To Chloe. I-23 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me,
        Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills,
    Its dam who not without an idle tremor
        At breezes in the forest thrills.
    For if before the breeze the bushes quiver
        With rustling leaves, or if green lizards start
    Across the bramble, then it is it trembles, -
        This little fawn - in knees and heart.
    But Chloe, I am not a cruel tiger,
        Nor a Gætulian lion, thee to chase;
    And now that thou art old enough to marry,
        Beside thy mother take thy place.

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

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English

Suggested Poems

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

To Chloe I

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn,
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites,
Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,--
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.

I do not follow with a tigerish thought,
Or with the fierce Gætulian lion's quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.

Eugene Field

To Chloe II

Chloe, you shun me like a hind
That, seeking vainly for her mother,
Hears danger in each breath of wind,
And wildly darts this way and t' other;

Whether the breezes sway the wood
Or lizards scuttle through the brambles,
She starts, and off, as though pursued,
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing
That should esteem a man an ogre;
Let go your mother's apron-string,
And pin your faith upon a toga!

Eugene Field

To Chloe Jealous

Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
An...

Matthew Prior

Horatian Lyrics. Odes I, 23.

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites--
Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake;
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.

I do not follow with a tigerish thought
Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.

Eugene Field

The Wanton Chloe--A Pastoral

    Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose,
    And her love might be reckoned no less,
    But her bosom so freely bestows
    That all may a portion possess.
    Her smiles would be cheering to see,
    But so freely they're lavished abroad
    That each silly swain, like to me,
    Can boast what the wanton bestowed.

    Her looks and her kisses so free
    Are for all, like the rain and the sky;
    As the blossom love is to the bee,
    Each swain is as welcome as I.
    And though I my folly can see,
    Yet still must I love and adore,
    Though I know the love whispered to me
    Has been told to so many before.

    'T is sad that a bosom so fair,
    And soft lips so seemingly sweet,
    Should study false ways, to ensnare,
  ...

John Clare

A Paraphrase, Circa 1715

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair,
With such an eye and such an air,
What wonder that the world complains
When she each am'rous suit disdains?

Close to her mother's side she clings,
And mocks the death her folly brings
To gentle swains that feel the smarts
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.

Whilst thus the years of youth go by,
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die?
Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate,
And choose him ere it be too late!

Eugene Field