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Smoking Poems

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

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



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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