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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

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

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...



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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