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Smoking Poems

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

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

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



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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