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Came a pretty maid

Came a pretty maid
By the moon's pure light . . .
Loved me well, she said,
Eyes with tears all bright,
A pretty maid.

But too late she strayed,
Moonlight pure was there . . .
She was nought but shade,
Hiding the more fair,
The heav'nly maid.

poem by George Eliot
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe

COME all ye lads and lassies and listen to me a while,
And I’ll sing for you a verse or two will cause you all to smile;
It’s all about a young man, and I’m going to tell you now,
How he lately came a-courting of the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.

Said he, “My pretty fair maid, will you come along with me,
We’ll both go off together, and married we will be;
We’ll join our hands in wedlock bands, I’m speaking to you now,
And I’ll do my best endeavour for the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”

This fair and fickle young thing, she knew not what to say,
Her eyes did shine like silver bright and merrily did play;
She said, “Young man, your love subdue, for I am not ready now,
And I’ll spend another season at the foot of the Sweet Brown Knowe.

Said he, “My pretty fair maid, how can you say so,
Look down in yonder valley where my crops do gently grow,
Look down in yonder valley where my horses and my plough
Are at their daily labour for the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”

“If they’re at their daily labour, kind sir, it’s not for me,
For I’ve heard of your behaviour, I have, indeed,” she said;
“There is an Inn where you call in, I have heard the people say,
Where you rap and call and pay for all, and go home at the break of day.”

“If I rap and call and pay for all, the money is all my own,
And I’ll never spend your fortune, for I hear you have got none.
You thought you had my poor heart broke in talking with me now,
But I’ll leave you where I found you, at the foot of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”

poem by Anonymous English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seasons of My Love

I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hair
There lived no other in the world could in my heart compare
Her eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breeze
I would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please

I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair
Embraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we share
We were all we ever had but we were wild and free
And in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me

I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hair
The seasons of our love had both a beauty and despair
Two hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to be
And in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she

I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair
I loved her fierce, I loved her true, we were doomed; we did not care
The hands of time would take from me, even she was not to spare
In the whispers of my dreams, I still see my maiden fair

poem by Leonard Snow
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Mysterious doings

As once I rambled in the woods
I chanced to spy amid the brake
A huntsman ride his way beside
A fair and passing tranquil lake;
Though velvet bucks sped here and there,
He let them scamper through the green--
Not one smote he, but lustily
He blew his horn--what could it mean?

As on I strolled beside that lake,
A pretty maid I chanced to see
Fishing away for finny prey,
Yet not a single one caught she;
All round her boat the fishes leapt
And gambolled to their hearts' content,
Yet never a thing did the maid but sing--
I wonder what on earth it meant.

As later yet I roamed my way,
A lovely steed neighed loud and long,
And an empty boat sped all afloat
Where sang a fishermaid her song;
All underneath the prudent shade,
Which yonder kindly willows threw,
Together strayed a youth and maid--
I can't explain it all, can you?

poem by Eugene Field
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Personal Column

I seek a maid to marry me.
A homely maid who’s dutiful
a girl who can smile pleasantly.
Above a maid who’s beautiful.

For pretty girls think they can rule.
An equal partner's what I need
and not an empty headed fool
who’s just another mouth to feed.

I am not handsome it is true
But I work hard and I’m well paid
I earn sufficient to keep two
I am a master of my trade.

If this advert appeals to you.
Apply at once do not delay
But only homely girls will do
all pretty girls should stay away.

18-May-08

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Solatium

Comes the broken flower -
Comes the cheated maid -
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!

O'er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone -
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Joan of Arc

This word had Merlin said from of old:—
That out of the Oak Tree Shade
In the day of France's direst dule,
God's hand should send a Maid.
And where Domremy, by Burgundy,
Sits crowned with its oakenshaw,
Even there Joan d'Arc, the Maid of God's Ark,
The light of the day first saw.

