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Smoking Poems

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

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

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

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

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

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

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...



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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