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Smoking Poems

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

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

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...



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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