VIEW THE MOBILE VERSION of www.giveup.ca Informational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...



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.



Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
ADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 4272