Familiarity Dangerous
As in her ancient mistress’ lap
The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,
Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia’s arm,
Mere wantonness the cause.
At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground
With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:
It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest
Should bear a kitten’s joke.
poem by William Cowper
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Lydia The Star
Lydia my cousin is charismatic you will find,
when you are with Lydia you will have a funtime.
Lydia has been an entertainer since she was three,
She now plays music and sings in Glee.
Lydia is also a lead singer in her own band,
“Dr. Pepper” is bands name I understand.
She performed at Kid’s Winter Rockfest,
they put on a great show, they were the best.
Lydia wants to learn how to play the guitar,
she will be a success hit by far.
I wish you Lydia the most brilliant success,
you are an original star a cut above the rest.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on February 6,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Like Lydia
The innocence she has brings grace
Easy way love can be found in her face
She is incredible her beauty is amaze
suddenly i found like Lydia in unexpected place
Sympathy arising heart owner
Caring lady more deep fair
With the provoking laughter jokes player
I recognize her, like Lydia I found her layer
Her pleasure of sense is the best
Up on behaviour, so descent
No doubt she will win, that's all I bet
Like Lydia that is the sister I get
Dedicated to my adorable friend
Lidya.B
NB Like Lydia
Lydia from the Old temstament
poem by Luwi Habte
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Lydia
Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town,
And bid your yards be gay
Up all your gusty streets and down,
For Lydia comes to-day!
I hear it on the wharves below;
And if I buy or sell,
The good folk as they churchward go
Have only this to tell.
My mother, just for love of her,
Unlocks her carvëd drawers;
And springs of withered lavender
Drop down upon the floors.
For Lydia’s bed must have the sheet
Spun out of linen sheer,
And Lydia’s room be passing sweet
With odors of last year.
The violet flags are out once more
In lanes salt with the sea;
The thorn-bush at Saint Martin’s door
Grows white for such as she.
So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow,
For Lydia comes to-day;
Of all the words that I do know,
I have but this to say.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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L'Eau Dormante
Curled up and sitting on her feet.
Within the window's deep embrasure,
Is Lydia; and across the street,
A lad, with eyes of roguish azure,
Watches her buried in her book.
In vain he tries to win a look,
And from the trellis over there
Blows sundry kisses through the air,
Which miss the mark, and fall unseen,
Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.
My lad, if you, without abuse,
Will take advise from one who's wiser,
And put his wisdom to more use
Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do,
Another's heartbreak serve for two,
You'll have a care, some four years hence,
How you lounge there by yonder fence
And blow those kisses through that screen--
For Lydia will be seventeen.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Ninth Ode of the Third Book of Horace
Horace.
While I was your beloved one,
And while no other youth threw his fond arms around
Your white neck so easily,
Than the King of the world I was far happier.
Lydia..
While you loved not another one,
While you did not prefer Chloë to Lydia,
I then thought myself happier
Than the mother of Rome, great Rhea Silvia.
Horace..
Thracian Chloë now governs me,
She can merrily sing, playing the cithara;
I'd not scruple to die for her,
If the Implacable spared Chloë, the auburn haired.
Lydia.
I now love and am loved again,
By my Calaïs, son of the old Ornytus;
Twice I'd die for him willingly,
If the terrible fates spared but my Calaïs.
Horace.
What if love should return again,
And unite us by ties more indissoluble?
What if Chloë were cast away,
And the long-closed door open to Lydia?
Lydia.
My love's brighter than any star;
You, too, lighter than cork, tossed on the waves of the Hadriatic so terrible;
Still I'd live but with thee, and I could die with thee.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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The IX Ode to Horace
HORACE.
While I was pleasing to your arms,
Nor any youth, of happier charms,
Thy snowy bosom blissful prest,
Not Portia's like me was blest.
LYDIA.
While for no other fair you burn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Chloe scorn'd
What maid was then so blest as thine?
Not [xx's] flame could equal mine.
HORACE.
