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Smoking Poems

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

A Poet's Pipe.

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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



I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beechen tree,
With its leaves by the autumn made ripe;
While they cling to the stems like old age unto life,
I dream of the days when I'll rest from this strife,
And in peace smoke my brierwood pipe.

O my brierwood pipe!--of bright fancy the twin,
What a medley of forms you create;
Every puff of white smoke seems a vision as fair
As the poet's bright dream, and like dreams fades in air,
While the dreamer dreams on of his fate.

The fleecy white clouds that now float in the sky,
Form the visions I love most to see;
Fairy shapes that I saw in my boyhood's first dreams
Seem to beckon me on, while beyond them there gleams
A bright future, in waiting for me.

O my brierwood pipe! I ne'er loved thee as now,
As that fair form and face steal above;
See, she beckons me on to where roses are spread,
And she points to my fancy the bright land ahead,
Where the winds whisper nothing but love.

Oh, answer, my pipe, shall my dream be as fair
When it changes to dreams of the past?
When autumn's chill winds make this leaf look as sere
As the leaves on the beech-tree that shelters me here,
Will the tree's _heart_ be chilled by the blast?

While musing, around me has gathered a heap
Of the leaflets, all dying and dead;
And I see in my reverie plainly revealed
The slope of life's hill, in my boyhood concealed
By the forms that fair fancy had bred.

While I sit on the banks of the beautiful stream,
Picking roses that bloom by its side,
I know that the shallop will certainly come,
When the roses are withered, to carry me home,
And that life will go out with the tide.

O my brierwood pipe! may the heart be as light
When memory supplanteth the dream;
When the sun has gone down may the sunbeam remain,
And life's roses, though dead, all their fragrance retain,
Till they catch at Eternity's gleam.



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