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Smoking Poems

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

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

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

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

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...



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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