Me Chloe now possesses whole,
Her voice her lyre command my soul;
For whom Ill gladly die, to save
Her dearer beauties from the grave.
LYDIA.
My heart young Calats inspires,
Whose bosom glows with mutal fires,
For whom I twice would die with joy,
If death would spare the charming boy.
HORACE.
Yet what if love, whole bards we broke,
Again should tame us to the yoke;
Should I shake off bright Chloe's chain,
And take my Lydia home again?--
LYDIA.
Though he exceed in beauty far
The rising lustre of a star;
Though light as cork thy fancy strays,
Thy passions wild as angry seas,
When vex'd with storms; yet gladly I
With thee would live, with thee would die.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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Horace and Lydia Reconciled
HORACE
When you were mine in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I'll not deny,
Fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a Persian mogul.
LYDIA
Before she came--that rival flame!--
(Was ever female creature sillier?)
In those good times,
Bepraised in rhymes,
I was more famed than Mother Ilia!
HORACE
Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace
Does she at song or harp employ her!
I'd gladly die
If only I
Might live forever to enjoy her!
LYDIA
My Sybaris so noble is
That, by the gods! I love him madly--
That I might save
Him from the grave
I'd give my life, and give it gladly!
HORACE
What if ma belle from favor fell,
And I made up my mind to shake her,
Would Lydia, then,
Come back again
And to her quondam flame betake her?
LYDIA
My other beau should surely go,
And you alone should find me gracious;
For no one slings
Such odes and things
As does the lauriger Horatius!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Doughboy's Horace
Horace: Book III, Ode 9
"Donec eram gratus tibi--"
HORACE, PVT. --TH INFANTRY, A.E.F., WRITES:
While I was fussing you at home
You put the notion in my dome
That I was the Molasses Kid.
I batted strong. I'll say I did.
LYDIA, ANYBURG U.S.A., WRITES:
While you were fussing me alone
To other boys my heart was stone.
When I was all that you could see
No girl had anything on me.
HORACE:
Well, say, I'm having some romance
With one Babette, of Northern France.
If that girl gave me the command
I'd dance a jig in No-Man's Land.
LYDIA:
I, too, have got a young affair
With Charley--say, that boy is there!
I'd just as soon go out and die
If I thought it'd please that guy
HORACE:
Suppose I can this foreign wren
And start things up with you again?
Suppose I promise to be good?
I'd love you Lyd. I'll say I would.
LYDIA:
Though Charley's good and handsome--oh, boy!
And you're a stormy fickle doughboy,
So give the Hun his final whack,
And I'll marry you when you come back.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Lydia Is Gone This Many A Year
Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
The house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantel laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her;
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis, do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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One Leg Anne and the Innocent Flirt.
Sister Mary pushed Anne
in her wheelchair
to the white table
where you were sitting
with Lydia Sad
and Malcolm
and a curly headed girl
with burn scars
on her face and neck
there
said the nun
here you can sit
and wait for breakfast
and catch the morning sun
Anne looked glumly
at the sky
and said nothing
as the nun
walked away
I wonder
what's for breakfast?
Malcolm asked
stewed cat on toast
Anne said
looking at Lydia Sad
whose blonde hair
and blue eyes
gave her
an angelic look
that's horrible
the girl with burn scars said
don't eat it then
Anne said
Malcolm looked at you
it wouldn't be that
would it?
He asked
no
you said
Anne's just having you on
why do you have to spoil
my fun Skinny Boy?
Anne said
it's not funny
Lydia muttered
not funny to say that
about cats being on toast
how are your haemorrhoids?
Anne asked Lydia
saw the fat nun
giving you the bum pill
Lydia blushed
and Malcolm looked
at the white table top
I'm telling Sister Bernadette
about you
the girl with burn scars said
go put your head
between your thighs
and breathe the air
Anne said
the girl got up
and left the table
followed by Lydia
and Malcolm
that's got rid of them
Skinny Boy
Anne said
why are you so horrible?
you asked
looking at her red skirt
just covering the stump
of her amputated leg
have a good look Skinny Boy
and she pulled up
her skirt to reveal
the naked flesh
and plump stump
you noticed
how the scar
seemed to pull
into a smooth redness
what do you think?
