A syllable is a distinct sound produced by a single effort of [Transcriber's note: 1-2 words illegible] shall, pig, dog. In every syllable there must be at least one vowel. A word consists of one syllable or a combination of syllables. Man... Read more of SYLLABLES AND WORDS at Speaking Writing.comInformational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

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

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

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

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

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

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

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2211