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Smoking Poems

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

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

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...



TO MY CIGAR.








Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctor's spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past!
I would reply with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as the snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn
And smoke and fume around;
And then, like thee, to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And Time's the wasting breath
That, late or early, we behold
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is passed;
Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap,
That soon, like thee, to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body lieth low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.





Next: KNICKERBOCKER.

Previous: THE SCENT OF A GOOD CIGAR.



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