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Smoking Poems

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...



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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