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Smoking Poems

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

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

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

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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



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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