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Smoking Poems

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

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

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

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

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



THE SMOKER'S CALENDAR.








When January's cold appears,
A glowing pipe my spirit cheers;
And still it glads the length'ning day
'Neath February's milder sway.
When March's keener winds succeed,
What charms me like the burning weed
When April mounts the solar car,
I join him, puffing a cigar;
And May, so beautiful and bright,
Still finds the pleasing weed a-light.
To balmy zephyrs it gives zest
When June in gayest livery's drest.
Through July, Flora's offspring smile,
But still Nicotia's can beguile;
And August, when its fruits are ripe,
Matures my pleasure in a pipe.
September finds me in the garden,
Communing with a long churchwarden.
Even in the wane of dull October
I smoke my pipe and sip my "robar."
November's soaking show'rs require
The smoking pipe and blazing fire.
The darkest day in drear December's--
That's lighted by their glowing embers.

ANON.





Next: AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.

Previous: CONFESSION OF A CIGAR SMOKER.



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