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Smoking Poems

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

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

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...

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

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

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

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...



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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