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Smoking Poems

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...



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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