DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Shadow.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Get you away! Is not the rose at flow'r?
And list that song! The bird is in the sky!
Ah, foolish one, I know your final hour,
I know the very place where you shall lie.
Silence! The music, and the bridal-train!
Do you not see the maidens in their white?
Along that whiteness, lo, I am the stain,
And darken where the Lord of all shall smite!
Yet leave me, Shadow, leave the day dear-bought
When the swift runner reaches to the goal!
That day is mine, and at the end, unsought,
I ask the runner's body from his soul.
Then hast thou all! The beautiful, the brave!
Nothing untouched, dark Visitant, of thee!
Oh blinded Reason! Sweeter for the grave.
And fair a thousand-fold because of me!
Oranges And Lemons
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Oranges And Lemons.
Gay go up, and gay go down
To ring the bells of London Town.
Bull's eyes and targets,
Say the bells of St. Marg'ret's.
Brickbats and tiles,
Say the bells of St. Giles'.
Pancakes and fritters,
Say the bells of St. Peter's.
Two sticks and an apple,
Say the bells at Whitechapel.
Halfpence and farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.
Oranges and Lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement's.
Old Father Baldpate,
Say the slow bells at Aldgate.
Pokers and tongs,
Say the bells of St. John's.
Kettles and pans,
Say the bells of St. Ann's.
You owe me ten shillings,
Say the bells at St. Helen's.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells at Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells at Shoreditch.
Pray when will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I am sure I don't know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
The Ass & The Enemy
by Walter Crane

"Get up! let us flee from the Foe,"
Said the Man: but the Ass said, "Why so?"
"Will they double my load,
Or my blows? Then, by goad,
And by stirrup, I've no cause to go."
Your Reasons Are Not Mine
Niagara's Charms And Death Of Webb.
by James McIntyre

Gazing on rapids mighty sea,
Struggling fiercely to be free,
But drawn downwards in its course
By gravitation's wondrous force,
O'er those perpendicular walls,
Hurled 'mong mighty rocks it falls,
Causing the earth to throb and shake
Like to the tremor of earthquake.
Thus the world's greatest wonder
Reverberates like peals of thunder,
Enshrined with mist and beauteous glow
Of varied tints of the rainbow,
Most glorious sight the human eye
Hath ever seen beneath the sky,
Along these banks none ever trod
But did feel grateful to his God,
For lavishing with bounteous hand
Glories majestic and so grand.
The foaming billows soon are seen
Transformed into a beauteous green,
Plunged by whirlpools dread commotion
It becomes a seething ocean,
Where furies join in surging dance
From centre to circumference,
This is the favorite abode
Of Neptune, mightiest sea God,
He hath decreed none shall survive
Who will into this vortex dive.
Webb swam the English channel brave,
Like seabird he did love to lave
His breast upon the mightiest wave,
Alas, found here a watery grave;
Torrent onward rushes frantic
On its course to the Atlantic,
But on its way doth gently flow
Through blue lake Ontario,
Rejoicing on its way it smiles,
Kissing the shores of Thousand Isles,
Mingling with St. Lawrance motion,
It soon is blended with the ocean.
Gooid Bye, Old Lad.
by John Hartley

Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,
Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;
Let friendship simmer on to th' end; - 
God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!
Aw prize thee just for what tha art; - 
Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;
But just becoss aw know thi heart,
Finds honest worth an habitation.
Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,
Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:
Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,
Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.
Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,
Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,'
'At wodn't gie a meg to save
A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.
Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,
But sad to tell, - th' plain honest fact is,
They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,
Nor put ther taichin into practice.
But thee, - aw read thee like a book, - 
Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;
An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,
An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.
Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!
An till we meet agean, God bless thi!
May smilin fortun mak thi glad,
An may noa ills o' life distress thi.
Gently Lead Me, Star Divine.
by Alfred Castner King

Gently lead me, Star Divine,
Lead with bright unchanging ray;
O'er my lowly pathway shine,
I shall never lose my way;
Though uncertain be my tread,
Pitfalls deep, and mountains high,
Safely shall my feet be led,
By Thy beacon, in the sky.
Long ago, while journeying
Westward, o'er the desert wild,
Sages sought a promised King
In the person of a child;
By Thy bright illuminings,
To that manger, in the fold,
Thou did'st lead those shepherd kings;
Lead me, as Thou lead'st of old.
On The Dark Height Of Jura.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o'er the dark aether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
2.
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.
3.
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.
4.
On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead:
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
Lines Sung By Durastanti, When She Took Leave Of The English Stage.
by Alexander Pope

