The LibriVox Weekly Poem: Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly:
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
 
Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick (1591 to 1674)
This week's poem can be found at this link.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: “BOOH!” by Eugene Field

On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!

Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"—
But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
And I—of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
And it is, oh, such fun and I am sure that we shall rue
The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"
 
"BOOH!" by Eugene Field (1850 to 1895)
This week's poem can be found at this link.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: The Miniature by George P. Morris

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane—
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is much like you."
"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
"Why—no—my love," said he.
"Then, William, it is very clear
'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"
 
The Miniature by George P. Morris (1802 to 1864)
This week's poem can be found at this link.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: The Power of Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

'TIS a strange mystery, the power of words!
Life is in them, and death. A word can send
The crimson colour hurrying to the cheek.
Hurrying with many meanings; or can turn
The current cold and deadly to the heart.
Anger and fear are in them; grief and joy
Are on their sound; yet slight, impalpable:--
A word is but a breath of passing air.
 
The Power of Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802 to 1838)
This week's poem can be found at this link.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: A Valentine (from an Old Lover) by Jessie Pope

Estelle, when you and I were rising nine 
Perhaps you'd rather I suppressed the date 
I spent a shilling on a valentine 
And left it for you at the garden gate. 
Therein my heart was imaged in a bower 
Of tinsel roses, with a tender verse on; 
I followed it in less than half an hour 
Impatient for your gratitude in person. 

You ran and kissed my cheek with candied lips, 
A habit, by the way, you've since neglected; 
You gambolled up and down in little skips, 
Yet failed to do the thing that I expected. 
It should have been a give-and-take affair; 
You had my tinsel heart, while I had not one, 
And when I asked for yours, to make it square, 
You playfully remarked you hadn't got one. 

I was appalled my little bosom heaved 
Such disappointment did not seem correct. 
With rising tears I felt myself deceived 
And lost my temper at your base neglect. 
'I'll have mine back I paid for it, it's mine!' 
I cried. We fought and tore the paper frilling. 
By dint of nail you kept that valentine, 
And left me howling for my wasted shilling. 

Since then how many years have slipped away? 
And time has tamed my temper to submission. 
You're tall and dignified, and yet to-day 
I find myself in just the same position. 
The heart from out my bosom you've decoyed, 
Though day by day with strenuous endeavour 
I would recall it to its aching void. 
I strive in vain my heart is yours for ever.
 
A Valentine (from an Old Lover) by Jessie Pope (1838 to 1941)
This week's poem can be found at this link.