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Smoking Poems

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

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

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

Seasonable Sweets.

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

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

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

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


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!




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