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Smoking Poems

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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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