DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Adventures With Bears.
by James McIntyre

I bought of land two miles square,
I knew not it contained a bear,
I never thought there would be any,
But alas, I found many;
The bush was thick and mat and tangle,
It made it a perfect jungle,
But one mile square of good dry land
Was enough for me to take in hand;
Swamp I could reach but when frozen,
Then I saw bears by the dozen,
Thick as monkies in Africa,
And many a strange trick I saw,
Gamboling with the greatest ease,
High up the trunks of the big trees,
While some were swinging from branches
And hanging on them with their haunches;
But quietly I then tilled my farm,
The bears at first done me no harm,
Till one night I was roused by dogs,
And found a bear was at my hogs,
He threw a pig across each shoulder
And there I was a sad beholder,
But to the house I quickly run
For to procure my loaded gun,
And as he could not run but slow,
So heavy laden through the snow,
I him full soon did overtake,
And his courage quick I did shake,
For by the leg my good bold dog
He bravely caught the thievish rogue,
And this move made him soon fork o'er
To me at once the largest porker,
For moment squeeze it did pig stun,
But up he rose and quick he run,
The bear now scared his only hope,
To let at once the other pig drop,
I shot the bear right through the eyes
And secured a valued prize,
There's nothing I love so to eat
In winter time as the bear's meat,
So a victory I soon won
And sold for high price grease and skin;
The bears on honey love to thrive,
One morn was wrecked my best beehive,
That day I was to sell the honey
For to raise some ready money,
But bear my views he did despise
And proudly carried off the prize;
That night I set a good spring gun,
With rails I built for him a run,
Open all way to hive of bees,
He tried again a hive to seize,
But all his efforts were in vain,
He sprung the gun and he was slain,
O'er the fact I felt quite funny
It well repaid me for my honey;
One bear was playing on me joke,
Carrying off all my young stock,
I set my trap, built round it fence,
Resolved he ne'er would get from thence,
But at the first he did me hoax,
For he was cunning as a fox,
He dug under and stole my bait,
But I next sunk trap and sealed his fate,
My good iron trap again it caught
A great bear but it came to naught,
Breakfast he had at my expense
And he then showed wondrous sense,
Trap he picked up with greatest ease
And dashed it to pieces on the trees,
But blacksmith soon did it repair
For I was bound to have that bear,
I attached to trap a heavy clog,
It was like lifting a small log,
I drove in it some sharp iron spikes
Which would cut deep each time he strikes,
He tried again to steal my bait
And break my trap at the old rate,
But he soon dashed out his own brains,
His carcass it brought me great gains;
A neighbour man who would not work
I thought that he did steal my pork,
But at last I found long black hairs,
Then I knew it was the bears,
I put through barrels rods of iron
So they a bear neck would environ,
And rods together they would snap,
I found him choked quite dead in trap,
Since then my strife with bears did cease,
Now many years I've lived in peace.
Upon Love: By Way Of Question And Answer
by Robert Herrick

I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Like, and dislike ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Love will be-fool ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Heat ye, to cool ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Love, gifts will send ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Stock ye, to spend ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Love will fulfil ye.
I bring ye love.    QUES. What will love do?
ANS. Kiss ye, to kill ye.
Night Sky
by Paul Cameron Brown

I can call a lake a kettle
a splendid, ivory comb a snare    - 
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.
Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.
I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves    - 
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.
The Bracelet Of Pearl: To Silvia.
by Robert Herrick

I brake thy bracelet 'gainst my will,
And, wretched, I did see
Thee discomposed then, and still
Art discontent with me.
One gem was lost, and I will get
A richer pearl for thee,
Than ever, dearest Silvia, yet
Was drunk to Antony.
Or, for revenge, I'll tell thee what
Thou for the breach shall do;
First crack the strings, and after that
Cleave thou my heart in two.
A Poet To His Beloved
by William Butler Yeats

I Bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.
The House Of Dreams
by Sara Teasdale

I built a little House of Dreams,
And fenced it all about,
But still I heard the Wind of Truth
That roared without.
I laid a fire of Memories
And sat before the glow,
But through the chinks and round the door
The wind would blow.
I left the House, for all the night
I heard the Wind of Truth;
I followed where it seemed to lead
Through all my youth.
But when I sought the House of Dreams,
To creep within and die,
The Wind of Truth had leveled it,
And passed it by.
I Call And I Call
by Robert Herrick

