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 Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

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

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...



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 del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 3026