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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

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

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...



TO C.F. BRADFORD.








_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._


The pipe came safe, and welcome, too,
As anything must be from you;
A meerschaum pure, 'twould float as light
As she the girls called Amphitrite.
Mixture divine of foam and clay,
From both it stole the best away:
Its foam is such as crowns the glow
Of beakers brimmed by Veuve Clicquot;
Its clay is but congested lymph
Jove chose to make some choicer nymph;
And here combined,--why, this must be
The birth of some enchanted sea,
Shaped to immortal form, the type
And very Venus of a pipe.

When high I heap it with the weed
From Lethe wharf, whose potent seed
Nicotia, big from Bacchus, bore
And cast upon Virginia's shore,
I'll think,--So fill the fairer bowl
And wise alembic of thy soul,
With herbs far-sought that shall distil,
Not fumes to slacken thought and will,
But bracing essences that nerve
To wait, to dare, to strive, to serve.

When curls the smoke in eddies soft,
And hangs a shifting dream aloft,
That gives and takes, though chance-designed,
The impress of the dreamer's mind,
I'll think,--So let the vapors bred
By passion, in the heart or head,
Pass off and upward into space,
Waving farewells of tenderest grace,
Remembered in some happier time,
To blend their beauty with my rhyme.

While slowly o'er its candid bowl
The color deepens (as the soul
That burns in mortals leaves its trace
Of bale or beauty on the face),
I'll think,--So let the essence rare
Of years consuming make me fair;
So, 'gainst the ills of life profuse,
Steep me in some narcotic juice;
And if my soul must part with all
That whiteness which we greenness call,
Smooth back, O Fortune, half thy frown,
And make me beautifully brown!

Dream-forger, I refill thy cup
With reverie's wasteful pittance up,
And while the fire burns slow away,
Hiding itself in ashes gray,
I'll think,--As inward Youth retreats,
Compelled to spare his wasting heats,
When Life's Ash-Wednesday comes about,
And my head's gray with fires burnt out,
While stays one spark to light the eye,
With the last flash of memory,
'Twill leap to welcome C.F.B.,
Who sent my favorite pipe to me.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.





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Previous: MY CIGAR.



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