Caliph from 786-809 A.D. The most celebrated of all Mohammedan caliphs was Harun-al-Rashid, which means, in English, Aaron the Just. Harun is the hero of several of the stories of the "Arabian Nights," a famous book, which perhaps you... Read more of Harun-al-Rashid at Biographical.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

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

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

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

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

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

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

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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



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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