Where spirits go, what man may know?
Yet this may of man be said:—
That, when Time is o'er and all hath sufficed,
Shall the world's chief Christ-fire rise to Christ
From the ashes of Joan the Maid.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A Man Needs A Maid

My life is changing in so many ways
I dont know who to trust anymore
Theres a shadow running thru my days
Like a beggar going from door to door.
I was thinking that maybe Id get a maid
Find a place nearby for her to stay.
Just someone to keep my house clean,
Fix my meals and go away.
A maid. a man needs a maid.
A maid.
Its hard to make that change
When life and love turns strange.
And old.
To give a love, you gotta live a love.
To live a love, you gotta be part of
When will I see you again?
A while ago somewhere I dont know when
I was watching a movie with a friend.
I fell in love with the actress.
She was playing a part that I could understand.
A maid. a man needs a maid.
A maid.
When will I see you again?

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blindness

In a stage-coach, where late I chanced to be,
A little quiet girl my notice caught;
I saw she looked at nothing by the way,
Her mind seemed busy on some childish thought.

I with an old man's courtesy addressed
The child, and called her pretty dark-eyed maid,
And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see
The wide extended prospect. 'Sir,' she said,

'I cannot see the prospect, I am blind.'
Never did tongue of child utter a sound
So mournful, as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day
She saw her lay her needlework aside,
And, as on such occasions mothers will,
For leaving off her work began to chide.

'I'll do it when 'tis daylight, if you please,
I cannot work, mamma, now it is night.'
The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
And yet her eyes received no ray of light.

poem by Charles Lamb
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Why?

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
'No flowers for him,' he said.
The maid wept:
'Ah, I loved him.'
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
'No flowers for him.'

Now, this is it -
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

poem by Stephen Crane
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Can a Maid That Is Well Bred

Can a maid that is well bred,
Hath a blush so lovely red,
Modest looks, wise, mild, discreet,
And a nature passing sweet,
Break her promise, untrue prove,
On a sudden change her love,
Or be won e'er to neglect
Him to whom she vow'd respect?

Such a maid, alas, I know.
Oh that weeds 'mongst corn should grow,
Or a rose should prickles have,
Wounding where she ought to save!
I that did her parts extol,
Will my lavish tongue control.
Outward parts do blind the eyes,
Gall in golden pills oft lies.

Reason wake, and sleep no more,
Land upon some safer shore;
Think on her and be afraid
Of a faithless fickle maid.
Of a faithless flckle maid
Thus true love is still betray'd.
Yet it is some ease to sing
That a maid is light of wing.

poem by Martin Peerson
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Lines, Written In The Memory Of Elizabeth Smith

OH, thou! whose pure, exalted mind
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
Oh, thou! whose blameless life combin'd
Soft female charms and grace refin'd
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar'd
Beyond this vale of tears;
Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explor'd
The lore of years!

Daughter of heav'n! if here, e'en here,
The wing of tow'ring thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illum'd thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;

How must thy blest, ethereal soul,
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray;
And hail, unfetter'd by control,
The fount of day!

E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph-eyes,
Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise;
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendent, pure and clear!
E'en now the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal'd,
Bless in one blaze thy raptur'd view,
In light reveal'd!

If here, the lore of distant time,
And learning's flow'rs were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend, sublime,
Matur'd in heav'n's empyreal clime,
To light's unclouded throne!

Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance,
Each orb of living fire explores;
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse,
Admires—adores!

Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!

How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning's brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection's day!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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To a Little Maid - by a Politician

Come with me, little maid,
Nay, shrink not, thus afraid -
I'll harm thee not!
Fly not, my love, from me -
I have a home for thee -
A fairy grot,
Where mortal eye
Can rarely pry,
There shall thy dwelling be!

List to me, while I tell
The pleasures of that cell,
Oh, little maid!
What though its couch be rude,
Homely the only food
Within its shade?
No thought of care
Can enter there,
No vulgar swain intrude!

Come with me, little maid,
Come to the rocky shade
I love to sing;
Live with us, maiden rare -
Come, for we "want" thee there,
Thou elfin thing,
To work thy spell,
In some cool cell
In stately Pentonville!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Belle Isle

