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Smoking Poems

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

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

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

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

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



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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