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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...



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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