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Smoking Poems

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

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

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

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

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

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

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...



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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