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A short pastoral dialogue

(Designed for the use of her daughter and niece when very young)

LUCIA.
Come, my Delia, by this spring
Nature's bounties let us sing,
While the popler's silver shade
O'er our lambkins is display'd.

DELIA.
See how she has deck'd the ground
Op'ning flow'rets blush around;
Crystals glitter on each hill,
Polish'd by the falling rill.

LUCIA.
Here the berries bend the vine,
Lucid grapes at distance shine;
Here the velvet peach, and there
Apples, and the pendant pear.

DELIA.
View this maple, from whose wound
Honey trickles on the ground:
Who these luxuries can taste
Thankless of the rich repast?

LUCIA.
Delia, I could sit all day
List'ning to your grateful lay;
But now solar beams invade,
Let us seek a closer sh de.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes

Delia

Delia was a gambling girl, gambled all around,
Delia was a gambling girl, she laid her money down.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias dear ol mother took a trip out west,
When she returned, little delia gone to rest.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delias daddy weeped, delias momma moaned,
Wouldnt have been so bad if the poor girl died at home.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis looking high, curtis looking low,
He shot poor delia down with a cruel forty-four.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
High up on the housetops, high as I can see,
Looking for them rounders, looking out for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Men in atlanta, tryin to pass for white,
Delias in the graveyard, boys, six feet out of sight.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Judge says to curtis, whats this noise about?
All about them rounders, judge, tryin to cut me out.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis said to the judge, what might be my fine?
Judge says, poor boy, you got ninety-nine.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Curtis in the jail house, drinking from an old tin cup,
Delias in the graveyard, she aint gettin up.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You loved all them rounders, never did love me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.
Delia, oh delia, how can it be?
You wanted all them rounders, never had time for me.
All the friends I ever had are gone.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Invitation

DELIA, my dear, delightful Lady,
Time flies in town, you say,
New gowns shine fresh as May,
The Park is glad and gay,
Ah--but the woods are green and shady--
Come, Delia, come away!

The crown your kneeling slaves award you
Is beauty's royal right;
Your beauty, Delia, might
Win crowns more sweet, more bright:
Your niggard world will not afford you
The crown of Heart's delight.

Sable your court will wear--to lose you;
My garden's dressed in green,
Such buds its leaves between
As never yet were seen;
There is no flower it can refuse you--
Come to your King, my Queen!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Progress of Love

Beneath the myrtle’s secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;
At first I view’d the lovely maid
In silent soft surprise.
With trembling voice, and anxious mind,
I softly whisper’d love;
She blush’d a smile so sweetly kind,
Did all my fears remove.
Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;
And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:
In wild tumultuous bliss I cry,
“O Delia, now be kind!”
She press’d me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign’d.

poem by Robert Dodsley
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Stagger Lee

1948, xmas eve, with a full moon over town
Stagger lee shot billy delions
And he blew that poor boy down.
Do you know what he shot him for?
What do you make of that?
Cause billy delions threw the lucky dice
Won stagger lees stetson hat.
Bayo, bayo, tell me how can this be?
You arrest the girls for turning tricks
But youre scared of stagger lee.
Stagger lee is a madman and he shot my billy d.
Bayo go get him or give the job to me.
Delia delions, dear sweet delia-d
How the hell can I arrest him? hes twice as big as me.
Well dont ask me to go downtown, I wont come back alive [no more].
Not only is that mother big but he packs a .45 [four].
Bayo, delia said, just give me a gun
He shot my billy dead now Im gonna see him hung.
She went into the delions club through billy delions blood
Stepped up to stagger lee at the bar,
Said, buy me a gin fizz, love.
As stagger lee lit a cigarette she shot him in the balls
Blew the smoke off her revolver, had him dragged to city hall
Bayo, bayo, see you hang him high
He shot my billy dead and now hes got to die.
Delia went a walking down on singapore street
A three-piece band on the corner played near my God to thee
But delia whistled a different tune, what tune could it be?
The song that woman sung was look out stagger lee.
The song that delia sung was look out stagger lee.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On a Fan of the Author's Design

Come gentle Air! th' AEolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade:
Come, gentle Air, the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

poem by Alexander Pope
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Searcy Foote

I wanted to go away to college
But rich Aunt Persis wouldn't help me.
So I made gardens and raked the lawns
And bought John Alden's books with my earnings
And toiled for the very means of life.
I wanted to marry Delia Prickett,
But how could I do it with what I earned?
And there was Aunt Persis more than seventy,
Who sat in a wheel-chair half alive,
With her throat so paralyzed, when she swallowed
The soup ran out of her mouth like a duck --
A gourmand yet, investing her income
In mortgages, fretting all the time
About her notes and rents and papers.
That day I was sawing wood for her,
And reading Proudhon in between.
I went in the house for a drink of water,
And there she sat asleep in her chair,
And Proudhon lying on the table,
And a bottle of chloroform on the book,
She used sometimes for an aching tooth!
I poured the chloroform on a handkerchief
And held it to her nose till she died. --
Oh Delia, Delia, you and Proudhon
Steadied my hand, and the coroner
Said she died of heart failure.
I married Delia and got the money --
A joke on you, Spoon River?

