Car poems
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Sister's cake
© Eugene Field
I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.
Veni, Vidi, Vixi (French & English)
© Victor Marie Hugo
J'ai bien assez vécu, puisque dans mes douleurs
Je marche, sans trouver de bras qui me secourent,
Puisque je ris à peine aux enfants qui m'entourent,
Puisque je ne suis plus réjoui par les fleurs ;
Prof. vere de blaw
© Eugene Field
Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble dote
Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw a place uv note,
Our old friend Casey innovated somewhat round the place,
In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferin's uv the race;
Mr. Dana, of the New York Sun
© Eugene Field
Thar showed up out'n Denver in the spring uv '81
A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
His name wuz Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he wuz a sight ter view
Ez he walked inter the orfice 'nd inquired fer work ter do.
It's comingthe postponeless Creature
© Emily Dickinson
It's comingthe postponeless Creature
It gains the Blockand nowit gains the Door
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings
Enterswith a "You know MeSir"?
Madge: Ye Hoyden
© Eugene Field
At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft,
Ffor that a romping wench was shee--
"Now marke this rede," they bade her oft,
"Forsooken sholde your folly bee!"
The Illusion of Love
© Sarojini Naidu
Beloved, you may be as all men say
Only a transient spark
Of flickering flame set in loam of clay
I care not
since you kindle all my dark
With the immortal lustres of the day.
Little-oh dear
© Eugene Field
See, what a wonderful garden is here,
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown -
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
And never ye'll meet with a garden so queer
As this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Little Willie
© Eugene Field
When Willie was a little boy,
No more than five or six,
Right constantly he did annoy
His mother with his tricks.
The Shanty On The Rise
© Henry Lawson
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West,
On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest';
It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside,
But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -
Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise',
As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
Little Mack
© Eugene Field
This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh,
We've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh!
He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set
In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet;
Lady button-eyes
© Eugene Field
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
Jessie
© Eugene Field
When I remark her golden hair
Swoon on her glorious shoulders,
I marvel not that sight so rare
Doth ravish all beholders;
Horace to Pyrrha
© Eugene Field
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
On the quiet?
Hi-spy
© Eugene Field
Strange that the city thoroughfare,
Noisy and bustling all the day,
Should with the night renounce its care,
And lend itself to children's play!
Good-Children Street
© Eugene Field
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street -
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.
Croquet by Moonlight
© Julia A Moore
On a moonlight evening, in the month of May,
A number of young people were playing at croquet,
They mingled together, the bashful with the gay,
And had a pleasant time and chat, while playing at croquet.
De Amicitiis
© Eugene Field
Though care and strife
Elsewhere be rife,
Upon my word I do not heed 'em;
In bed I lie
With books hard by,
And with increasing zest I read 'em.
