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Smoking Poems

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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



TO THE TOBACCO PIPE.








Dear piece of fascinating clay!
'Tis thine to smooth life's rugged way,
To give a happiness unknown
To those--who let a pipe alone;
Thy tube can best the vapors chase,
By raising--others in their place;
Can give the face staid Wisdom's air,
And teach the lips--to ope with care;
'Tis hence thou art the truest friend
(Where least is said there's least to mend),
And he who ventures many a joke
Had better oft be still and smoke.

Whatever giddy foplings think,
Thou giv'st the highest zest to drink.
When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale,
And hover round the nut-brown ale,
Who thinks of claret or champagne?
E'en burgundy were pour'd in vain.

'Tis not in city smoke alone,
Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known.
With thee, at morn, the rustic swain
Tracks o'er the snow-besprinkled plain,
To seek some neighb'ring copse's side,
And rob the woodlands of their pride:
With thee, companion of his toil,
His active spirits ne'er recoil;
Though hard his daily task assign'd,
He bears it with an equal mind.

The fisher 'board some little bark,
When all around is drear and dark,
With shortened pipe beguiles the hour,
Though bleak the wind and cold the show'r,
Nor thinks the morn's approach too slow,
Regardless of what tempests blow.
Midst hills of sand, midst ditches, dikes,
Midst cannons, muskets, halberts, pikes;
With thee, as still, Mynheer can stay,
As Neddy 'twixt two wisps of hay;
Heedless of Britain and of France,
Smokes on--and looks to the main chance.

And sure the solace thou canst give
Must make thy fame unrivalled live,
So long as men can temper clay
(For as thou art, e'en so are they),
The sun mature the Indian weed,
And rolling years fresh sorrows breed.

From _The Meteors_, London.





Next: THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.

Previous: ON A TOBACCO JAR.



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