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Smoking Poems

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...



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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