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Smoking Poems

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

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



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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