I call, I call:    who do ye call?
The maids to catch this cowslip ball!
But since these cowslips fading be,
Troth, leave the flowers, and maids, take me!
Yet, if that neither you will do,
Speak but the word, and I'll take you,
Henry George. (Melbourne.)
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

I came to buy a book. It was a shop
Down in a narrow quiet street, and here
They kept, I knew, these socialistic books.
I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat.
The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter
Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there
Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight
A young girl came out through the inner door.
She had a clear and simple face; I saw
She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm,
But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes
Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought:
"He'd be a clever man who looked, and lied!"
I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little. . . .
Her words were as her face was, as her eyes.
Yes, she'd read many books like this of mine:
Also some poets, Shelley, Byron too,
And Tennyson, but 'poets only dreamed!'
Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke
A phrase and then a name. 'Twas "Henry George."
Her face lit up. O it was beautiful,
Or never woman's face was! "Henry George?"
She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile,
Such as sprung up in Magdalene's cheek
When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel.
She turned and pointed up the counter. I,
Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face,
Looked also. 'Twas a print, a common print,
The head and shoulders of some man. She said,
Quite in a whisper: "That's him, Henry George!"
Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe,
The lovely woman-soul within you brooded
And wept and loved and hated and pitied,
And knew not what its helplessness could do,
Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment - 
That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes,
On one who'd brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied,
Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung
A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong,
And make this woe less hateful to the sun - 
And that pure soul had found its Master thus
To listen to, remember, watch and love,
And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark:
O this was good
For me to see, as for some weary hopeless
Longer and toiler for "the Kingdom of Heaven"
To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear,
There in the dim-lit house of Lazarus,
Mary who said: "Thus, thus, he looked, he spake,
The Master!" - So to hear her rapturous words,
And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!
Afternoon, Fields and Factory
by Alfred Lichtenstein

I can no longer find a place for my eyes.
I cannot hold my legs together.
My heart is hollow.    My head is going to burst.
Mushiness all around.    Nothing wants to take shape.
My tongue breaks.    And my mouth twists.
In my skull there is neither pleasure nor goal.
The sun, a buttercup, rocks itself
On a chimney, its slender stalk.
The Inn Of Earth
by Sara Teasdale

I came to the crowded Inn of Earth,
And called for a cup of wine,
But the Host went by with averted eye
From a thirst as keen as mine.
Then I sat down with weariness
And asked a bit of bread,
But the Host went by with averted eye
And never a word he said.
While always from the outer night
The waiting souls came in
With stifled cries of sharp surprise
At all the light and din.
'Then give me a bed to sleep,' I said,
'For midnight comes apace'
But the Host went by with averted eye
And I never saw his face.
'Since there is neither food nor rest,
I go where I fared before'
But the Host went by with averted eye
And barred the outer door.
The Child's Grave
by Edmund Charles Blunden

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
That I sang for delight as I followed the way.
I sang for delight in the ripening of spring,
For dandelions even were suns come to earth;
Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing
To wait on the season with melody's mirth.
Love-making birds were my mates all the road,
And who would wish surer delight for the eye
Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad
Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?
And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown,
With rich Easter roses each side of the door;
The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone
Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.
This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.
Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry
Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground
Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.
Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride,
And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave;
It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side,
And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.
He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so,
And wished I would lead on the journey or home,
As though not a moment of spring were to go
In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come
And tell me her life, since we left her that day
In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears;
But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay;
How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!
So I called my good dog, and went on my way;
Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by,
And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley,
Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!
To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray. On Receiving A Favour.
by Robert Burns

I call no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
Introduction: The Bad Child's Book Of Beasts
by Hilaire Belloc