Anne asked
I've seen it before
you replied
when?
She asked
you showed me
the other week
while you were being weight
in the bathroom
she smiled
and pulled down
her skirt
I like you Skinny Boy
you're just
an innocent flirt
and she laughed
and her wheelchair rocked
and you smiled
and wondered
what she meant
by the word flirt
and looked discreetly
at her short red skirt.
poem by Terry Collett
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Every man deems that he has precisely the trials and temptations which are the hardest of all others for him to bear; but they are so, simply because they are the very ones he most needs.
quote by Lydia M. Child
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Friday, The Toilette
LYDIA.
Now twenty springs had cloth'd the Park with green,
Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen;
No lovers now her morning hours molest,
And catch her at her toilet half undrest.
The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more,
Nor chairs, nor coaches, crowd the silent door;
Now at the window all her mornings pass,
Or at the dumb devotion of her glass:
Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate,
And curs'd th' inconstancy of man too late.
"O youth! O spring of life, for ever lost!
No more my name shall reign the fav'rite toast:
On glass no more the diamond grave my name,
And lines mis-spelt record my lover's flame:
Nor shall side-boxes watch my wand'ring eyes,
And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise
With humble bows; nor white-glov'd beaux encroach
In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach.
"What shall I do to spend the hateful day?
At chapel shall I wear the morn away?
Who there appears at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled tow'rs,
And gray religious maids? My presence there,
Amidst that sober train, would own despair?
Nor am I yet so old, nor is my glance
As yet fix'd wholly on devotion's trance.
Strait then I'll dress, and take my wonted range
Through India's shops, to Motteux's, or the Change,
Where the tall jar erects its stately pride,
With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd;
There careless lies a rich brocade unroll'd,
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold.
But then alas! I must be forc'd to pay,
And bring no penn'orth, not a fan away!
"How am I curs'd, unhappy and forlorn!
My lover's triumph, and my sex's scorn!
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs;
False are the loose coquet's inveigling airs;
False is the crafty courtier's plighted word;
False are the dice when gamesters stamp the board;
False is the sprightly widow's public tear;
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.
"For what young flirt, base man, am I abus'd?
To please your wife am I unkindly us'd?
'Tis true her face may boast the peach's bloom;
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own her taper shape is form'd to please;
But don't you see her unconfin'd by stays?
She doubly to fifteen may claim pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and sense.
Insipid, servile thing! whom I disdain;
Her phlegm can best support the marriage chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to his wife:
He games, he drinks, he swears, he fights, he roves;
Yet Cloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistress and wife by turns supply his need;
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
Powder'd with diamonds, free from spleen or care,
She can a sullen husband's humour bear;
Her credulous friendship and her stupid ease,
Have often been my jest in happier days;
How Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains!
To her he's faithful; 'tis to me he feigns.
Am I that stupid thing to bear neglect,
And force a smile, not daring to suspect?
No, perjur'd man! a wife may be content;
But you shall find a mistress can resent."
Thus love-sick Lydia rav'd; her maid appears,
And in her faithful hand the band-box bears
The cestus, that reform'd inconstant Jove,
Not better fill'd with what allur'd to love);
"How well this ribbon's gloss becomes your face!"
She cries in rapture; "then so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!
"Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air!"
Straight Lydia smiled; the comb adjusts her locks;
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Lydia Dick
When I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bently
Used to praise so eloquently
'Opera Horatii.'
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning power got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow
Horace knew a thing or two
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of her that fired him--
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair--
These things baffle my description;
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried--so I forbear!
