Informational Site NetworkInformational Site Network
Privacy
 
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

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

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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



Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
ADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 4336