One evening for pleasure I rambled to view
The fair fields all alone
Down by the banks of loch eiron
Where beauty and pleasure were known.
I spied a fair maid at her labour
Which caused me to stay for a while
And I thought of a goddess to beauty
Bloomin bright star of bright isle.
I humbled myself to her beauty
Fair maiden, where do you belong ?
Are you from heaven descended
Abiding in cupids fair throne ? .
Young man, I will tell you a secret
Its true Im a maid that is poor
And to part from my vows and my promise
Is more than my heart can endure.
Therefore I remain at my service
And go through all my hardship and toil
And wait for the lad that has left me
All alone on the banks of belle isle.
Young maiden I wish not to banter
Its true I come here in disguise
I came here to fulfill our last promise
And hope to give you a surprise.
Ive known youre a maid I love dearly
And youve been in my heart all the while
For me there is no other damsel
Than my bloomin bright star of belle isle.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Ever Marry, I'll Marry A Maid

If ever I marry, I'll marry a maid;
To marry a widow, I am sore afraid:
For maids they are simple, and never will grutch,
But widows full oft, as they say, know too much.

A maid is so sweet, and so gentle of kind,
That a maid is the wife I will choose to my mind
A widow is froward, and never will yield;
Or if such there be, you will meet them but seeld.

A maid ne'er complaineth, do what so you will;
But what you mean well, a widow takes ill:
A widow will make you a drudge and a slave,
And, cost ne'er so much, she will ever go brave.

A maid is so modest, she seemeth a rose
When it first beginneth the bud to unclose;
But a widow full-blowen full often deceives,
And the next wind that bloweth shakes down all her leaves.

The widows be lovely, I never gainsay,
But too well all their beauty they know to display;
But a maid hath so great hidden beauty in store,
She can spare to a widow, yet never be poor.

Then, if ever I marry, give me a fresh maid,
If to marry with any I be not afraid;
But to marry with any, it asketh much care;
And some bachelors hold they are best as they are.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely Rita

Lovely rita meter maid.
Lovely rita meter maid.
Lovely rita meter maid.
Nothing can come between us,
When it gets dark i tow your heart away.
Standing by a parking meter,
When i caught a glimpse of rita,
Filling in a ticket in her little white book.
In a cap she looked much older,
And the bag across her shoulder
Made her look a little like a military man.
Lovely rita meter maid,
May i inquire discreetly,
When are you free,
To take some tea with me.
Took her out and tried to win her,
Had a laugh and over dinner,
Told her i would really like to see her again,
Got the bill and rita paid it,
Took her home i nearly made it,
Sitting on the sofa with a sister or two.
Oh, lovely rita meter maid,
Where would i be without you,
Give us a wink and make me think of you.

song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Behold, the grave of a wicked man

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."

Now, this is it --
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

poem by Stephen Crane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tall and Fair

Amid the field is a haunted well;
a soul can hear soft voices rising,
comely gentle, singing or advising;
and some mysterious calls to spell.

A maid cared to reflect her face,
twas many years back, so her song,
became a murmur to only prolong,
a desire of hers in depths to trace.

A well, some say, keeps the beauty
when poetic words define truelove,
as it is the maid's render of above,
but never fiddle with spells snooty.

She lifts, some say, your soul in air,
together you fly where pure ethers
wreak or shimmer in Spring anthers,
amid daisies to stand, tall and fair.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Ape and the Lady

A LADY fair, of lineage high,
Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by -
The Maid was radiant as the sun,
The Ape was a most unsightly one -
So it would not do -
His scheme fell through;
For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,
Expressed such terror
At his monstrous error,
That he stammered an apology and made his 'scape,
The picture of a disconcerted Ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,
He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,
He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,
And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through -
For the Maid was Beauty's fairest Queen,
With golden tresses,
Like a real princess's,
While the Ape, despite his razor keen,
Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits,
He crammed his feet into bright tight boots,
And to start his life on a brand-new plan,
He christened himself Darwinian Man!
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through -
For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,
Was a radiant Being,
With a brain far-seeing -
While a Man, however well-behaved,
At best is only a monkey shaved!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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We are Seven

--------A Simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

poem by William Wordsworth
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Love in Thy Youth, Fair Maid

Love in thy youth, fair maid; be wise,
Old Time will make thee colder,
And though each morning new arise
Yet we each day grow older.
Thou as heaven art fair and young,
Thine eyes like twin stars shining:
But ere another day be sprung,
All these will be declining.
Then winter comes with all his fears
And all thy sweets shall borrow;
Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,
And I too late shall sorrow.

poem by Walter Porter
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