My Corn-Cob Pipe

From ImmortalPoetry
Jump to navigationJump to search

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating
to the stars
The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made
But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of
And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob
pipe of mine.

It’s as fragrant as the meadows when the clover
is in bloom;
It’s as dainty as the essence of the daintiest
It’s as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit
is hanging ripe,
With the sun’s warm kiss upon them—is this
corn-cob pipe.

Thro’ the smoke about it clinging, I delight its
form to trace,
Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her
And my room is dim with vapour as a church
when censers sway,
As I clasp it to my bosom—in a figurative way.

It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me
in distress,
And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures
in success;
So I hail it as a symbol, friendship’s true and
worthy type,
And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob

Add your comment
ImmortalPoetry welcomes all comments. If you do not want to be anonymous, register or log in. It is free.