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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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



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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