May be Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick;
Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a fin de siecle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady
And the pranks she used to play;
And I'm cheered--for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder
With good reason why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still, Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot;
Still, Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
poem by Eugene Field
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Kittens Got Claws
(coverdale/vandenberg)
Walking down the street
Youre the center of my universe
You got the world in your pocket,
My manhood in your purse
You aint a bad girl, honey,
No matter what the neighbours say,
Its just that you were those skin-tight dresses
With your g-string tuned to a
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Heaven sent, youre an angel dressed in black,
Cool, stiletto strut, youre a drop jaw cardiac
Youre the genuine, feline, prettiest girl Ive ever seen,
With your thief of hearts smile
Youre a certified pleasure machine
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Dressed to kill in diamonds and fur,
You get what you want
With your pussy cat purr
But, the kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shes a heart attack
You treat me good,
Sometimes you treat me bad,
But, keep it up, honey,
Youre the best time Ive ever had
No matter what you put me through I must confess,
Oh, you got more style than a brand new xjs
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Dressed to kill in diamonds and fur,
You get what you want
With your pussy cat purr
But, the kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws,
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shes a heart attack...
Walking down the street
Youre the center of my universe
You got the world in your pocket,
My manhood in your purse
I know you aint a bad girl, honey,
No matter what the neighbours say,
Its just that you were those skin-tight dresses
With your g-string tuned to a
Sweet, sweet, child of the street
Dressed to kill in diamonds and fur,
You get what you want
With your pussy cat purr
But, the kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws,
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shell blow your stack
The kittens got claws,
Shell tear your heart out
The kittens got claws,
Shell scratch your back
The kittens got claws,
Shell tease an please you
The kittens got claws,
Shes a heart attack...
You scratch my back, baby,
An Ill scratch yours...
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Have you ever heard of a kitten
I'm not quit sure how to write a sonnet
So i'll start with a few quite words
Some will make since while others will be an abundance
So here it is I will jump right in
Have you heard of a small fury creature named kitten
With sharp little claws in there cute mittens
With fluffy young fur she seems to be lickn
A cute little nose which is always a sniffn
And a lovable heart that is always a sniffn
To the animals around her always a playn
And a wild mind that is always a wondern
Long fury legs spotted and young
With eyes that are young and always a wondern
Have you heard of a small fury creature named kitten
poem by Lexie Bousman
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My little kitten
I have a little kitten, I stroke it's soft paws
but no one told me that within..were some very sharp claws.
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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The Cat Lies Dreaming
Kitten prances through the house
Triumphantly killing catnip mouse
The young cat moves with queenly grace
A serene expression on her face
Middle aged cat watches kittens play
Recalling how she was that way
Old cat now sleeping in the sun
She takes her days one by one
Dreaming once again a kitten be
Wish dish of milk oh so yummy
Remembering how she'd run and play
With out a care and perhaps all day
Hands to cuddle hands to feed
Hands to meet her every need
11/01/08
City Love
I never liked this apple much
It always seemed too big to touch
I can't remember how I found
My way before she came around
I tell everyone
I smile just because
I've got a city love
I found it in Lydia
And I can't remember life before her name
She keeps a toothbrush at my place
As if I had the extra space
She steals my clothes to wear to work
I know - her hairs are on my shirts
I tell everyone
I smile just because
I've got a city love
I found it in Lydia
And I can't remember life before
The day
She called up and came to me
Covered in rain
And dinnertime shadowing
And as her clothes spun
song performed by by John Mayer from Room For Squares
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn 121
Children devoted to God. [For those who practise infant Baptism.]
Gen. 17:7,10; Acts 16:14,15,33.
Thus saith the mercy of the Lord,
"I'll be a God to thee;
I'll bless thy num'rous race, and they
Shall be a seed for me."
Abram believed the promised grace,
And gave his sons to God;
But water seals the blessing now,
That once was sealed with blood.
Thus Lydia sanctified her house,
When she received the word;
Thus the believing jailer gave
His household to the Lord.
Thus later saints, eternal King!
Thine ancient truth embrace;
To thee their infant offspring bring,
And humbly claim the grace.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Think your own thoughts.
quote by Lydia Lunch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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