human
Can you write me a poem about bobolink and bumblebee in the style of Paul Féval?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about bobolink and bumblebee in the style of Paul Féval:
  Rand McNally & Company,
Copyright, 1896, by Rand, McNally & Co.
I wonder, if I died to-night,
And you should hear to-morrow,
You'd mourn to think this one dear friend
Had bid good-bye to sorrow.
I wonder, if you saw a bird,
The hunter's dart outflying,
You'd lure it back with loving word
To danger, pain, and dying.
I wonder, if you saw a rose,
Plucked quick in June's surrender,
You'd wish it back upon the bough,
To wither in November.
I wonder, if you watched the moon,
The tempest's rack outstripping,
You'd grieve to see its silver prow
In cloudless ether dipping.
I wonder, if you heard a thrush
Laugh out amid the clover,
You'd weep because its cage door oped--
Its captive days were over.
I wonder, if, some happy day,
When you have found your haven,
You'll mourn to find this one dear friend
Had been so long in heaven.
unfathomable and mysterious sea.
Nothing but me 'twixt earth and sky;
An emerald and an amethyst stone,
Hung and hollowed for me alone.
I grew to love the solitude with all my heart, and the thought of
seaward-facing pike, with dips into ferny hollows and ascents to
pine-crowned bluffs, make the trip worth recording, and if to the
Gay little Goldenhead lived within a town
Full of busy bobolinks, flitting up and down,
Pretty neighbor buttercups, cosy auntie clovers,
And shy groups of daisies, all whispering like lovers.
A town that was builded on the borders of a stream,
By the loving hands of nature when she woke from winter's dream;
Sunbeams for the workingmen taking turns with showers,
Rearing fairy houses of fairy grass and flowers.
Crowds of talking bumblebees, rushing up and down,
Wily little brokers of this busy little town,
Bearing bags of gold dust, always in a hurry,
Fussy bits of gentlemen, full of fret and flurry.
Gay little Goldenhead fair and fairer grew,
Fed on flecks of sunshine, and sips of balmy dew,
Swinging on her slender foot all the happy day,
Chattering with bobolinks, gossips of the May.
Underneath her lattice on starry summer eves,
By and by a lover came, with his harp of leaves;
Wooed and won the maiden, tender, sweet and shy,
For a little cloud home he was building in the sky.
And one breezy morning, on a steed of might,
He bore his little Goldenhead out of mortal sight;
But still her gentle spirit, a puff of airy down,
Wanders through the mazes of that busy little town.
If you have a friend who has wronged you, forgive him to-day, for
And in spite of her desire to see him a bit more solicitous
as to personal elegance his mother could but echo the boy's
self-congratulatory remark.
swearing, or seen the first robin appear in Joliet stripes, the
smokehouse.
entranced by the sublime beauty of the scene a mighty wind arose
It was presumably a pleasure cruise, but if ever a poor wretch in
Gone forever are the dear ones who made gala times and festival
Every time we are ill the occasion is a fog horn.
conscience makes, why not be thankful when the warning ceases and
There are tears on the gentian's eyelids,
As they lift them, fringed and fair.
Do they mourn for the vanished brightness
Of my baby's golden hair?
There's a cloud a-droop in the heavens
That shadows their sunny hue.
Does it dream of the lovelight tender
In my baby's eyes so blue?
The golden rod pines in the forest,
The aster pales by the brook.
Do they miss her fairy footfall
In each dim and flow'ry nook?
Now, all through this beautiful weather,
Wherever I walk, I weep;
For I think of the desolate cradle
Where my baby lies asleep.
comfortless and forlorn you may be, don't add to your own and the
disappointed wedlock.
daughter?"
I think somebody had better write a new parable and call it "The
Scarce had the bugle note sounded
For the call of their last defeat;
And still on the lowland meadow
Lie the prints of their quick retreat.
Above us the bright skies sparkle,
And around us the same winds blow
That rippled their golden banners
In that battle so long ago,
When the southwind challenged winter,
And the rose-ranks routed the snow,
And the hosts of tiny gold coats
Sprang up from their campfires below,
To charge on the insolent frost king,
And shatter his lance of ice,
While back to the desolate northland
They wheeled him about in a trice.
The battle is hardly ended,
The victory only begun,
Yet I saw the gray-bearded vet'rans,
To-day, sitting out in the sun.
They nod by wind-rippled rivers,
They shake in the shade of the oak,
And all the day long they murmur
And whisper, and gossip, and croak.
And often in wondering rapture,
They recount the charge they made,
When down from the windy hillsides,
And up through the dewy glade,
The sheen of their golden bonnets
Shone out from the green of the leaves,
Like the flight of a glancing swallow,
Or the flash of a wave on the seas.
