WHY is it that the poet tells br So little of the sense of smell? br These are the odors I love well: br br The smell of coffee freshly ground; br Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned; br Or onions fried and deeply browned. br br The fragrance of a fumy pipe; br The smell of apples, newly ripe; br And printer's ink on leaden type. br br Woods by moonlight in September br Breathe most sweet, and I remember br Many a smoky camp-fire ember. br br Camphor, turpentine, and tea, br The balsam of a Christmas tree, br These are whiffs of gramarye. . .