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Smoking Poems

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

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

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

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

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

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...



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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