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Smoking Poems

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

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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



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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