Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Cafe Molineau
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
The Cafe Molineau Post by :26chris Category :Poems Author :Eugene Field Date :September 2011 Read :3119

Click below to download : The Cafe Molineau (Format : PDF)

The Cafe Molineau

THE Cafe Molineau is where
A dainty little minx
Serves God and man as best she can
By serving meats and drinks.
Oh, such an air the creature has,
And such a pretty face!
I took delight that autumn night
In hanging round the place.

I know but very little French
(I have not long been here);
But when she spoke, her meaning broke
Full sweetly on my ear.
Then, too, she seemed to understand
Whatever I'd to say,
Though most I knew was "oony poo,"
"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."

The female wit is always quick,
And of all womankind
'Tis here in France that you, perchance,
The keenest wits shall find;
And here you'll find that subtle gift,
That rare, distinctive touch,
Combined with grace of form and face,
That glads men overmuch.

"Our girls at home," I mused aloud,
"Lack either that or this;
They don't combine the arts divine
As does the Gallic miss.
Far be it from me to malign
Our belles across the sea,
And yet I'll swear none can compare
With this ideal She."

And then I praised her dainty foot
In very awful French,
And parleyvood in guileful mood
Until the saucy wench
Tossed back her haughty auburn head,
And froze me with disdain:
"There are on me no flies," said she,
"For I come from Bangor, Maine!"

(The end)
Eugene Field's poem: Cafe Molineau

If you like this book please share to your friends :

The Empty Cross The Empty Cross

The Empty Cross
The eve of Golgotha had come, And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb: Among the olives, Oh, how dumb, How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom! The hill grew dim--the pleading cross Reached empty arms toward the closing gate. Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss! Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late! Reached bleeding arms--but how in vain! The murmurous multitude within the wall Already had forgot His

Sunset-lovers Sunset-lovers

Upon how many a hill, Across how many a field, Beside how many a river's restful flowing, They stand, with eyes a-thrill, And hearts of day-rue healed, Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going! They have forgotten life, Forgotten sunless death; Desire is gone--is it not gone for ever? No memory of strife Have they, or pain-sick breath. No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.