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Smoking Poems

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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