A Paraphrase, By Dr. I.W.
Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother
With prattlings and with vain ado
Your worthy and industrious mother,
Eschewing them that come to woo?
Oh, that the awful truth might quicken
This stern conviction to your breast:
You are no longer now a chicken
Too young to quit the parent nest.
So put aside your froward carriage,
And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time,
Upon the righteousness of marriage
With some such godly man as I'm.
poem by Eugene Field
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Related quotes
Bat
IN broad daylight
He should not be:
Yet toward and froward,
Froward and toward
He weaves a flight.
Who will guide him back to his cave,
A little Bat astray,
Where he'll rest on the breast of night,
Away from day's bright miscreation?
The linnet throbs through the air,
The magpie coquettes with day,
The rook caws 'Time to be gone,'
And travels on;
While toward and froward,
Froward and toward,
The Bat ... a fathom
Of flight . . . weaves.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Big Do Wedding
Off we go
To another marriage....
Hey!
Arriving in a carriage.
It's the bride.
Is there a garter to find?
Old, new, borrowed, blue...
From love this marriage grew.
So I'll wish her happiness
And for that to ingress
Into the new nest.
I wish her the best.
(For Tara)
poem by George BernardBloodyShaw
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I'd rather eat a
Chicken's nest…than eat one more
Skinless chicken breast
haiku by David Whalen
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Warm And Tender
Warm and tender is my prayer for your world, that I surrender to my girl
All my life I've waited for the angel you are
You're the dream that I knew you'd be
And I love you completely my Chloe, Chloe
Warm and tender, I will color your days, with smiles and friends along the way
From the silver morning to the blue velvet night
Through it all you can count on me
And I love you completely my Chloe, Chloe
I'll make you a world to grow in, where you will be safe and free
I'll save you a greener world, where you can be
Warm and tender you will heal all the world
Your touch can mend a mother's heart
Everyday I'm thankful for the blessing you are
You're the future, the hope we need
And I love you completely my Chloe, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe
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song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Live Together Or Marrieage
Which one is more beneficial
Marriage or live together?
O my dear, do not bother or worry
I am habituated in both,
Take time and think properly
Tell me later, my mobile number is free
Consult with any body even with your mother
In these matters she is expert
As several times she left your father.
Marriage means bondage
One meal one curry
You can not be a butterfly
From one flower to another flutter by
Live together means saving of time
And at the park spare the rod of police
But never ask grand mother
They will not understand this
A big generation gap
And it has not been in the religious scripts
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The truth of the matter is, you lose a parent to murder when you're 10 years old, and in fact at the time of the murder you hate your lost parent, my mother in my case.
quote by James Ellroy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chloe
NIGHT wind sighing through the poplar leaves,
Trembling of the aspen, shivering of the willow,
Every leafy voice of all the night-time grieves,
Mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow.
Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn,
Fairer than the larches in their young spring glory,
Brighter than the glow-worms on the dewy lawn,
Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story:--
'Chloe lived and Chloe loved: she brought new gladness,
Hope and life and all things good to all who met her;
Only, dying, wept to know the lifelong sadness
Willed, against her will, to those who can't forget her.'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Religion is no more the parent of morality than an incubator is the mother of a chicken.
quote by Lemuel K. Washburn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Season of a Mistress
Mistress of a season's whim
The pale light of a morning hue
Begin this winters day
Quietly I step forth ahead and on
Into the eerie silence
My breath a vapour rises
To where a low sun shall climb
A coldness present
The wetness of dew
Almost frozen in time
A beauty is still found
In all that greets the eye and mind
Whilst the world succumbs once more
To the mistress of nature
To the mother of this earth
A season bows to her whim
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Oh! The Marriage
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan[84] is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for a dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
We meet in the market and fair
We meet in the morning and night
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight;
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
poem by Thomas Davis
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Hinduism
Mukthi as the end; you are at the front.
O mother O mother all are on the run.
Renunciation as the means; all else are only dreams.
O mother O mother you are at the reign.
Fearlessness in your scriptures; put all others in ruptures.
O mother O mother you are sending shivers.
Oneness as the truth; what more is there to search.
