The Coming of Phoebe
When buckets shine 'gainst maple trees
And dropp by dropp the sap doth flow,
When days are warm, but still nights freeze,
And deep in woods lie drifts of snow,
When cattle low and fret in stall,
Then morning brings the phoebe's call,
'phoebe,
phoebe, phoebe,' a cheery note,
While cackling hens make such a rout.
When snowbanks run, and hills are bare,
And early bees hum round the hive,
When woodchucks creep from out their lair
Right glad to find themselves alive,
When sheep go nibbling through the fields,
Then phoebe oft her name reveals,
'phoebe,
phoebe, phoebe,' a plaintive cry,
While jack-snipes call in morning sky.
When wild ducks quack in creek and pond
And bluebirds perch on mullein-stalks,
When spring has burst her icy bond
And in brown fields the sleek crow walks,
When chipmunks court in roadside walls,
Then phoebe from the ridgeboard calls,
'phoebe,
phoebe, phoebe,' and lifts her cap,
While smoking Dick doth boil the sap.
poem by John Burroughs
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Related quotes
Phoebe Prince
An immigrant from County Clare
brought to this harsher clime-
Phoebe Prince, an Irish rose,
a gentle heart and mind.
First used, and then discarded
by one boy, then another.-
Object of the mean girl’s scorn
Phoebe was “the outsider”
On the last day of her short life
They hounded her from school.
The girl they called the “Irish slut”
was made to feel the fool..
Her sister, Lauren, found her body
hanging lifeless in the hall.
Befriended by nobody
Phoebe chose to end it all
And on the day they held her wake
Those monsters held their dance
A debutante cotillion
for a troop of soulless tramps.
She’s buried here in County Clare
because the Ocean's waves
separate her from the harpies
who drove her to the grave
poem by John F. McCullagh
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To Phoebe
"GENTLE, modest little flower,
Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half an hour,
Love me, love me, little fay."
Sentences so fiercely flaming
In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming
If I loved you, PHOEBE dear.
"Smiles that thrill from any distance
Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticize existence,
Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!"
Words like these, outpouring sadly
You'd perpetually hear,
If I loved you fondly, madly; -
But I do not, PHOEBE dear.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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And though hard be the task, 'Keep a stiff upper lip'.
quote by Phoebe Cary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the loving heart.
quote by Phoebe Cary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll accept being Phoebe to people for a while longer, given how much fun it was. That's totally fair.
quote by Lisa Kudrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.
quote by Phoebe Cary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On network TV, I'm still Phoebe to people, and it would be hard to convince them otherwise in the bright lights of a sitcom.
quote by Lisa Kudrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eye in the Sky
Helen Mirren, Aaron Paul, Alan Rickman, Barkhad Abdi, Jeremy Northam, Iain Glen, Phoebe Fox, Kim Engelbrecht
by Guy Hibbert from Eye in the Sky (2015)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Goodbye Christopher Robin
Margot Robbie, Domhnall Gleeson, Kelly Macdonald, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Alex Lawther, Stephen Campbell Moore, Geraldine Somerville, Nico Mirallegro, Simon Williams
from Goodbye Christopher Robin (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Goodbye Christopher Robin [trailer 2]
Margot Robbie, Domhnall Gleeson, Kelly Macdonald, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Alex Lawther, Stephen Campbell Moore, Geraldine Somerville, Nico Mirallegro, Simon Williams
from Goodbye Christopher Robin (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Far Out
I spy in the night sky don't I
phoebe io elara leda callisto sinope
janus dione portia so many moons
quiet in the sky at night hot in the milky way
outside in
vega capella hadar rigel barnard's star
antares aldebaran altair wolf 359
betelgeuse sun sun sun...................
song performed by by Blur from Parklife
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For better or worse
I say Phoebe do not force it.
It won’t fit inside your corset.
Those rolls of fat that wobble so
are adamant they will not go.
They do not wish to be constrained.
’t was better far you had remained.
The slim young girl you used to be
and given up on gluttony
Those sweets which you enjoyed so much
have added weight, well just a touch.
Oh Blast it I’ll speak honestly
You are as fat as fat can be.
But I don’t care I love you still
There’s more of you my arms to fill.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Am I alone?
Am I alone?
When no one understands,
The pain I feel day by day,
Am I alone?
When my family doesn't love me,
They just yell and scream because of how I act,
It's just me,
Am I alone?
When your friends become enemies,
From fights and fibs,
Am I alone?
When what once was lies,
Was nothing but truth,
Am I alone?
When I love you means I'm done with you,
When people say goodbye,
Am I alone?
