 | Short poems for short people |  |
SCOLDING THE SEA.
Oh, yes, you're very calm to-day,
You broad, blue, brilliant sea—
Willing to let your breakers play
Quite pleasantly with me.
And out where yonder pale gull dips,
Where soft waves heave and swell,
Willing to bear the graceful ships
As though you loved them well.
You broad, blue, brilliant sea—
Willing to let your breakers play
Quite pleasantly with me.
And out where yonder pale gull dips,
Where soft waves heave and swell,
Willing to bear the graceful ships
As though you loved them well.
But I know who it was that made
Such angry noise last night
Till, listening, I felt afraid,
And shivered in my fright.
'T was you; now don't deny it, pray,
With that mild song you sing.
I don't believe a word you say,
You great deceitful thing!
Such angry noise last night
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And shivered in my fright.
'T was you; now don't deny it, pray,
With that mild song you sing.
I don't believe a word you say,
You great deceitful thing!
You may have done, for all I know,
Some frightful mischief, too;—
Have more dark secrets hid below
That breast so bright and blue.
Perhaps poor sailors lost their lives
To please your horrid spite;—
Well, well; you learned to widow wives,
Old sea, before last night!
Some frightful mischief, too;—
Have more dark secrets hid below
That breast so bright and blue.
Perhaps poor sailors lost their lives
To please your horrid spite;—
Well, well; you learned to widow wives,
Old sea, before last night!
You 've lived so long, one might suppose
You wise a little bit,
And able, when your temper rose,
To keep a curb on it.
Does Father Neptune, standing by,
Allow such capers? Ah,
Your ears would ache if you were I,
And Neptune were Mamma!
You wise a little bit,
And able, when your temper rose,
To keep a curb on it.
Does Father Neptune, standing by,
Allow such capers? Ah,
Your ears would ache if you were I,
And Neptune were Mamma!
I somehow can't but love you, though,
Bad as your deeds may be,
For you 've such winning ways, you know,
Beautiful, strong, strange sea!
Your mermaids must be happy girls,
With not a thing to do
But float about in weeds and pearls
And—Pshaw! you 've wet my shoe!
Bad as your deeds may be,
For you 've such winning ways, you know,
Beautiful, strong, strange sea!
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With not a thing to do
But float about in weeds and pearls
And—Pshaw! you 've wet my shoe!
| Short poems for short people | |