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Smoking Poems

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

Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

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

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



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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