When tears aren't my only cope anymore,
I stick to other things,
This cold, hard, lonley world,
Leaves me alone,
poem by Phoebe Kippel
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Not Iris in Her Pride
Not Iris in her pride and bravery
Adorns her arch with such variety;
Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,
As do these fields and groves and sweetest bowers
Bestrewed and decked with parti-coloured flowers.
Along the bubbling brooks and silver glide,
That at the bottom doth in silence slide,
The water-flowers and lilies on the banks
Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks;
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be,
The primrose and the purple hyacinth,
The dainty violet and the wholesome minth,
The double-daisy and the cowslip (Queen)
Of summer flowers) do over-peer the green;
And round about the valley as ye pass,
Ye may not see, for peeping flowers, the grass.
poem by George Peele
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Scintilating Like Sparklers
It turned from a swell party on the coast to a sweltering inferno.
The horizon spectators child like winking at us;
from the baptising breakers to roman candles buried deep in the sand,
crabs flirting, and several nori naked bodies
cresting the seas brow.
The romans lined up and fired at the moon,
Phoebe vomited in my shoes,
and kent never came back.
The cops showed up and we scattered like sparklers,
into the beach house allies where we put out the lights and someone pushed a drumset down the stairs.
It was a swell party until someone somewhat died
happy birthday Mike!
poem by Jerome Moore
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Jennifer Lost The War
Jennifer lost the war today
You'll find her burned and raped
Through it all
She must have wondered
What have I done
But nobody really cares today
The world's a busy place
Guess she must have really sinned
CHORUS:
I guess we're all just soldiers
She was only six years old
Left to die by strangers
Her family waits
And if we're all just soldiers
Is it so wrong to be afraid
Phoebe lost the war today
There must be some mistake
Say it happens all the time
And it's said and done
And Little Miss 1565 Your soul remains unclaimed
Guess you must have really sinned
Morality won't help her
When she lies silent in a morgue
And all our sorrows just don't count at all
But will the morning headlines
Even say that it's a shame
What are we headin' for
Seen it all before
Silent on the ground
As he's walking away
And I wonder how many more
Everybody takes it
Like it's nothing at all
Jennifer lost the war
CHORUS
song performed by by Offspring
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A love slave's shanty to a goddess...
I'd like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe
There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy...
I'd like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
What matter the cost, if I don't hit the jackpot...
I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;
She unto me should be a sun, and I her Neptune!
If she would but, peel me in her "bergamot-palm
...Sister of Apollo". I'd shyly-sing my last, psalm...
Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:
Enter within me, all thy eternity newly bound...
Love, let no mountain-shade you're innate-fancy
Earthquake: Wild horses, shall not tether my fiancée.
Like the smoking-waves upon the sirens-shore
I'll descend to meet her when, the rocks of thunder-roar.
When the foam of perfection is my narcissi
Reflection-transformed; answer then why we're so tawdry.
Answer me why? Like the sea, forever u-turned:
These lover's hearts like flowers be spurned..?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Crow Sat On The Willow
The crow sat on the willow tree
A-lifting up his wings,
And glossy was his coat to see,
And loud the ploughman sings,
'I love my love because I know
The milkmaid she loves me';
And hoarsely croaked the glossy crow
Upon the willow tree.
'I love my love' the ploughman sung,
And all the fields with music rung.
'I love my love, a bonny lass,
She keeps her pails so bright,
And blythe she trips the dewy grass
At morning and at night.
A cotton dress her morning gown,
Her face was rosy health:
She traced the pastures up and down
And nature was her wealth.'
He sung, and turned each furrow down,
His sweetheart's love in cotton gown.
'My love is young and handsome
As any in the town,
She's worth a ploughman's ransom
In the drab cotton gown.'
He sang and turned his furrow oer
And urged his team along,
While on the willow as before
The old crow croaked his song:
The ploughman sung his rustic lay
And sung of Phoebe all the day.
The crow he was in love no doubt
And [so were] many things:
The ploughman finished many a bout,
And lustily he sings,
'My love she is a milking maid
With red rosy cheek;
Of cotton drab her gown was made,
I loved her many a week.'
His milking maid the ploughman sung
Till all the fields around him rung.
poem by John Clare
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The Forest Boy
THE trees have now hid at the edge of the hurst
The spot where the ruins decay
Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodland was nursed,
And lived so beloved, till the moment accursed
When he went from the woodland away.
Among all the lads of the plough or the fold;
Best esteem'd by the sober and good,
Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the old
Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold
Was William the boy of the wood.
Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May,
And when sick and declining was laid
The woodman his father, young William away
Would go to the forest to labour all day,
And perform his hard task in his stead.
