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Smoking Poems

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...



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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