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Smoking Poems

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

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

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...



THE SMOKER'S REVERIE.








(_OCTOBER._)


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.

ANON.





Next: A BRIEF PUFF OF SMOKE.

Previous: EPITAPH



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