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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

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

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

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



THE OLD CLAY PIPE.








There's a lot of solid comfort
In an old clay pipe, I find,
If you're kind of out of humor
Or in trouble in your mind.
When you're feeling awful lonesome
And don't know just what to do,
There's a heap of satisfaction
If you smoke a pipe or two.

The ten thousand pleasant memories
That are buried in your soul
Are playing hide and seek with you
Around that smoking bowl.
These are mighty restful moments:
You're at peace with all the world,
And the panorama changes
As the thin blue smoke is curled.

Now you cross the bridge of sorrows,
Now you enter pleasant lands,
And before an open doorway,
You will linger to shake hands
With a lithe and girlish figure
That is coming through the door;
Ah! you recognize the features:
You have seen that face before.

You are at the dear old homestead
Where you spent those happy years;
You are romping with the children;
You are smiling through your tears;
You have fought and whipped the bully
You are eight and he is ten.
Oh! how rapidly we travel,--
You are now a boy again.

You approach the open doorway,
And before the old armchair
You will stop and kiss the grandma,
You will smooth the thin white hair;
You will read the open Bible,
For the lamp is lit, you see.
It is now your hour for bed-time
And you kneel at mother's knee.

Still you linger at the hearthstone;
You are loath to leave the place.
When an apple cut's in progress:
You must wait and dance with Grace.

What's the matter with the music?
Only this: The pipe is broke,
And a thousand pleasant fancies
Vanish promptly with the smoke.

A.B. VAN FLEET.





Next: PERNICIOUS WEED!

Previous: THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.



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