And when his poor father the forester died,
And his mother was sad, and alone,
He toil'd from the dawn, and at evening he hied
In storm or in snow, or whate'er might betide,
To supply all her wants from the town.
One neighbour they had on the heath to the west,
And no other the cottage was near,
But she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best,
To stay with the widow, thus sad and distress'd,
Her hours of dejection to cheer.
As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid
Were just tinted with youth's lovely hue,
Her form, like the aspen, wild graces display'd,
And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks stray'd,
As the skies of the summer were blue.
Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while,
Young William consider'd his lot;
'Twas hard, yet 'twas honest; and one tender smile
From Phoebe at night overpaid ev'ry toil,
And then all his fatigues were forgot.
By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbeal,
When to eat his cold fare he reclined,
Then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal,
And bring him wood-strawberries to finish his meal,
And would sit by his side while he dined.
And though when employed in the deep forest glade,
His days have seem'd slowly to move,
Yet Phoebe going home, through the wood-walk has stray'd
To bid him good night!--and whatever she said
Was more sweet than the voice of the dove.
Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes,
Then repeated each soul-soothing speech,
And touch'd with illusion, that often deceives
The future with light; as the sun through the leaves
Illumines the boughs of the beech.
But once more the tempests of chill winter blow,
To depress and disfigure the earth;
And now ere the dawn, the young woodman must go
To his work in the forest, half buried in snow,
And at night bring home wood for the hearth.
The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down,
And fast fell the sleet and the rain,
The stream to a wild rapid river was grown,
And long might the widow sit sighing alone
Ere sweet Phoebe could see her again.
At the town was a market--and now for supplies,
Such as needed her humble abode,
Young William went forth; and his mother with sighs
Watch'd long at the window, with tears in her eyes,
Till he turn'd through the fields to the road.
Then darkness came on; and she heard with affright
The wind every moment more high;
She look'd from the door; not a star lent its light,
But the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night,
And the rain pour'd in sheets from the sky.
The clock in her cottage now mournfully told
The hours that went heavily on;
'Twas midnight: her spirits sank hopeless and cold,
And it seem'd as each blast of wind fearfully told
That long, long would her William be gone.
Then heart-sick and cold to her sad bed she crept,
Yet first made up the fire in the room
To guide his dark steps; but she listen'd and wept,
Or if for a moment forgetful she slept,
Soon she started!--and thought he was come.
'Twas morn; and the wind with a hoarse sullen moan
Now seem'd dying away in the wood,
When the poor wretched mother still drooping, alone,
Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown,
In gorgeous apparel who stood.
'Your son is a soldier,' abruptly cried he,
'And a place in our corps has obtain'd,
Nay, be not cast down; you perhaps may soon see
Your William a captain, he now sends by me
The purse he already has gain'd.'
So William entrapp'd 'twixt persuasion and force,
Is embark'd for the isles of the West,
But he seem'd to begin with ill omens his course,
And felt recollection, regret, and remorse
Continually weigh on his breast.
With useless repentance he eagerly eyed
The high coast as it faded from view,
And saw the green hills, on whose northernmost side
Was his own silvan home: and he falter'd, and cried,
'Adieu! ah! for ever adieu!
'Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain,
Since thy son has thus left thee forlorn?
Ah! canst thou forgive me? And not in the pain
Of this cruel desertion, of William complain,
And lament that he ever was born?
'Sweet Phoebe!--if ever thy lover was dear,
Now forsake not the cottage of woe,
But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear,
And help her to dry up the vain fruitless tear,
That too long for my absence will flow.
'Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed,
And lament her lost William no more?'
The thought was too cruel; and anguish now sped
The dart of disease--With the brave numerous dead
He has fall'n on the plague-tainted shore.
In the lone village church-yard, the chancel-wall near,
High grass now waves over the spot,
Where the mother of William, unable to bear
His loss, who to her widow'd heart was so dear,
Has both him and her sorrows forgot.
By the brook where it winds through the wood of Arbeal,
Or amid the deep forest, to moan,
The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal;
The pain of her bosom no reason can heal,
And she loves to indulge it alone.
Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears;
She sits by the river and weaves
Reed garlands, against her dear William appears,
Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears
His step in the half wither'd leaves.
Ah! such are the miseries to which ye give birth,
Ye statesmen! ne'er dreading a scar;
Who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth
Disperse desolation and death through the earth,
When ye let loose the demons of war.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Poem 9
LOe where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.
So well it her beseemes that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre,
And being crowned with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene,
Her modest eyes abashed to behold
So many gazers, as on her do stare,
Vpon the lowly ground affixed are.
Ne dare lift vp her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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