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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An Apology To Dr. Clayton, Bishop Of Killala, And His Lady

My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and Delia are bless'd;
With Delia, whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your See with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent--rolls, and raising your Fines.

No longer let Rome her old Argument boast,
That by Marriage the End of the Priesthood is lost;
That, toil'd and entangled in Family Cares,
The Clergy forget their celestial Affairs:
For, had she known Delia, she must have confess'd,
That the Church, in the Marriage of Prelates, was bless'd.

poem by Mary Barber
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Chaste Florimel

No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.

Oh! take your sword and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.

Thus to the pressing Corydon
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents said;

Delia who held the conscious door,
Inspired by truth and brandy, smiled,
Knowing that sixteen months before
Our Lucrece had her second child.

And hark ye, Madam, cried the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'squire, or quit the lodging.

Oh! have I, Florimel went on,
Lord what is lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run
If by her friend she is betray'd?

Oh! curse on empty friendship's name:
Lord what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.

From Delia's rage and Fortune's frown
A wretched lovesick maid deliver;
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear Sir, and make me yours for ever.

poem by Matthew Prior
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The Vine

I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise:
Her belley, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced
About her head I writhing hung
And with rich clusters (hid Amoung
The leaves) her temples i behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
ANd arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
( All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy i awoke,
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.

poem by Robert Herrick
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Cut Throat

Delia Demoat cut her husband’s
Throat. Delia slit it clean. She held
His hair tight with her small hand
In a firm grip. There was little fight.
Unexpected and sudden. He slumped
In the chair blood shooting across
And spraying the TV screen. Delia
Released his hair and stood back
The bloody knife in her right hand.
She was shaking, her hands shook.
On the floor by the armchair where
He sat a small book. Blood-soaked
Pages and cover. A gift from his lover.
She dropped the knife, stared at the
TV screen, some I Love Lucy show,
Canned laughter, black and white.
Flickering images. She peered over
The back of the armchair. He was
Slumped bloodied there. She ached,
The bruises showed on arms, her split
Lips mouthed words. Delia breathed
Hard, spat on his head, the phlegm
Sat there on his hair; she sniffed air,
Smelt cigar smoke, his aftershave.
She looked up. Lucy gazed at her on
The screen, canned laughter once more,
Surreal; show over, she peed on the floor.

poem by Terry Collett
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Sonnet XLV: Delia, These Eyes

Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine
Have seen those walls the which ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they entomb'd have lyen
Within themselves, and on them plows have ear'd.
Yet for all that no barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous men,
Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd
Th'eternal Annals of a happier pen.
Why then, though Delia fade, let that not move her,
Though Time do spoil her of the fairest veil
That ever yet mortality did cover,
Which shall enstar the needle and the trail.
That grace, that virtue all that serv'd t' enwoman
Doth her unto eternity assummon.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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R. S. S.

All-worshipped Gold! thou mighty mystery
Say by what name shall I address thee rather,
Our blessing, or our bane? Without thy aid,
The generous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslaved by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessings then
With virtue when possessed; without, our bane.
If in my bosom unperceived there lurk
The deep-sown seeds of avarice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure),
But let the generous and the good commend me;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blessed as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we should envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tenderest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumined with the radiant beams of sense),
Tranquility beyond a monarch's reach.
Forgive me, Heaven, this only avarice
My soul indulges; I confess the crime,
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal,) oh, grant me Delia! grant me wealth;
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants;
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blessed.

poem by William Cowper
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St. Lucia

The Black Man's cry and the White Man's cry,
I am in St. Lucia peacefully with my mind;
But, why should their planes crah down the Twin Towers?
The Big Ship brought me here from Africa and,
I am now having time with my mind;
So hold me very close and never let me go.

Run away from the thunder and,
Take a cover under my care;
For i do have the silver plate and the diamond pin,
And the cover of my love is all that you need.

I am wasting no time to speak out my mind and,
Of the African land far away from me;
Because i am now in St. Lucia thinking about you,
And i am up on my feet to seek your love.

I will live on the day after tomorrow,
And of the judgements of the time to come;
But do think of the cry of the children around you,
For tue love is what eludes my people.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Apology To Delia: For Desiring A Lock Of Her Hair

Delia, the unkindest girl on earth,
When I besought the fair,
That favour of intrinsic worth
A ringlet of her hair,

Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request,
For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.

Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,
I sought it merely to defraud
Thy spoiler of his prey.

Yes! when its sister locks shall fade,
As quickly fade they must,
When all their beauties are decayed,
Their gloss, their colour, lost—

Ah then! if haply to my share
Some slender pittance fall,
If I but gain one single hair,
Nor age usurp them all;—

When you behold it still as sleek,
As lovely to the view,
As when it left thy snowy neck,
That Eden where it grew,

Then shall my Delia's self declare
That I professed the truth,
And have preserved my little share
In everlasting youth.

poem by William Cowper
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Sonnet LVI: As to the Roman

As to the Roman that would free his land,
His error was his honor and renown
And more the fame of his mistaking hand
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown,
So, Delia, hath mine error made me known,
And deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame
Than if I had the victory mine own,
And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so, likewise, renowned is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,
That errors should be grac'd that merit shame
And sin of frowns bring honor to thy face.
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind,
But happier yet, if thou wouldst change thy mind.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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The Dying Kid

Optima quaeque dies miseris mortalibus aevi
Prima fugit-…
~Virg.
Imitation.

