Tobacco From the Reading Corner

I read bits and pieces from "Pipe and Pouch" as the mood strikes. The following from Kipling always makes me smile.
THE BETROTHED.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._"
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,

For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot,

And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space;

In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at,--Maggie's a loving lass,

But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must

pass.
There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,

But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,--
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,--

But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie my wife at fifty,--gray and dour and old,--

With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!
And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,

And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead

cigar,--
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,--

With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the

socket.
Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider a while,--

Here is a mild Manilla,--there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion,--bondage bought with a ring,

Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried,

And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,

Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,

With only a _Suttee's_ passion,--to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,

Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,

When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths

withal,

So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their

hides,

And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my

brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between

The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear.

But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and

Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,

But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the

mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful

fire?
Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider anew,--

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon _you_?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba: I hold to my first-sworn vows,

If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!
RUDYARD KIPLING.

From the The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch

we should start a poetry corner here perhaps,

Click to expand...

My thoughts exactly scotrob.

The oft mentioned rituals of the briar are complimented nicely by the verse.

Another favorite then,
ASHES
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown,

Alone I puff my brier brown,

And watch the ashes settle down

In lambent flashes;

While thro' the blue, thick, curling haze,

I strive with feeble eyes to gaze,

Upon the half-forgotten days

That left but ashes.
Again we wander through the lane,

Beneath the elms and out again,

Across the rippling fields of grain,

Where softly flashes

A slender brook 'mid banks of fern,

At every sigh my pulses burn,

At every thought I slowly turn

And find but ashes.
What made my fingers tremble so,

As you wrapped skeins of worsted snow,

Around them, now with movements slow

And now with dashes?

Maybe 'tis smoke that blinds my eyes,

Maybe a tear within them lies;

But as I puff my pipe there flies

A cloud of ashes.
Perhaps you did not understand,

How lightly flames of love were fanned.

Ah, every thought and wish I've planned

With something clashes!

And yet within my lonely den

Over a pipe, away from men,

I love to throw aside my pen

And stir the ashes.
DE WITT STERRY
From the The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch

LATAKIA.
I.
When all the panes are hung with frost,

Wild wizard-work of silver lace,

I draw my sofa on the rug,

Before the ancient chimney-place.

Upon the painted tiles are mosques

And minarets, and here and there

A blind muezzin lifts his hands,

And calls the faithful unto prayer.

Folded in idle, twilight dreams,

I hear the hemlock chirp and sing,

As if within its ruddy core

It held the happy heart of Spring.

Ferdousi never sang like that,

Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay;

I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke,

And watch them rise and float away.
II.
The curling wreaths like turbans seem

Of silent slaves that come and go,--

Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime,

Whom I behead from time to time,

With pipe-stem, at a single blow.

And now and then a lingering cloud

Takes gracious form at my desire,

And at my side my lady stands,

Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,--

A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!
O Love, if you were only here

Beside me in this mellow light,

Though all the bitter winds should blow,

And all the ways be choked with snow,

'Twould be a true Arabian night!
T.B. ALDRICH.
From the The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch

That is great cortez. Put me squarely in mind of my childhood in Illinois, thank you!
That is scarey Lawrence. Put me squarely in mind of the aftermath of my 21st birthday!!

MY THREE LOVES.
When Life was all a summer day,

And I was under twenty,

Three loves were scattered in my way--

And three at once are plenty.

Three hearts, if offered with a grace,

One thinks not of refusing;

The task in this especial case

Was only that of choosing.

I knew not which to make my pet,--

My pipe, cigar, or cigarette.
To cheer my night or glad my day

My pipe was ever willing;

The meerschaum or the lowly clay

Alike repaid the filling.

Grown men delight in blowing clouds,

As boys in blowing bubbles,

Our cares to puff away in crowds

And vanish all our troubles.

My pipe I nearly made my pet,

Above cigar or cigarette.
A tiny paper, tightly rolled

About some Latakia,

Contains within its magic fold

A mighty _panacea_.

Some thought of sorrow or of strife

At ev'ry whiff will vanish;

And all the scenery of life

Turn picturesquely Spanish.

But still I could not quite forget

Cigar and pipe for cigarette.
To yield an after-dinner puff

O'er _demi-tasse_ and brandy,

No cigarettes are strong enough,

No pipes are ever handy.

However fine may be the feed,

It only moves my laughter

Unless a dry delicious weed

Appears a little after.

A prime cigar I firmly set

Above a pipe or cigarette.
But after all I try in vain

To fetter my opinion;

Since each upon my giddy brain

Has boasted a dominion.

Comparisons I'll not provoke,

Lest _all_ should be offended.

Let this discussion end in smoke

As many more have ended.

And each I'll make a special pet;

My pipe, cigar, and cigarette.
HENRY S. LEIGH.
From the The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch

"A FREE PUFF."
Do you remember when first we met?

I was turning twenty--well! I don't forget

How I walked along,

Humming a song

Across the fields and down the lane

By the country road, and back again

To the dear old farm--three miles or more--

And brought you home from the village store.
Summer was passing--don't you recall

The splendid harvest we had that Fall,

And how when the Autumn died,--sober and brown,--

We trudged down the turnpike, and on to the town?
Sweet black brierwood pipe of mine!

If you were human you'd be half divine,

For when I've looked beyond the smoke, into your burning bowl

In times of need

You've been, indeed,

The only comfort, sweetest solace, of my overflowing soul.

We've been together nearly thirty years, old fellow!

And now, you must admit, we're both a trifle mellow.

We have had our share of joys and a deal of sorrows,

And while we're only waiting for a few more to-morrows,

Others will come, and others will go,

And Time will gather what Youth will sow;

But we together will go down the rough

Road to the end, and to the end--puff.
ARTHUR IRVING GRAY.
From the The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pipe and Pouch

It is fun reading through the older poems and such
@ Everyone

Please feel free to add tobacco related poetry and such here. Makes for a nice break in things.