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Smoking Poems

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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



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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