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Best Famous Ann Taylor Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ann Taylor poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ann Taylor poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ann Taylor poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Ann Taylor poems.

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Written by Ann Taylor |

The Babys Dance

 Dance little baby, dance up high,
Never mind baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There little baby, there you go;
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Backwards and forwards, round and round;
Dance little baby, and mother shall sing,
With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Star

 1 Whatever 'tis, whose beauty here below
2 Attracts thee thus and makes thee stream and flow,
3 And wind and curl, and wink and smile,
4 Shifting thy gate and guile;

5 Though thy close commerce nought at all imbars
6 My present search, for eagles eye not stars,
7 And still the lesser by the best
8 And highest good is blest;

9 Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be,
10 Have their commissions from divinity,
11 And teach us duty, I will see
12 What man may learn from thee.
13 First, I am sure, the subject so respected 14 Is well dispos'd, for bodies once infected, 15 Deprav'd, or dead, can have with thee 16 No hold, nor sympathy.
17 Next, there's in it a restless, pure desire 18 And longing for thy bright and vital fire, 19 Desire that never will be quench'd, 20 Nor can be writh'd, nor wrench'd.
21 These are the magnets which so strongly move 22 And work all night upon thy light and love, 23 As beauteous shapes, we know not why, 24 Command and guide the eye.
25 For where desire, celestial, pure desire 26 Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire, 27 There God a commerce states, and sheds 28 His secret on their heads.
29 This is the heart he craves, and who so will 30 But give it him, and grudge not, he shall feel 31 That God is true, as herbs unseen 32 Put on their youth and green.

Written by Ann Taylor |

About the Little Girl that Beat Her Sister

 Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
Your little sister dear; 
I must not have such things as this,
And noisy quarrels here.
What! little children scratch and fight, That ought to be so mild; Oh! Mary, it's a shocking sight To see an angry child.
I can't imagine, for my part, The reason for your folly; She did not do you any hurt By playing with your dolly.
See, see, the little tears that run Fast from her watery eye: Come, my sweet innocent, have done, 'Twill do no good to cry.
Go, Mary, wipe her tears away, And make it up with kisses: And never turn a pretty play To such a pet as this is.

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Written by Ann Taylor |

The Pin

 "Dear me! what signifies a pin! 
I'll leave it on the floor;
My pincushion has others in,
Mamma has plenty more: 
A miser will I never be," 
Said little heedless Emily.
So tripping on to giddy play, She left the pin behind, For Betty's broom to whisk away, Or some one else to find; She never gave a thought, indeed, To what she might to-morrow need.
Next day a party was to ride, To see an air-balloon! And all the company beside Were dress'd and ready soon: But she, poor girl, she could not stir, For just a pin to finish her.
'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand, She did to search begin; There was not one­not one, the band Of her pelisse to pin! She cut her pincushion in two, But not a pin had slidden through! At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away.
Poor Emily! she was not in, For want of just­a single pin! There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforseen: And those who venture wilful waste, May woeful want expect to taste.

Written by Ann Taylor |

Jane and Eliza

 There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain; 
One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane: 
They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, 
They were both of one age, I believe, to a day.
'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, That scarcely a difference was there between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.
Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried­ Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide.
So when she was out, with much labour and pain, She contrived to look almost a pleasant as Jane; But then you might see, that in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.
And in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall, That some cross event happen'd to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.
But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always show'd what her bosom was feeling.
At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile.
And Eliza work'd hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.

Written by Ann Taylor |

To a Little Girl That Has Told a Lie

 AND has my darling told a lie? 
Did she forget that GOD was by? 
That GOD, who saw the things she did, 
From whom no action can be hid;
Did she forget that GOD could see
And hear, wherever she might be? 

He made your eyes, and can discern
Whichever way you think to turn; 
He made your ears, and he can hear
When you think nobody is near; 
In every place, by night or day, 
He watches all you do and say.
Oh, how I wish you would but try To act, as shall not need a lie; And when you wish a thing to do, That has been once forbidden you, Remember that, nor ever dare To disobey­, for GOD is there.
Why should you fear the truth to tell? Does falsehood ever do so well? Can you be satisfied to know, There's something wrong to hide below? No! let your fault be what it may, To own it is the happy way.
So long as you your crime conceal, You cannot light and gladsome feel: Your little heart will seem oppress'd, As if a weight were on your breast; And e'en your mother's eye to meet, Will tinge your face with shame and heat.
Yes, GOD has made your duty clear, By every blush, by every fear; And conscience, like an angel kind, Keeps watch to bring it to your mind: Its friendly warnings ever heed, And neither tell a lie­ nor need.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Vulgar Little Lady