They muse in sleepy contentment,
Or flutter in endless dispute.
For this was a brave cadet, sir,
And that one a crippled recruit.
Fight over again your battles,
O veterans, withered and gray;
For a band of northwind chasseurs
To-morrow shall blow you away.
"Yea, verily, by reason of our misdemeanors lift we the voice of
lamentation in a land that knoweth not comfort."
Yea, who thought it no evil to bring forth the flesh-pot and the
And the spirit in charge made answer, saying:
"No, nor never shall be while fools live and folly thrives.
"Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
intelligence."
"Intelligence be blessed!" said I, for I was getting excited;
donkeys. I am tired of awaiting a change in the methods of doing
civilization in a grip-sack.
I held in my bosom a beautiful rose,
All gay with the splendor of June;
Its dew-laden petals like sheen of soft snows,
Its blush like the sunshine at noon.
But e'en as I held it, I knew it must fade;
Its bloom was as brief as the hour.
The dews of the evening like soft tears were laid
On the grave of my beauteous flower.
I held in my bosom a beautiful child,
The splendor of love in her eyes;
No snow on high hills was more undefiled
Than her soul in its innocent guise.
But I knew that my angel in heaven was missed;
I knew, like my rose, she must go;
So with heartbreak and anguish her sweet lips I kissed--
She sleeps with my rose in the snow.
something else requisite to mother-love.
motherhood.
membership of which pledged themselves, to a boy, to abstain from
"The bravest are the tenderest;
The loving are the daring."
constitutes happiness? Peace. What brings peace? Content. Who is
For these unhappy sisters of mine, the discontented, yearning
Lifting its chalice of sun-kissed foam
Far up the heights where the wild winds roam,
Weaving a web of shadow and sheen
In lowland meadows of dewy green.
Murmuring over the mossy stones,
In cool green dells where the gold bee drones,
Sudden and swift the showery fall,
Startling the wood bird's madrigal.
Orbing itself in a crystal lake
Set round with thickets of tangled brake,
In waveless calm, an emerald stone,
In the lap of the dusky forest thrown.
Silver flakes of tremulous light
Showering down from the fields of night,
Where the great white stars like lilies glow--
Tossed on its tide as feathery snow.
Hastening onward through troubled ways,
Forgotten for aye its woodland days,
Sullen and silent its banks beside
The free brook wanders, a mighty tide.
Beyond where the forest's purple rim
Belts the horizon, hazy and dim,
Thundering down from the frowning steeps,
Into the arms of the sea it leaps.
unsounded sea catch the fret of our mortal moan.
"Nothing whatever," replied Mrs. John.
"But you look like a funeral," exclaimed he.
assassinated, all because of bottled thunder. A word would have
explained all, a look has ruined everything.
chamber. One would be certain to choke up and burst very soon.
applause; the clown in tinsel and the end man in cork divide easy
I can get used to my darling's dress
That hangs on the closet door;
And the little silent half-worn shoes
That patter no more on the floor.
I can get used to the hopeless blank
That greets my waking eyes,
As they meet the sight of the empty crib
Where no little nestling lies.
I can get used to the dreary hush,
In the home which my darling blest
With her prattling speech and her rippling laugh,
Ere we laid her away to rest.
But, ah! the touch of those little hands
That wandered o'er my face,
Like the wavering fall of rose-leaves soft,
In some sunlit garden place.
Those dimpled caressing baby hands!
I feel them again at night,
And in dreams I gather them back again
From their harp in the City of Light.
My hungry heart will claim them still;
I cannot let them depart.
So I gather them back again in dreams
To my desolate, breaking heart.
"Must I go down there to find it?" I inquired. He replied in the
affirmative.
"Yez may have it for $25," says he.
"I'll give you five," says I.
"I said five," I answered.
As Charles Kingsley says:
"My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe 'neath skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you
For every day:
"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make life, death and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song."
boisterously unkind with a comrade, just as he is more criminally
argument, the dearer and closer the tie that binds us, the more
slug-eaten roses and wind-fall blossoms? When you go forth to buy
There's not a blossom of beautiful May,
Silver of daisy, or daffodil gay,
Nor the rosy bloom of apple tree flowers,
Fair as the face of this baby of ours.
You could never find, on a bright June day,
A bit of fair sky so cheery and gay;
Nor the haze on the hills in noonday hours,
Blue as the eyes of this baby of ours.
There's not a murmur of wakening bird--
The clearest, sweetest, that ever was heard
In the tender hush of the dawn's still hours--
Soft as the laugh of this baby of ours.
