Smells

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