow.
As each soft cloud floats up on high,
Some worry takes its wings to fly;
And Fancy dances with the flame,
Who lay so labor-crammed and lame;
While the spent Will, the slack Desire,
Re-kindle at the dying fire,
And burn to meet the morrow's sun
With all its day's work to be done.

The tedious tangle of the Law,
Your work ne'er done without some flaw;
Those ghastly streets that drive one mad,
With children joyless, elders sad,
Young men unmanly, girls going by
Bold-voiced, with eyes unmaidenly;
Christ dead two thousand years agone,
And kingdom come still all unwon;
Your own slack self that will not rise
Whole-hearted for the great emprise,--
Well, all these dark thoughts of the day
As thin smoke's shadow drift away.

And all those magic mists unclose,
And a girl's face amid them grows,--
The very look she's wont to wear,
The wild rose blossoms in her hair,
The wondrous depths of her pure eyes,
The maiden soul that 'neath them lies,
That fears to meet, yet will not fly,
Your stranger spirit drawing nigh.
What if our times seem sliding down?
She lives, creation's flower and crown.
What if your way seems dull and long?
Each tiny triumph over wrong,
Each effort up through sloth and fear,
And she and you are brought more near.
So rapping out these ashes light,--
"My pipe, you've served me well to-night."

_London Spectator_.





Next: ODE TO MY PIPE.

Previous: MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR.



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