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Smoking Poems

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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

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

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...



ODE TO MY PIPE.








O Blessed pipe,
That now I clutch within my gripe,
What joy is in thy smooth, round bowl,
As black as coal!

So sweetly wed
To thy blanched, gradual thread,
Like Desdemona to the Moor,
Thou pleasure's core.

What woman's lip
Could ever give, like thy red tip,
Such unremitting store of bliss,
Or such a kiss?

Oh, let me toy,
Ixion-like, with cloudy joy;
Thy stem with a most gentle slant
I eye askant!

Unseen, unheard,
Thy dreamy nectar is transferred,
The while serenity astride
Thy neck doth ride.

A burly cloud
Doth now thy outward beauties shroud:
And now a film doth upward creep,
Cuddling the cheek.

And now a ring,
A mimic silver quoit, takes wing;
Another and another mount on high,
Then spread and die.

They say in story
That good men have a crown of glory;
O beautiful and good, behold
The crowns unfold!

How did they live?
What pleasure could the Old World give
That ancient miserable lot
When thou wert not?

Oh, woe betide!
My oldest, dearest friend hath died,--
Died in my hand quite unaware,
Oh, Baccy rare!

ANDREW WYNTER.





Next: A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Previous: THE LAST PIPE.



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