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Smoking Poems

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....



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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