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Smoking Poems

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

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

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...



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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