Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars <br />The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars; <br />But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine, <br />And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine. <br /> <br />It 's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom; <br />It 's as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume; <br />It 's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe, <br />With the sun's warm kiss upon them--is this corn-cob pipe. <br /> <br />Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace, <br />Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face; <br />And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway, <br />As I clasp it to my bosom--in a figurative way. <br /> <br />It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress, <br />And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success; <br />So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy type, <br />And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-corn-cob-pipe/
