Eugene Field - To ChloeEugene Field - To Chloe
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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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