Quotes about hat., page 4
In The Days Of Crinoline
A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
- Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
'Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
So I can hoe at ease.'
But when she had passed into the heath,
And gained the wood beyond the flat,
She raised her skirts, and from beneath
Unpinned and drew as from a sheath
An ostrich-feathered hat.
And where the hat had hung she now
Concealed and pinned the dowdy hood,
And set the hat upon her brow,
And thus emerging from the wood
Tripped on in jaunty mood.
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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My Old Hat
I've got this old cowboy hat
It's my favorite one to wear,
It's about the only thing I own
That I'm not willing to share;
Now to see it
May not turn your eye,
But, we've been through a heap together
This ol' hat and I;
We've fanned our share of hot summer days
Mighty dry and tough,
And held tight on many a cold winters night
More than just a bit frosty and rough;
We've rode through Panhandle sandstorms
And Rocky mountain blizzards,
Together we've swallowed 'nuff sand and sleet
To plug even Paul Bunyan's gizzard!
We've hazed the edge off buckin' broncs in Montana snow
And wild mustangs in the desert heat,
Still no matter if it's 100 above or 20 below
We'll stick it out and have 'em all beat.
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poem by Smoky Hoss
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There's a cat in my hat
'There's a cat in my hat'
I needed to go to the store the other day,
I was in a big hurry, no time to play,
I grabbed my wallet, my keys, and my hat,
and reached down to pet my friendly old cat
The traffic was bad, cars going fast,
took me forever, but I got there at last,
picked up some milk, some butter, some cheese,
grabbed for my hanky as I started to sneeze
I got into line it was terribly long,
I daydreamed a while, recalling a song,
the man at the checkout was starring at me,
I wondered what, what it could be
He said 'something is wrong' there's a tail from your hat,
I patted my head 'I said it's just my old cat',
he looked at me funny so I said to him,
his name is Fluffy, but I call him Jim
He likes to go with me wherever I go,
and I like him with me he puts on a show,
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poem by Gomer LePoet
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Over His Latte.
He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
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poem by Terry Collett
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Candle Hat
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.
But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.
You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.
But once you see this hat there is no need to read
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poem by Billy Collins
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Die Weiber von Weinsberg
Der erste Hohenstaufe, der König Konrad, lag
Mit Heeresmacht vor Weinsberg seit manchem langen Tag.
Der Welfe war geschlagen, noch wehrte sich das Nest,
Die unverzagten Städter, die hielten es noch fest.
Der Hunger kam, der Hunger! Das ist ein scharfer Dorn.
Nun suchten sie die Gnade, nun fanden sie den Zorn:
'Ihr habt mir hier erschlagen gar manchen Degen wert,
Und öffnet ihr die Tore, so trifft euch doch das Schwert!'
Da sind die Weiber kommen: 'Und muss es also sein,
Gewährt uns freien Abzug, wir sind vom Blute rein!'
Da hat sich vor den Armen des Helden Zorn gekühlt.
Da hat ein sanft Erbarmen im Herzen er gefühlt.
'Die Weiber mögen abziehn, und jede habe frei,
Was sie vermag zu tragen und ihr das Liebste sei;
Lasst ziehn mit ihrer Bürde sie ungehindert fort!
Das ist des Königs Meinung, das ist des Königs Wort.'
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poem by Adelbert von Chamisso
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Old Town Types No.2 - Red Matt
He gleaned all the gossip and he gathered all the news,
Mad Matt, the carrier, delivering the grub;
He knew the trooper's tattle and he knew the parson's views,
The gossip at the station-yard, the gossip at the pub.
That high-pitched voice of his, the loudest voice in town,
That shrewd blue eye of his, with humor all a-gleam -
Old Red Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat,
His trolley, and his two-horse team.
Driving down the main street a-clatter with his load,
The great red beard of him blowing out behind:
'Hear about that accident's mornin' up the road?
Hear about the gold rush at Joe Scott's find?
Warmish sort o' day we got; thirsty weather this.
Got a bag o' spuds for you - Dang! Fergot the cream!'
Says old Red Matt with his cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Mad Matt, the carrier, standing at the bar:
'Well here's a go, boys. Got to get along
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lusus Politicus
Come in, old gentleman. How do you do?
Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called.
I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you
Are a pleasant-appearing person, too,
With a head agreeably bald.
That's right-sit down in the scuttle of coal
And put up your feet in a chair.
It is better to have them there:
And I've always said that a hat of lead,
Such as I see you wear,
Was a better hat than a hat of glass.
And your boots of brass
Are a natural kind of boots, I swear.
'May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?'
Why, certainly, man, why not?
I rather expected you'd do it before,
When I saw you poking it in at the door.
It's dev'lish hot
The weather, I mean. 'You are twins'?
Why, that was evident at the start,
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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My Hat!
The hats of a man may be many
In the course of a varied career,
And some have been worth not a penny
And some have been devilish dear;
But there's one hat I always remember
When sitting alone by the fire.
In the depth of a Northern November,
Because it fulfilled my desire.
It was old, it was ragged and rotten
And many years out of mode,
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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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An Old Man With His Hat
There Little Robbie found him in an old yellow album
A blurred picture of a half old man with his hat
Standing in front of the coffin
He smiles shy but wide with his teeth gone making a hole like Little Robbie when he lose his baby teeth
Little Robbie doesn’t recognize him and he wonder where he is now
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his big sister
But his sister doesn’t recognize him and she wonder who he is
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his mother
But his mother doesn’t recognize him and she wonder how he was there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his father
But his father doesn’t recognize him and he wonder what he did there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his uncle
But his uncle doesn’t recognize him and he wonder when the picture taken
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks hopelessly to his grandfather
His grandfather takes a deep look to that picture and wonders why Little Robbie asks
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poem by Maria Sudibyo
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