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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
Smoking Spiritualized
PART I.
This Indian weed, now withered quite,
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay;
All flesh is hay:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The pipe so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;
Thou art e'en such, -
Gone with a touch:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Then thou behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff,
Gone with a puff:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
For then the fire
It does require:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
And seest the ashes cast away,
Then to thyself thou mayest say,
That to the dust
Return thou must.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
PART II.
Was this small plant for thee cut down?
So was the plant of great renown,
Which Mercy sends
For nobler ends.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Doth juice medicinal proceed
From such a naughty foreign weed?
Then what's the power
Of Jesse's flower?
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
And by the mouth of faith conveys,
What virtue flows
From Sharon's rose.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
In vain the unlighted pipe you blow,
Your pains in outward means are so,
Till heavenly fire
Your heart inspire.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
The smoke, like burning incense, towers,
So should a praying heart of yours,
With ardent cries,
Surmount the skies.
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
_________________________
It is uncertain who authored this poem
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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May/18/09, 11:50 am
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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear,
Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear,
To test Lothario's passion, simply said,
"Forego the weed before we go to wed.
For smoke, take flame; I'll be that flame's bright fanner.
To have your Anna, give up your Havana."
But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch,
Lit his cigar, and threw away his match.
ANON.
Last edited by Bullmoose, Sep/5/09, 7:13 pm
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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May/18/09, 12:16 pm
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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
I went on safari on the net, and found a book of poems for and about pipe and cigar smoking. I downloaded it and have it saved to file. I am going to put it into pdf format so if anyone wants a copy, just shout and I will get you one.
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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May/20/09, 11:00 am
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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._
Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,--
Soft and clear and warm are we.
Hear the tempest, how its minions
Tear the clouds and heap the snows!
No storm-rage is in our pinions;
Who knows us, 'tis peace he knows.
Soaring from the burning censers,
Stealing forth through all the air,
Hovering as the mild dispensers
Over you of blisses rare,
Softly float we, softly blend we,
Tinted from the deep blue sky,
Scented from the myrrh-lands, bend we
Downward to you ere we die.
Ease we bring, and airy fancies,
Sober thoughts with visions gay,
Peace profound with daring glances
Through the clouds to endless day.
Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
Not like mists that mask the sea,
Not like vapors round the fountains,--
Soft and clear and warm are we.
L.T.A., in _London Society_.
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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Sep/5/09, 7:10 pm
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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
THE LAST PIPE.
When head is sick and brain doth swim,
And heavy hangs each unstrung limb,
'Tis sweet through smoke-puffs, wreathing slow,
To watch the firelight flash or glow.
As each soft cloud floats up on high,
Some worry takes its wings to fly;
And Fancy dances with the flame,
Who lay so labor-crammed and lame;
While the spent Will, the slack Desire,
Re-kindle at the dying fire,
And burn to meet the morrow's sun
With all its day's work to be done.
The tedious tangle of the Law,
Your work ne'er done without some flaw;
Those ghastly streets that drive one mad,
With children joyless, elders sad,
Young men unmanly, girls going by
Bold-voiced, with eyes unmaidenly;
Christ dead two thousand years agone,
And kingdom come still all unwon;
Your own slack self that will not rise
Whole-hearted for the great emprise,--
Well, all these dark thoughts of the day
As thin smoke's shadow drift away.
And all those magic mists unclose,
And a girl's face amid them grows,--
The very look she's wont to wear,
The wild rose blossoms in her hair,
The wondrous depths of her pure eyes,
The maiden soul that 'neath them lies,
That fears to meet, yet will not fly,
Your stranger spirit drawing nigh.
What if our times seem sliding down?
She lives, creation's flower and crown.
What if your way seems dull and long?
Each tiny triumph over wrong,
Each effort up through sloth and fear,
And she and you are brought more near.
So rapping out these ashes light,--
"My pipe, you've served me well to-night."
_London Spectator_.
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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Sep/5/09, 7:11 pm
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Bullmoose
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Re: Pipes and Poems
ODE TO TOBACCO.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend,
Come, and thy suppliant attend
In each dull, lonely hour;
And though misfortunes lie around,
Thicker than hailstones on the ground,
I'll rest upon thy power.
Then while the coxcomb, pert and proud,
The politician, learned and loud,
Keep one eternal clack,
I'll tread where silent Nature smiles,
Where Solitude our woe beguiles,
And chew thee, dear Tobac.
DANIEL WEBSTER
---
English: A language that lurks in dark alleys, beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary.
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Sep/5/09, 7:17 pm
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tedthebear
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Re: Pipes and Poems
Nice stuff Burl....thanks. 
---
The Bear
"When you find a big kettle of crazy, it's best not to stir it."
The PHB
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Sep/6/09, 6:30 pm
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