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Smoking Poems

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

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...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...



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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