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Smoking Poems

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...



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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