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Smoking Poems

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

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

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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



THE PIPE CRITIC.








Say, pipe, let's talk of love;
Canst aid me? By my life,
I'll ask not gods above
To help me choose a wife;
But to thy gentle self I'll give the puzzling strife.

Thy color let me find,
And blue like smoke her eyes;
A healthy store her mind
As that which in thee lies,--
An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.

And, pipe, a breath like thine;
Her hair an amber gold,
And wrought in shapes as fine
As that which now I hold;
A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.

And when her lips I kiss,
Oh, may she burn like thee,
And strive to give me bliss!
A comforter to be
When friends wax cold, time fades, and all departs from me.

And may she hide in smoke,
As you, my friend, have done,
The failings that would choke
My virtues every one,
Turn grief to laughing jest, or painful thought to fun.

Her aid be such as thine
To stir my brain a bit.
When 'round this hearth of mine
Friends sit and banter wit,
She'll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.

In short, my sole delight
(Why, pipe, you sputter so!),
Whose angel visage bright
(And at me ashes throw!)
Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.

Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee;
For of thy gifts there's one
That's passing dear to me
Whose equal she'd have none,--
The gift of peace serene; she'd have, alas, a tongue!

WALTER LITTLEFIELD.





Next: A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.

Previous: MY CIGARETTE.



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