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Smoking Poems

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...



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.





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Previous: THE LAST PIPE.



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