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The Patchwork Bonnet
Across the room my silent love I throw,
Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,
Your young stern profile and industrious fingers
Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show,
To Dinda's grave delight.
The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread
Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam:
The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,
O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,
Fulfilment of their dream.
Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten,
With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find,
Now wake to this most happy resurrection,
To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cotton
And staring at the blind.
Dinda in sing-song stretching out one hand
Calls for the playthings; mother does not hear:
Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean,
And all the world must wait till she touches land;
So Dinda cries in fear,
Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy,
And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind,
Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings;
And now the shadows make an Umbrian Mary
Adoring, on the blind.
poem by Robert Graves
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Nature
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Children's playthings are not sports and should be deemed as their most serious actions.
quote by Michel de Montaigne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Automobiles
Human
contrived playthings
that transports fat asses
places we would never, ever
walk to.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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We say that a girl with her doll anticipates the mother. It is more true, perhaps, that most mothers are still but children with playthings.
quote by F.H. Bradley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golf is a game in which you claim the privileges of age, and retain the playthings of childhood.
quote by Samuel Johnson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Of Your Toys (Master Backing Track Take 20)
Once upon a once in awhile
It's hard to remember to smile
Just like all of your toys
Can't you see I don't wanna play
I don't need it
Can't you say you want me to stay
I'll believe it
Just like all of your toys
When all of your playthings someday disappear
Girl, will you be happy, with nothing but tears?
With nothing but tears?
Once upon a once in awhile
It's hard to remember to smile
Just like all of your toys
Don't you ever feel kinda sad
'Cause you're lonely?
Thinkin' 'bout the love that we had?
Are you lonely?
Just like all of your toys
When all of your playthings someday disappear
Girl, will you be happy, with nothing but tears?
With nothing but tears?
Just like all of your toys, I don't wanna be
Just like all of your toys, I don't need to be
Just like all of your, just like all of your toys
Just like all of your toys
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our quaint metaphysical opinions, in an hour of anguish, are like playthings by the bedside of a child deathly sick.
quote by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Holidays
'AH! don't you remember, 'tis almost December,
And soon will the holidays come;
Oh, 'twill be so funny, I've plenty of money,
I'll buy me a sword and a drum. '
Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry,
Impatient from school to depart;
But we shall discover, this holiday lover
Knew little what was in his heart.
For when on returning, he gave up his learning,
Away from his sums and his books,
Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded,
Chagrin still appear'd in his looks.
Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted,
And thrown away out of his sight;
He spent every morning in stretching and yawning,
Yet went to bed weary at night.
He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure,
(A secret discover'd by few).
You'll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted;
Oh no–it was something to do.
We must have employment to give us enjoyment
And pass the time cheerfully away;
And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding
The pleasures of toys and of play.
To school now returning–to study and learning
With eagerness Harry applied;
He felt no aversion to books or exertion,
Nor yet for the holidays sigh'd.
poem by Ann Taylor
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The Holidays
"Ah! don't you remember, 'tis almost December,
And soon will the holidays come;
Oh, 'twill be so funny, I've plenty of money,
I'll buy me a sword and a drum. "
Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry,
Impatient from school to depart;
But we shall discover, this holiday lover
Knew little what was in his heart.
For when on returning, he gave up his learning,
Away from his sums and his books,
Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded,
Chagrin still appear'd in his looks.
Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted,
And thrown away out of his sight;
He spent every morning in stretching and yawning,
Yet went to bed weary at night.
He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure,
(A secret discover'd by few).
You'll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted;
Oh naught was something to do.
We must have employment to give us enjoyment
And pass the time cheerfully away;
And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding
The pleasures of toys and of play.
To school now returningto study and learning
With eagerness Harry applied;
He felt no aversion to books or exertion,
Nor yet for the holidays sigh'd.
poem by Jane Taylor
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Pittypat and Tippytoe
All day long they come and go--
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door--
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play!
