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Smoking Poems

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

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

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

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

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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



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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