I call you bad, my little child,
Upon the title page,
Because a manner rude and wild
Is common at your age.
The Moral of this priceless work
(If rightly understood)
Will make you, from a little Turk
Unnaturally good.
Do not as evil children do,
Who on the slightest grounds
Will imitate the Kangaroo,
With wild unmeaning bounds:
Do not as children badly bred,
Who eat like little Hogs,
And when they have to go to bed
Will whine like Puppy Dogs:
Who take their manners from the Ape,
Their habits from the Bear,
Indulge the loud unseemly jape,
And never brush their hair.
But so control your actions that
Your friends may all repeat.
'This child is dainty as the Cat,
And as the Owl discreet.'
To James Freeman Clarke
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I bring the simplest pledge of love,
Friend of my earlier days;
Mine is the hand without the glove,
The heart-beat, not the phrase.
How few still breathe this mortal air
We called by school-boy names!
You still, whatever robe you wear,
To me are always James.
That name the kind apostle bore
Who shames the sullen creeds,
Not trusting less, but loving more,
And showing faith by deeds.
What blending thoughts our memories share!
What visions yours and mine
Of May-days in whose morning air
The dews were golden wine,
Of vistas bright with opening day,
Whose all-awakening sun
Showed in life's landscape, far away,
The summits to be won!
The heights are gained. Ah, say not so
For him who smiles at time,
Leaves his tired comrades down below,
And only lives to climb!
His labors, - will they ever cease, - 
With hand and tongue and pen?
Shall wearied Nature ask release
At threescore years and ten?
Our strength the clustered seasons tax, - 
For him new life they mean;
Like rods around the lictor's axe
They keep him bright and keen.
The wise, the brave, the strong, we know, - 
We mark them here or there,
But he, - we roll our eyes, and lo!
We find him everywhere!
With truth's bold cohorts, or alone,
He strides through error's field;
His lance is ever manhood's own,
His breast is woman's shield.
Count not his years while earth has need
Of souls that Heaven inflames
With sacred zeal to save, to lead, - 
Long live our dear Saint James!
Song Of The Greek Amazon.
by William Cullen Bryant

I buckle to my slender side
The pistol and the scimitar,
And in my maiden flower and pride
Am come to share the tasks of war.
And yonder stands my fiery steed,
That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My charger of the Arab breed,
I took him from the routed foe.
My mirror is the mountain spring,
At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,
And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard from wind and sun
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled?
It was for one, oh, only one,
I kept its bloom, and he is dead.
But they who slew him, unaware
Of coward murderers lurking nigh,
And left him to the fowls of air,
Are yet alive, and they must die.
They slew him, and my virgin years
Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now,
And many an Othman dame, in tears,
Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.
I touched the lute in better days,
I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays
Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of hosts that haste to meet
Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet
As the fierce shout of victory.
Woman
by Edward Smyth Jones

I call thee angel of this earth,
For angel true thou art
In noble deeds and sterling worth
And sympathetic heart.
I, therefore, seek none from afar
For what they might have been,
But sing the praise of those which are
That dwell on earth with men.
For when man was a tottling wee,
Snug nestling on thy breast,
Or sporting gay upon thy knee,
Oh, thou who lovest him best;
An overflowing stream of love,
Sprung at his very birth,
And made thee gentle as a dove,
Fair angel of this earth.
Thou cheerest ever blithesome youth
With songs and fervent prayers,
And fillest heart with love and truth
A store for future cares.
Thou lead'st him safely in his prime,
True guide of every stage,
And then at last, as fades the time,
Thou comfortest his age.
Like as the sunshine after rain,
Far chasing 'way the mist,
Thou soothest human grief and pain,
Fleet messenger of bliss.
In battles where the sword and shield
Full lay the mighty low,
Thou hov'rest ever o'er the field,
To ease life's ebb and flow!
Thou standest, ever standest near,
Before man's waning eyes,
An angel true to him more dear
Than all beyond the skies!
No fabled sprites of chants and creeds,
Nor myths of bygone years,
For thou suppliest all his needs
And wip'st his briny tears.
So, if he quail in desert waste
Or toss life's stormy sea,
He turns his tear-stained eye in haste
For one fond glimpse of thee.
He longs to hide beneath thy wing,
And nestle on thy breast;
He lists to hear thee softly sing
Him into peaceful rest!
Oh, sing aloud Mt. Zion's songs,
To cheer each languid heart;
For now some feeble spirit longs
Thy blessings to impart.
And thus thou keepest the Master's will,
And showest all thy worth,
Through loving kindness thou art still
The angel of this earth!
Lords Of The Visionary Eye
by Madison Julius Cawein

