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Smoking Poems

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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

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

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...



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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