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Eugene Field - To Chloe
Work rating: Low

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!
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