I came upon a pool that shone,
Clear, emerald-like, among the hills,
That seemed old wizards round a stone
Of magic that a vision thrills.
And as I leaned and looked, it seemed
Vague shadows gathered there and here
A dream, perhaps the water dreamed
Of some wild past, some long-dead year....
A temple of a race unblessed
Rose huge within a hollow land,
Where, on an altar, bare of breast,
One lay, a man, bound foot and hand.
A priest, who served some hideous god,
Stood near him on the altar stair,
Clothed on with gold; and at his nod
A multitude seemed gathered there.
I saw a sword descend; and then
The priest before the altar turned;
He was not formed like mortal man,
But like a beast whose eyeballs burned.
Amorphous, strangely old, he glared
Above the victim he had slain,
Who lay with bleeding bosom bared,
From which dripped slow a crimson rain.
Then turned to me a face of stone
And mocked above the murdered dead,
That fixed its cold eyes on his own
And cursed him with a look of dread.
And then, it seemed, I knew the place,
And how this sacrifice befell:
I knew the god, the priest's wild face,
I knew the dead man knew him well.
And as I stooped again to look,
I heard the dark hills sigh and laugh,
And in the pool the water shook
As if one stirred it with a staff.
And all was still again and clear:
The pool lay crystal as before,
Temple and priest were gone; the mere
Had closed again its magic door.
A face was there; it seemed to shine
As round it died the sunset's flame
The victim's face? or was it mine?
They were to me the very same.
And yet, and yet could this thing be?
And in my soul I seemed to know,
At once, this was a memory
Of some past life, lived long ago.
Recorded by some secret sense,
In forms that we as dreams retain;
Some moment, as experience,
Projects in pictures on the brain.
When Childhood Died
by John Frederick Freeman

I can recall the day
When childhood died.
I had grown thin and tall
And eager-eyed.
Such a false happiness
Had seized me then;
A child, I saw myself
Man among men.
Now I see that I was
Ignorant, surprised,
As one for the surgeon's knife
An'sthetized.
So that I did not know
What loomed before,
Nor how, a child, I became
A child no more.
The world's sharpened knife
Cut round my heart;
Then something was taken
And flung apart.
I did not, could not know
What had been done.
Under some evil drag
I lived as one
At home in the seeming world;
Then slowly came
Through years and years to myself
And was no more the same.
I know now an ill thing was done
To a young child
By the world's wary knife
Maimed and defiled.
I can recall the day
Almost without anger or pain,
When childhood did not die
But was slain.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXLIV. Games.
by Unknown

I can make diet bread,
Thick and thin;
I can make diet bread,
Fit for the king.
Cupid To A Skull.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

I came your way in the years gone by,
In the summers that now are old,
And then there was light in your beaming eye,
And love was living and hopes were high
At the Sign of the Heart of Gold.
I come today and the lights are fled,
And the trail of the mold and rust
Has saddened the hall where the feast was spread,
And love has vanished and youth is dead
At the Sign of the Heart of Dust.
I Bended Unto Me A Bough Of May
by Thomas Edward Brown

I bended unto me a bough of May,
That I might see and smell:
It bore it in a sort of way,
It bore it very well.
But, when I let it backward sway,
Then it were hard to tell
With what a toss, with what a swing,
The dainty thing
Resumed its proper level,
And sent me to the devil.
I know it did, you doubt it?
I turned, and saw them whispering about it.
Misconception
by Thomas Hardy

I busied myself to find a sure
Snug hermitage
That should preserve my Love secure
From the world's rage;
Where no unseemly saturnals,
Or strident traffic-roars,
Or hum of intervolved cabals
Should echo at her doors.
I laboured that the diurnal spin
Of vanities
Should not contrive to suck her in
By dark degrees,
And cunningly operate to blur
Sweet teachings I had begun;
And then I went full-heart to her
To expound the glad deeds done.
She looked at me, and said thereto
With a pitying smile,
"And THIS is what has busied you
So long a while?
O poor exhausted one, I see
You have worn you old and thin
For naught! Those moils you fear for me
I find most pleasure in!"
The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Knowledge
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;
I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
For three and thirty years.
Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?
I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
Give thou Me love for love.
For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:
Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth:
Why wilt thou still be lost?
I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced:
Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced,
Or wagged their heads in scorn.
Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:
I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;
I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.
A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:
At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
A hiding-place for thee.
Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down
More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:
So did I win a kingdom, - share my crown;
A harvest, - come and reap.