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Smoking Poems

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...



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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