And a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread--
Only buttered bread will do,
And the butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And I never can say "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so--
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
Oh the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain, fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shows great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
On the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
poem by Eugene Field
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She rose to His Requirement
732
She rose to His Requirement—dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife—
If ought She missed in Her new Day,
Of Amplitude, or Awe—
Or first Prospective—Or the Gold
In using, wear away,
It lay unmentioned—as the Sea
Develop Pearl, and Weed,
But only to Himself—be known
The Fathoms they abide—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Do you hear it?
Do you hear it?
The laughter?
You don't know, do you
That we are only here to serve THEM
Those so high, high above us
We are their pawns, their playthings
To them we are nothing
They sit on their thrones laughing
At us
Laughing their laughter,
The laughter of dark gods.
poem by Jesse Bourque
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Game.
Long time ago there were not too many playthings,
Children played with tree branches, mud pies, & natural blessings
Today there are phones, computers, I-pads and more,
These kids do not even appreciate anything anymore.
Definitely they are sharper then the older generation,
Nonstop playing their games with a dedication.
I never had toys, but whatever I do is a game
Enjoying life, busy every second, I call it a toy no matter what it's name,
Nothing is better then doing everything with joy,
Love life every second, mind my own business and enjoy.
poem by LaSoaphia QuXazs
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Mauseleum
Dedicated to Aries,
Vile god of war,
And duplicated by such fools
As the Masons and even some governments,
Who on earth should bother with the dead:
There are no ghosts as all, you see;
And they even if they existed
Would not care about you and me.
But the site of Hellicarnassus
Is ruins,
Like the ruined castles of the Anasazis in Arizona,
Playthings for tourists and photographers,
Not worth a dime
For any other activity,
Maybe music the single exception,
Like Ravel's 'The Tomb of Couperon',
A great affirmation of life over its own dire subject.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Lovely Playthings
Dawn brings lovely playthings to the mind,
But sunset fights and goes down in battle blind.
The banners of dawn spread over in mystery,
But nightfall ends a boast and a pageantry.
After the halt of dawn comes the slow moving of
Time till the sun's hidden rush and the day is admitted.
Sunset dies out in a smother of something like love,
With dew and the elm-hung stars and owl outcries half-witted.
poem by Ivor Gurney
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play
244
It is easy to work when the soul is at play—
But when the soul is in pain—
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult—then—
It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind—
But Gimlets—among the nerve—
Mangle daintier—terribler—
Like a Panter in the Glove—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Lady button-eyes
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen -
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Through the murk and mist and gloam
To our quiet, cozy home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock's dull monotone
Telleth of the day that's done;
Where the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Where my weary wee one lies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Cometh like a fleeting ghost
From some distant eerie coast;
Never footfall can you hear
As that spirit fareth near -
Never whisper, never word
From that shadow-queen is heard.
In ethereal raiment dight,
From the realm of fay and sprite
In the depth of yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Layeth she her hands upon
My dear weary little one,
And those white hands overspread
Like a veil the curly head,
Seem to fondle and caress
Every little silken tress;
Then she smooths the eyelids down
Over those two eyes of brown -
In such soothing, tender wise
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Dearest, feel upon your brow
That caressing magic now;
For the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
While upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen,
And the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!
poem by Eugene Field
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Come, Come Stay With Us, This Is Our Paradise
on the other side is the coastal beauty
of sky blue clear seas and coconut palms
at the opposite of the other side one takes
the road leading to the green mountains
the forest trees are nest of birds and
the branches are playthings for monkeys
below the mountains are villages
sleepy and peaceful and cooler with
fresh air and flowery gardens
a vast expanse of rice and corn fields
rivers still teeming with fish
the people still opting for peace
this is our paradise. Come, stay with us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Foreign Lands
Up into the cherry tree
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad in foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie,
Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass
And be the sky's blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
With people tramping in to town.
If I could find a higher tree
Farther and farther I should see,
To where the grown-up river slips
Into the sea among the ships,
To where the road on either hand
Lead onward into fairy land,
Where all the children dine at five,
And all the playthings come alive.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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