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Smoking Poems

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

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

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

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...



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.





Next: MY PIPE.

Previous: MY CIGAR.



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