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Smoking Poems

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...



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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