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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...



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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