Dainty Dora

TO D. M. M.


Greeks once sang a lovely song
    To their maiden Cora;
But my lay floats soft along
    To my Dainty Dora.

Frenchmen sing of Anne Belle,
    Romans sang of Flora;
But I sing my song to tell
    Of my Dainty Dora.

Scotchmen sing their songs to move
    Mary or Debora;
But I sing my song of love -
    Love for Dainty Dora.

Poets now a song may give
    Psyche or Lenora;
But I'll sing long as I live
    Just for Dainty Dora!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

Edward Smyth Jones

A Bouquet

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Were I A Bird

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Thanks

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Floating With The Gale

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

Dainty Little Love

Dainty little Love came tripping
    Down the hill,
Smiling as he thought of sipping
    Sweets at will.
        SHE said, "No,
        Love must go."
Dainty little Love came tripping
    Down the hill.

Dainty little Love went sighing
    Up the hill,
All his little hopes were dying -
    Love was ill.
        Vain he tried
        Tears to hide.
Dainty little Love went sighing
    Up the hill.

Arthur Macy

The Milkmaid. A New Song To An Old Tune.

Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,--
A maid I know,--and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)--
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that those have got,--
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglant...

Henry Austin Dobson

Dainty Davie.

I.

    Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
    To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
    And now comes in my happy hours,
        To wander wi' my Davie.
            Meet me on the warlock knowe,
                Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
            There I'll spend the day wi' you,
                My ain dear dainty Davie.

II.

    The crystal waters round us fa',
    The merry birds are lovers a',
    The scented breezes round us blaw,
        A wandering wi' my Davie.

III.

    When purple morning starts the hare,
    To steal upon her early fare,
    Then thro' the dews I will repair,
        To meet my faithfu' Davie

IV.

    When day, expiring in the west,
    The curtain draws o' nature...

Robert Burns

An Irish Blackbird

This is my brave singer,
        With his beak of gold;
Now my hearts a captive
        In his songs sweet hold.

O, the larks a rover,
        Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
        Hath a human love.

Hark! he says, in winter
        Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
        Summer breezes blow.

Hush! he sings, with night-time
        Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
        Piping on his tree.

O, my little lover,
        Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
        Skies so wide for you.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Dolly Varden

Dear Dolly! who does not recall
The thrilling page that pictured all
Those charms that held our sense in thrall
Just as the artist caught her,
As down that English lane she tripped,
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped,
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,
The locksmiths pretty daughter?

Sweet fragment of the Masters art!
O simple faith! O rustic heart!
O maid that hath no counterpart
In lifes dry, dog-eared pages!
Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay!
Methinks I saw her yesterday
In chintz that flowered, as one might say,
Perennial for ages.

Her fathers modest cot was stone,
Five stories high; in style and tone
Composite, and, I frankly own,
Within its walls revealing
Some certain novel, strange ideas:
A Goth...

Bret Harte

Dolly

"Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love."


The Bat began with giddy wing
His circuit round the Shed, the Tree;
And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing
A summer-night's serenity.

Darkness crept slowly o'er the East!
Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat;
Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast
At rest where DOLLY musing sat.

A simple Maid, who could employ
The silent lapse of Evening mild,
And lov'd its solitary joy;
For Dolly was Reflection's child.

He who had pledg'd his word to be
Her life's dear guardian, far away,
The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry,
Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets,
And thus from Love's pure fount she drew
That peace, which busy care defeats,
And bids ...

Robert Bloomfield