To The Maid With Fancy Free

Here's to the maid with Fancy Free;
If Cupid's necromancy
Imprison not her heart, maybe,
It will arrest her Fancy.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

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Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

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Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

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Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Fancy

Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the minds cage-door,
Shell dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summers joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumns red-lippd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winters night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboys heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

John Keats

The Fancy Fair.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell
    All wondrous things of earth and air;
Whatever wild romancers tell,
    Or poets sing, or lovers swear,
    You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to shine,
    And kept for years in such repair,
That even when turned of thirty-nine,
    They'll hardly look the worse for wear,
    If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower,
    And hearts that such ill usage bear,
That, tho' they're broken every hour,
    They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,
    If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in every thing,
    We've goods to suit each season's air,
Eternal friendships for the spring,
    And endless loves for summer wea...

Thomas Moore

The Maid.

A certain maid, as proud as fair,
A husband thought to find
Exactly to her mind -
Well-form'd and young, genteel in air,
Not cold nor jealous; - mark this well.
Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle
Must have, besides rank, wealth, and wit,
And all good qualities to fit -
A man 'twere difficult to get.
Kind Fate, however, took great care
To grant, if possible, her prayer.
There came a-wooing men of note;
The maiden thought them all,
By half, too mean and small.
'They marry me! the creatures dote: -
Alas! poor souls! their case I pity.'
(Here mark the bearing of the beauty.)
Some were less delicate than witty;
Some had the nose too short or long;
In others something else was wrong;
Which made each in the maiden's eyes
An altogether worthl...

Jean de La Fontaine

Would You Know?

Would you know the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a?
Eyes must be downcast and staid,
Cheeks must flush for shame-a!
She may neither dance nor sing,
But, demure in everything,
Hang her head in modest way,
With pouting lips that seem to say
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die of shame-a."
Please you, that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay,
With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
Maiden may go hang-a!
Sunflower gay and hollyhock
Never shall my garden stock;
Mine the blushing rose of May,
With pouting lips that seem to say,
"Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die for shame-a!"
Please you, that's the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

William Schwenck Gilbert

To Fashion

Fashion! Lovely Dame!
Pledge in sparkling wine!
Let us add her name
To the Muses' nine!

Though the lovely Nin
All should pass away
Why should Woman pine,
If but Fashion stay?

Tho' the Muses' lore
Molder on the shelf,
Still may She adore
In Fashion's glass--Herself.

Oliver Herford

My Fancy

I painted her a gushing thing,
With years about a score;
I little thought to find they were
A least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyaena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of a giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She's all my fancy painted her,"
But oh! how much besides!

Lewis Carroll