There's no gossamer silk of tasseled corn,
Nor the flimsiest thread of the shy wood fern--
Not even the cobwebs spread over the flowers--
Fine as the hair of this baby of ours.
There's no fairy shell by the sounding sea,
No wild rose that nods on the windy lea,
No blush of the sun through April's showers,
Pink as the palm of this baby of ours.
"It is a fine day!" remarks Miss Cherrylips.
"Too cold," says the croaker; "beastly wind, not fit for a dog to
Oh, I tell you right now, girls, if you can only cultivate one
dandelions in flocks, like golden butterflies. Here, leaving the
"I will have my crown," says one. "I have earned it."
I wish Columbus had never discovered us. I wish that he had never
I said to myself one golden day
When the world was bright and the world was gay,
"Though I live more lives than time has years
Either in this or the infinite spheres,
I will fear no blight and I'll bear no cross,
Against my gains I will write no loss,
But I and my soul, twin lilies together,
Shall whiten in endless summer weather!"
I said to myself one weary day
When the world was old and the world was gray,
"Has God forgotten His wandering earth?
Are its tears His scorning, its groans His mirth?
There's no blue above where the torn clouds fly,
There's no bloom below where the dead leaves lie;
Would I and my soul were at rest together
Wrapped from the chill of this wintry weather."
well-filled stall and a full stomach, they take no thought of the
tree--wouldn't you?
A white rose grew in a garden place,
On a slender stem, with a royal grace;
The nursling of June and her gentle showers,
Fairest and sweetest of all her flowers.
The south wind was out one day for a sail,
In a cloudy boat, so fleecy and frail,
And he chanced to spy, where musing she stood,
My dear little rose in her snowy hood.
Oh, softly he whispered and tenderly sighed,
"Starry Eyes, Starry Eyes, I wait for my bride."
But she laughed in his face, and told him to go;
She didn't see why he bothered her so.
A dewdrop fell in the starry hush,
Lured from heaven by her dreamy blush;
But the tender kiss of his balmy lip
She gave to a bee, next morning, to sip.
A bobolink left the bloom of a tree
To tell her tale of whimsical glee;
The moon dropped a pearl to wear in her breast;
Dawn wove her a cloak of silvery mist.
But her hard little heart was colder than ice,
She sent every suitor away in a trice;
Till the wind drew nigh, with a terrible roar,
And said: "Pretty Rose, your playtime is o'er."
He shook her with might, and he drenched her with rain,
Till the poor little rose swooned away with her pain;
And her shiny crown, with its moonbeam glow,
He tossed far and wide, like the feathery snow.
And all that is left of that splendid bloom,
The diadem gay, and the spicy perfume,
Is a handful of dust, that once was a rose--
The sport of the wind, as it fitfully blows.
counterfeiting it, either. It is open-faced, ready-tongued and
torment.
When the salt has left the ocean,
And the moon forgets the sea,
When with gay and festive motion
Ox shall waltz with bee,
When we wash our face in cinders,
And bake our meat on ice,
When tender mercy hinders
The cat from eating the mice,
When gray heads grace young shoulders
And icicles form in June,
When Quakers all turn soldiers,
And bull frogs sing in tune,
Then, and not till then, my treasure,
My darling, tender and true,
My heart shall claim the leisure
To think no more of you.
The lake--but what can I say to fitly describe that translucent
"Sooner or later the shadows shall creep
Over my rest in the woods so deep;
Sooner or later--"
unpretentious thrush is hidden the heavenly song. Wherever gentle
The earth was awake, and like a gay rover,
His knapsack of sunshine loose strapped on his back,
Through mists, and through dews, and through fine purple clover
Was faring his way down the summer's green track.
I sat all alone 'neath the shade of a willow,
And saw the old earth blithely jogging along,
While over the fields, like the foam on a billow,
The morning was breaking in blossom and song.
O, list! and, O, hear! like the wing of a swallow,
Updarting from fields that are golden with corn;
With the ring and the swing of a huntsman's "view hallo,"
Some fairy is winding his sweet elfin horn.
Now up like a flame, and now down like a shower;
Now here and now there in its sparkle and gloom;
It rings and it swings like a bell in a tower,
Wide casting its notes as a wind-flower its bloom.
'Tis a bobolink singing among the sweet clover;
A bobolink whimsical, happy and free,
And its voice like new wine makes earth, the old rover,
Half tipsy with jollity, clean daft with his glee.
struggles with devastating pain, and every day she grows a little
It is almost impossible to get the average young person past the
Two little motherless children! Do you know the thought of a baby
In cadence far,
From star to star,
Sleep's mellow horns are faintly calling;
Through dreamland halls
Sweet madrigals,
In liquid numbers drowsy falling.