1 Generous, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh! who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
2 Let old charmers yield to new;
In arms, in arts, be still more shining:
All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing;
But let old charmers yield to new:
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
Sonnet CXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe.
HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS.
Gay, joyous blooms, and herbage glad with showers,
O'er which my pensive fair is wont to stray!
Thou plain, that listest her melodious lay,
As her fair feet imprint thy waste of flowers!
Ye shrubs so trim; ye green, unfolding bowers;
Ye violets clad in amorous, pale array;
Thou shadowy grove, gilded by beauty's ray,
Whose top made proud majestically towers!
O pleasant country! O translucent stream,
Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear,
And catching of their living light the beam!
I envy ye her actions chaste and dear:
No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learn
Henceforth with passion strong as mine to burn.
NOTT.
O bright and happy flowers and herbage blest,
On which my lady treads!--O favour'd plain,
That hears her accents sweet, and can retain
The traces by her fairy steps impress'd!--
Pure shrubs, with tender verdure newly dress'd,--
Pale amorous violets,--leafy woods, whose reign
Thy sun's bright rays transpierce, and thus sustain
Your lofty stature, and umbrageous crest;--
O thou, fair country, and thou, crystal stream,
Which bathes her countenance and sparkling eyes,
Stealing fresh lustre from their living beam;
How do I envy thee these precious ties!
Thy rocky shores will soon be taught to gleam
With the same flame that burns in all my sighs.
WROTTESLEY.
Dryden And Pope.
by James McIntyre

Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
Both did take a mighty scope,
The first he virgil did translate,
The second showed us Troys fate.
On English themes they oft did sing
And high their muses flight did wing.
A Chant
by John Collings Squire, Sir

Gently the petals fall as the tree gently sways
That has known many springs and many petals fall
Year after year to strew the green deserted ways
And the statue and the pond and the low, broken wall.
Faded is the memory of old things done,
Peace floats on the ruins of ancient festival;
They lie and forget in the warmth of the sun,
And a sky silver-blue arches over all.
O softly, O tenderly, the heart now stirs
With desires faint and formless; and, seeking not, I find
Quiet thoughts that flash like azure kingfishers
Across the luminous, tranquil mirror of the mind.
Corinna's Going A-Maying
by Robert Herrick

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming Morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green;
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night;
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch; each porch, each door ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden, home.
Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream;
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth;
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance too has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown'd with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
To John Townsend Trowbridge
by Helen Leah Reed

Gay Summer sees the flowering
Of buds that were the gift of Spring;
And Winter counts the ripened sheaves
That Autumn harvested. Who grieves
When he at length has won the race,
Or backward then his way would trace?
Oh, honored Poet, Wit, and Sage,
This birthday marks an open page,
And here before its record's writ,
These words we would inscribe on it.
"Thou, upon whom thy years fourscore
So lightly sit, thou hast a store
Of memories such as they alone
May have whose hearts all truth have known.
Now may this year bring thee no less
Than all the past of happiness!"
(On his eightieth birthday.)
The Apparition
by Duncan Campbell Scott

Gentle angel with your mantle,
All of tender green,
I was yearning for a vision
Of the life unseen.
When you hovered in the sunset,
Just as rain was done;
Where the dropping from the poplars
Seemed like rain begun.
There you gathered forming slowly
Rounding into view:
All your vesture glowed like verdure
When the sap is new.
Then you mutely gave your warning
And I felt the stress
Of its passion and its presage
And its utterness.
There you swayed one tranquil moment,
Mystically fair,
Then you were not of the sunset,
Were not in the air.
What aw Want.
by John Hartley

Gie me a little humble cot,
A bit o' garden graand,
Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,
Wi' hills an' trees all raand;
An' if besides mi hooam ther flows
A little mumuring rill,
At sings sweet music as it gooas,
Awst like it better still.
Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,
An' childer two or three,
Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,
An' hearts brimful o' glee.
Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil
Mi efforts to engage,
Gie me a maister who can smile
When forkin aght mi wage.
Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,
'An tell mi secrets to;
One tender-hearted, firm an' just,
Who sticks to what is true.
Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,
A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,
A faithful dog 'at runs to meet
Me wi a waggin tail.
A cat to purr o'th' fender rims,
To freeten th' mice away;
A cosy bed to rest mi limbs
Throo neet to commin day.
Gie me all this, an' aw shall be
Content, withaat a daat,
But if denied, then let me be
Content to live withaat.
For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess
Can purchase pleasures true;
For he's th' best chonce o' happiness,
Whose wants are small an' few.
A Jewish Family - In A Small Valley Opposite St. Goar, Upon The Rhine
by William Wordsworth

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings
Might bear thee to this glen,
With faithful memory left of things
To pencil dear and pen,
Thou would'st forego the neighbouring Rhine,
And all his majesty
A studious forehead to incline
O'er this poor family.
The Mother, her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came
To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;
An image, too, of that sweet Boy,
Thy inspirations give
Of playfulness, and love, and joy,
Predestined here to live.
Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,
That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,
That exquisite Saint John.
I see the dark-brown curls, the brow,
The smooth transparent skin,
Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within;
The grace of parting Infancy
By blushes yet untamed;
Age faithful to the mother's knee,
Nor of her arms ashamed.
Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat
The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured
Upon them not forlorn,
Though of a lineage once abhorred,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn.
Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite
Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,
From Hebrew fountains sprung;
That gives this ragged group to cast
Around the dell a gleam
Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem!
Little Mouse
by William Henry Drummond