 "But, mamma, now, " said Charlotte, "pray, don't you believe
That I'm better than Jenny, my nurse? 
Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve;
Her clothes are a thousand times worse.
"I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do, And the country folks stare at me so; And nobody dares to control me but you Because I'm a lady, you know.
"Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel; So really, 'tis out of the way, To think that I should not be better a deal Than maids, and such people as they.
" "Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied, "Belongs to no station or place; And there's nothing so vulgar as folly and pride, Though dress'd in red slippers and lace.
Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess Should teach them the poor to despise; For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress, That the truest gentility lies.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Chatterbox

 From morning till night it was Lucy's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping: 
There was not a day but she rattled away, 
Like water for ever a-dropping.
No matter at all if the subjects were small, Or not worth the trouble of saying, 'Twas equal to her, she would talking prefer To working, or reading, or playing.
You'll think now, perhaps, that there would have been gaps, If she had not been wonderfully clever: That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, It would be forthcoming for ever; But that's quite absurd, for have you not heard That much tongue and few brains are connected? That they are supposed to think least who talk most, And their wisdom is always suspected? While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue, With a little good sense and exertion, Who knows, but she might now have been our delight, Instead of our jest and aversion?

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Star

 Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are !
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the trav'ller in the dark, Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see which way to go, If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep, And often thro' my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, Till the sun is in the sky.
'Tis your bright and tiny spark, Lights the trav'ller in the dark : Tho' I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Written by Ann Taylor |

For a Naughty Little Girl

 My sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild
She must not be fretful and cry! 
Oh! why is this passion? remember, my child, 
GOD sees you, who lives in the sky.
That dear little face, that I like so to kiss, How alter'd and sad it appears! Do you think I can love you so naughty as this, Or kiss you, all wetted with tears? Remember, though GOD is in Heaven, my love, He sees you within and without, And always looks down, from His glory above, To notice what you are about.
If I am not with you, or if it be dark, And nobody is in the way, His eye is as able your doings to mark, In the night as it is in the day.
Then dry up your tears and look smiling again, And never do things that are wrong; For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain, To be naughty and crying so long.
We'll pray, then, that GOD may your passion forgive, And teach you from evil to fly; And then you'll be happy as long as you live, And happy whenever you die.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Washing and Dressing

 Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout? 
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,
I can't even kiss her without.
You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd, But would you not wish to be clean? Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, This face is not fit to be seen.
If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head, And the soap has got into your eye, Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said? And what good will it do you to cry? It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet, But only for kindness and care, That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat, And comb out your tanglesome hair.
I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry, But pay me for all with a kiss; That's right -- ­take the towel and wipe your wet eye, I thought you'd be good after this.

Written by Ann Taylor |

Meddlesome Matty

 One ugly trick has often spoil'd
The sweetest and the best; 
Matilda, though a pleasant child, 
One ugly trick possess'd, 
Which, like a cloud before the skies, 
Hid all her better qualities.
Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it, Or tilt the kettle, if you did But turn your back a minute.
In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much.
Her grandmamma went out one day, And by mistake she laid Her spectacles and snuff-box gay Too near the little maid; "Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone.
" Forthwith she placed upon her nose The glasses large and wide; And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied: "Oh! what a pretty box is that; I'll open it," said little Matt.
"I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear;' But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near: Besides, what can there be amiss In opening such a box as this? " So thumb and finger went to work To move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerk The mighty mischief did; For all at once, ah! woful case, The snuff came puffing in her face.
Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, beside A dismal sight presented; In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented.
In vain she ran about for ease; She could do nothing now but sneeze.
She dash'd the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies.
"Heyday! and what's the matter now?" Says grandmamma, with lifted brow.
Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore.
And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Field Daisy

 I'm a pretty little thing,
Always coming with the spring; 
In the meadows green I'm found,
Peeping just above the ground,
And my stalk is cover'd flat
With a white and yellow hat.
Little Mary, when you pass Lightly o'er the tender grass, Skip about, but do not tread On my bright but lowly head, For I always seem to say, "Surely winter's gone away.

Written by Ann Taylor |

The Cut

 Well, what's the matter? there's a face
What ! has it cut a vein?
And is it quite a shocking place?
Come, let us look again.
I see it bleeds, but never mind That tiny little drop; I don't believe you'll ever find That crying makes it stop.
'Tis sad indeed to cry at pain, For any but a baby; If that should chance to cut a vein, We should not wonder, may be.
But such a man as you should try To bear a little sorrow: So run along, and wipe your eye, 'Twill all be well to-morrow.

Written by Ann Taylor |

Deaf Martha

 Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey, 
And her hearing has left her for many a year; 
Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say, 
Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear.
I've seen naughty children run after her fast, And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;" And when she was frighten'd, ­laugh at her at last, Because she believed the sad stories they told.
I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear, And make signs as if they had something to say; And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf and can't hear," Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.
Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease, As if she had not enough else to endure; They rather should try her affliction to ease, And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.
One day, when those children themselves are grown old, And one may be deaf, and another be lame, Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold, May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.
Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth, A faithful account will their consciences keep, And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth, That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap.