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Smoking Poems

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...



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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