There was a great battle at sea. One could hear nothing but the roar of the big guns. The air was filled with black smoke. The water was strewn with broken masts and pieces of timber which the cannon balls had knocked from the ships. Many ... Read more of CASABIANCA at Stories Poetry.comInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...



EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.








_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD BRECK._



As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
To while away the moments glad,
With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
My mind perceives an image sad,
So that I can but clearly see
How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay,
From which my mortal part is wrought;
I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought,
And breaks in two,--puts out its flame;
My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint;
White it remains, and hence 'tis true
That, when in Death's cold arms I faint,
My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
And as it blackens day by day,
So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight
The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must,
E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid;
And, rather than to seek in vain,
I use my finger in its stead,
And fancy as I feel the pain,
If coals can burn to such degree,
How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find,
Lessons of such instructive type;
And hence with calm, contented mind
I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
In reverence where'er I roam,--
On land, on water, and at home.




Next: THE LOST LOTUS.

Previous: INGIN SUMMER.



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