Ah! wretched mortals we! - our brightest days
On fleetest pinions fly.

A tear bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring, and flowery mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede!

Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound!
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem'd all ravish'd at the sight:

She tells with what delight he stood,
To trace his features in the flood:
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.

But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless era flies;
While violence and craft succeed,
Unfair design, and ruthless deed?

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon erased from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.

No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gazed on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twined.

Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but insipid age, remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
That gave his life so short a date;
And I will join my tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!

poem by William Shenstone
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Elegy X. To Fortune, Suggesting His Motive for Repining at Her Dispensations

Ask not the cause why this rebellious tongue
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway!
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name, which all obey!

'Tis not, that in my shed I lurk forlorn,
Nor see my roof on Parian columns rise;
That, on this breast, no mimic star is borne,
Revered, ah! more than those that light the skies.

'Tis not, that on the turf supinely laid,
I sing or pipe but to the flocks that graze;
And, all inglorious, in the lonesome shade
My finger stiffens, and my voice decays.

Not, that my fancy mourns thy stern command,
When many an embryo dome is lost in air;
While guardian Prudence checks my eager hand,
And, ere the turf is broken, cries, 'Forbear:

'Forbear, vain Youth! be cautious, weigh thy gold,
Nor let yon rising column more aspire:
Ah! better dwell in ruins, than behold
Thy fortunes mouldering, and thy domes entire.

'Honorio built, but dared my laws defy;
He planted, scornful of my sage commands;
The peach's vernal bud regaled his eye,
The fruitage ripen'd for more frugal hands.'

See the small stream, that pours its murmuring tide
O'er some rough rock, that would its wealth display;
Displays it aught but penury and pride?
Ah! construe wisely what such murmurs say.

How would some flood, with ampler treasures blest,
Disdainful view the scantling drops distil!
How must Velino shake his reedy crest!
How every cygnet mock the boastive rill!

Fortune! I yield; and see, I give the sign;
At noon the poor mechanic wanders home,
Collects the square, the level, and the line,
And, with retorted eye, forsakes the dome.

Yes, I can patient view the shadeless plains;
Can unrepining leave the rising wall;
Check the fond love of art that fired my veins,
And my warm hopes, in full pursuit, recall.

Descend, ye Storms! destroy my rising pile;
Loosed be the Whirlwind's unremitting sway;
Contented I, although the gazer smile
To see it scarce survive a winter's day.

Let some dull dotard bask in thy gay shrine,
As in the sun regales his wanton herd;
Guiltless of envy, why should I repine
That his rude voice, his grating reed's, preferr'd?

Let him exult, with boundless wealth supplied,
Mine and the swain's reluctant homage share;
But, ah! his tawdry shepherdess's pride,
Gods! must my Delia, must my Delia, bear?

Must Delia's softness, elegance, and ease,
Submit to Marian's dress? to Marian's gold?
Must Marian's robe from distant India please?
The simple fleece my Delia's limbs enfold?

'Yet sure on Delia seems the russet fair;
Ye glittering daughters of Disguise, adieu!'
So talk the wise, who judge of shape and air,
But will the rural thane decide so true?

Ah! what is native worth esteem'd of clowns?
'Tis thy false glare, O Fortune! thine they see:
'Tis for my Delia's sake I dread thy frowns,
And my last gasp shall curses breathe on thee.

poem by William Shenstone
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Portii Licinii

PORTII LICINII.

Si Phoebi soror es, mando tibi, Delia, causam,
Scilicet, ut fratri quae peto verba feras:
Marmore Sicanio struxi tibi, Delphice, templum,
Et levibus calamis candida verba dedi.
Nunc, si nos audis, atque es divinus Apollo,
Dic mihi, qui nummos non habet unde petat.

ENGLISHED.

If you are Phoebus sister, Delia, pray,
This my request unto the Sun convay:
O Delphick god, I built thy marble fane,
And sung thy praises with a gentle cane,
Now, if thou art divine Apollo, tell,
Where he, whose purse is empty, may go fill.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Crutches

Thou see'st me, Lucia, this year droop;
Three zodiacs fill'd more, I shall stoop;
Let crutches then provided be
To shore up my debility:
Then, while thou laugh'st, I'll sighing cry,
A ruin underpropt am I:
Don will I then my beadsman's gown;
And when so feeble I am grown
As my weak shoulders cannot bear
The burden of a grasshopper;
Yet with the bench of aged sires,
When I and they keep termly fires,
With my weak voice I'll sing, or say
Some odes I made of Lucia;--
Then will I heave my wither'd hand
To Jove the mighty, for to stand
Thy faithful friend, and to pour down
Upon thee many a benison.