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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

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

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

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

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

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



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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