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Smoking Poems

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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



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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