Horace I, 23 by Eugene Field — Read

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!