O mother O mother this is what you vouch.
Religion is realisation; everything else only make sensation.
O mother O mother grandeur is your definition.
Spirituality in the air; whatelse can we aspire.
O mother O mother you are present everywhere.
Noble thoughts from you; the world owes all to you.
O mother O mother all has taken only from you.
We are the divine force; what more can be the driving force.
O mother O mother all are from the same source.
I need boons two; one to be born to you.
O mother O mother should be my cry next time too.
poem by S. Ashok Kumar
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Oh! The Marriage
AIR--_The Swaggering Jig._
I.
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
II.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
III.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for a dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
IV.
We meet in the market and fair--
We meet in the morning and night--
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight;
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
poem by Thomas Osborne Davis
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The Charming Month of May
It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay.
One morning, by the break of day,
The youthful, charming Chloe—
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o’er the flow’ry mead she goes—
The youthful, charming Chloe.
Chorus:
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.
The feather’d people you might see
Perch’d all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
They hail the charming Chloe;
Till, painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Outrival’d by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Chorus
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To The Hummingbird
I cannot heal thy green gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest,
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.
No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.
No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honied spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new fledged wing.
For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes;
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
Unheard thy cries!
poem by Jones Very
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Lines On A Visit To Port Fairy
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Island off Port Fairy by the sea
In latter March a bright though breezy day
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay.
On Easter Sunday nineteen eighty nine
A breezy day of spasmodic sun shine
Sweet scent of sea and tide sound in my ear
And weather pleasant for the time of year.
Muttonbirds dig their nest holes in the ground
And their nest burrows were plentiful all around
And I quote from ornithologists who know best
That this year same Muttonbird use last year's nest.
Parent muttonbirds gone fishing out to sea
Leave behind them their nest bound families
Their three months old nestlings unable yet to fly
Future earth born distant travellers of the sky.
In metre deep burrow in fore shore sand
I searched along it's bottom with my hand
Felt the soft down feathers of a sea bird's breast
A young near full fledged nestling in it's nest.
In Island off Port Fairy by the sea
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Easter Sunday quite a pleasant day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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To Chloe Jealous
Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Love Hurts
I heard her footsteps on the driveway
whilst I was lying in our bed,
she’s been out all night again,
sleeping elsewhere instead.
I asked her why she does this.
but she turned and looked away,
she then said she wants a good time
and isn’t ready to live life my way.
She was too young when she married
and babies came along too soon,
but now they’re more independent,
her feet itch when she sees the moon.
I asked where our marriage was going
and she said that she just didn’t care.
All she wanted to do was live her life
in someplace where I wasn’t there.
So I asked her if she still loved me
and she said she never really did,
and the only reason she married
was because she was having my kid.
With tears I told her that I loved her
and there was no one else for me.
She shrugged and said that’s tough,
but she wanted to be set free.
So our marriage is now over
and the children live with me.
Their mother has gone forever
and that’s the way it has to be.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Lays of Sorrow
The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam, [1] a
sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes [2] a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon, [3]
(Or I am very much mistaken happy)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all's well,
Looks into the straw
To see there's no flaw,
Goes once round the house, [4]
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
As the large mother with a powerful spell [5]
Forced each in turn its contents to express, [6]
But ah! "imperfect is expression,"
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!
And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?"
Its master [7] cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", [8]
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home--the hissing urn--
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He's missed the very last train. [9]
Too long it were to tell of each conjecture
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!"
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!"
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
"The sight I have come upon
The stoutest heart [10] would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!"
poem by Lewis Carroll
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Countenance
Click, click, click, click, click
That’s what I hear, so, stick
Or should I make a move now; quick
Before the others could make me sick
Ponderous thoughts, beating heart
I should have quit right at the start
The adrenalin pushes me to part
With something, nothing, far apart
From Brooklyn, London, Tokyo, Paris
Faceless names which mean to harass
Me now hanging on the crevice
Oh where is now the stupid novice?
Oh well the time is passing by
No longer do I need to cry
It’s just a game so ask me why
Do I bother to groan and sigh?
poem by John B Hayes
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