Noiseless and still,
O'er star-watched hill,
Beneath the white moon's tender glances,
A host of dreams,
By wind-blown streams,
March on with gleam of silver lances.
A captive thou;
Then, yield thee, now,
While mellow horns are nearer calling;
And ringing bells,
And poppy spells,
Thy senses all in sleep enthralling.
O, hark; O, hear,
My lady, dear,
O'er woods and hills and streamlets flying,
The winding note
Of horns remote,
In softest echo dying--dying.
refusals had already given a downward trend.
There stands a very young girl at the door of a drug store. She
Here lies a poor woman who always was tired,
For she lived in a world where much was required.
"Weep not for me, friends," she said, "for I'm going
Where there'll be neither washing, nor baking, nor sewing;
Then weep not for me; if death must us sever,
Rejoice that I'm going to do nothing forever."
"Arise, let us go hence and dwell within a farm-house, where the
sweet-breathed kine."
children heaven had given her.
Now, when Lydia knew this, her heart fainted with fear, and she
prophesied evil.
And, supper being served, it consisted of tinted warm water and
gooseberries sweetened with brown sugar.
But the wife of the farmer made answer, saying, "We have none."
And Lydia said nothing, but remembering the words of John, the
tea-merchant, wept silently.
A sweet little crocus came up through the mold,
And hugged round her shoulders her mantle of gold,
While tears of distress fringed her delicate eye,
Like rain drops that start from a showery sky.
"Where, pray, are those laggards, the violets blue?
The roses and lilies and daffodils too?
I really think it's a shame and a sin
This waiting so long for the spring to begin.
"The first day of April and only one bird
Since I lifted my head has uttered a word!
And search as I may all over the meadow
Not even a cowslip has shown its bright head, O--
"Misery me! Sure there's no use in waiting,
For something, no doubt, is the summer belating;
So I'll go back to bed, put on my lace night cap,
And snatch, for a fortnight, a nice little cat-nap!"
Down went little Gold-head, back to her pillow;
When, all in a twinkling, up over the hill, O,
The wind-flower host, with rose-tinted banners,
Marched into the world; Queen Summer's forerunners.
Her rose maids of honor, in filmiest laces,
Loitered and lingered in shy woodland places;
And white-vested lilies were ever at prayer;
Their vespers, the perfume that sweetened the air.
The apple trees blushed into delicate splendor;
The blue birds hung over in ecstasy tender,
While the gold powdered bee with helmet all dusty
Kept watch over the flowers, a sentinel trusty.
The robin sang love to his shy little sweetheart;
The orioles lashed their nests in the tree top;
The willows drooped low over swift water courses,
And murmuring brooks started fresh from their sources.
But down in the gloom, on her dream-haunted pillow,
As pale and as cold as the moon on the billow,
Forgot and unmissed by bird and by blossom,
The crocus slept sound in the earth's faithful bosom.
When at last she awoke, the spring had been banished,
Her forerunner flowers from the hillside had vanished.
And all of the bees had turned into stock brokers.
And even the birds had changed into croakers.
'Tis only by waiting we find our fruition;
To learn how to wait is a needed tuition.
The faint-hearted people who go to sleep fretting,
Will wake up at last too late for the getting.
Nothing happened while I was at the farm but meal time, and the
accessories of a poorly-kept hoosier farm. I do not yearn for the
innocent woman I have it all my own way."
Around in a picture store on one of the avenues I chanced upon a
Where a woodland path, like a silver line,
Winds by a woodland river,
And half in shadow, and half in shine,
The alders lean and shiver,
Where a forest bird has built him a nest
Low in the springing grasses,
And all the day long, with her wings at rest,
His mate the slow time passes;
Where a flood of gold through the forest dim
Tells when the noon is strongest,
And a purple fringe on the forest's rim
Proclaims when the shades are longest;
Where the dawn is only known from the night
By the birds that sing their sweetest,
And the twilight hush from the morning light
By the peace that is then completest;
Where only the flood of silvery haze
Shall tell that the moon is risen,
When down from the sky, like a meteor blaze,
Shall flutter her snow-white ribbon,--
I will meet you there, my lady love sweet,
When the weary world is sleeping,
And the frets of the day, that tireless beat,
Are hushed in the night's close keeping;
Not missing the world--by the world unmissed--
We two shall wander together,
And whether we chided, or whether we kissed,
There'll be none to forget or remember;
And when at the last asleep you shall fall,
By the shore of the musical river,
Of the crimson leaves I will weave you a pall,
And kiss you good-by, love, forever.
But the stars up above, and the waters below,
Shall sing of us, over and over;
Of the tryst that we kept in the years long ago,
In the woods by the beautiful river.