Get along leetle mouse, kick de snow up behin' you
For it's fine winter road we 're travelto- night
Wit' de moon an' de star shinin' up on de sky dere
W'y it 's almos' de sam' as de broad day light.
De bell roun' your body it 's quick tune dey 're playin'
But your foot 's kippin' tam jus' as steady can be,
Ah! you dance youse'f crazy if only I let you,
Ma own leetle pony- petite souris.
You 'member w'en firse we be tryin' for broke you
An' Joe Sauvageau bet hees two dollar bill
He can drive you alone by de bridge on de reever
An' down near de place w'ere dey got de beeg mill.
An' it 's new cariole too, is come from St. Felix
Jo-seph 's only buyin' it week before,
An' w'en he is passin' de road wit' hees trotter
Ev'ry body was stan' on de outside door.
An' dere he sit, sam' he don 't care about not'ing
Hees foot on de dashboar', hees han' on de line
Ev'ry dog on de place is come out for barkin'
An' all de young boy he was runnin' behin' .
Wall! sir, Joe's put on style leetle soon for hees pleasure
For w'en de mill w'issle, you jomp    lak de cat
An' nex' t'ing poor Joe is commencin' get busy,
Non! I never see fine run-away lak dat.
'Way go de pony den-    'way go de cariole,
Poor Joe say , "good-bye" on de foot of de hill
An' all he can see of de sleigh de nex' morning
Is jus' about pay for hees two dollar bill.
Ah!    your right nam' jus' den should be leetle devil
An' not leetle mouse, de sam' you have now.
Wall! dat 's long ago, an' you 're gettin' more quiet
Since tam you was never done kickin' de row.
But I 'm not very sorry de firse day I see you
Settle down on de trot lak your fader he get
W'en he beat Sorel Boy on de ice at T'ree Reever
Bes' two on t'ree heat, an' win all de bet.
Your moder she 's come off de Lachapelle stock too
Ole Canayen blood from Berthier en haut
De bes' kin' of horse never look on de halter
So it is n't moche wonder you know how to go.
Dat's church bell we 're hearin' off dere on de hillside
Get along leetle mouse, for we must n't be late,
Fin' your way t'roo de res' of dem crowdin' de roadside
You 'll never get better chance showin' your gait.
Wall! church is all over, an' Josephine 's comin'
For drive wit' us home on her gran' moder 's house
So tak' your own tam an' don 't be on de hurry
Your slowes' gait 's quick enough now, leetle mouse.
Song
by W.J. Turner

Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid
Sowing the ploughed field over,
And her song was only:
'Come, O my lover!'
Strangely, strangely shone the light,
Stilly wound the river:
'Thy love is a dead man,
He'll come back never.'
Sadly, sadly passed the maid
The fading dark hills over;
Still her song far, far away said:
'Come, O my lover!'
Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Gayly sounds the castanet,
Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
Thro' all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
Beyond all eyes on earth.
Then, the joyous banquet spread
On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,
And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved thro' many a day
To be thus whispered here.
When the dance and feast are done,
Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss--
The words, whose parting tone
Lingers still in dreams of bliss,
That haunt young hearts alone.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXXI. Games.
by Unknown

[At the conclusion, the captive is privately asked if he will have oranges or lemons (the two leaders of the arch having previously agreed which designation shall belong to each), and he goes behind the one he may chance to name. When all are thus divided into two parties, they conclude the game by trying to pull each other beyond a certain line.]
Gay go up and gay go down,
To ring the bells of London town.
Bull's eyes and targets,
Say the bells of St. Marg'ret's.
Brickbats and tiles,
Say the bells of St. Giles'.
Halfpence and farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement's.
Pancakes and fritters,
Say the bells of St. Peter's.
Two sticks and an apple,
Say the bells at Whitechapel.
Old Father Baldpate,
Say the slow bells at Aldgate.
You owe me ten shillings,
Say the bells at St. Helen's.
Pokers and tongs,
Say the bells at St. John's.
Kettles and pans,
Say the bells at St. Ann's.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells at Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells at Shoreditch.
Pray when will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I am sure I don't know,
Says the great bell at Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
Spring.
by William Henry Giles Kingston

From the French of Charles D'Orleans, Fifteenth Century.
Gentle Spring! - in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou - thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.
To A Young Girl With An Album.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Gentle Lily with this Album my warmest wishes take,
I know its pages oft thou'lt ope and prize it for my sake,
For, though a trifling offering, it bears the magic spell
Of coming from the hand of one who loves thee passing well.
O could thy young life's course be traced by will or wish of mine,
A smiling, joyous future - a bright lot would be thine,
No cloud should mar the gladness of thy fair youth's op'ning morn,
The roses of thy girlhood should be free from blight or thorn.
Howe'er, 'tis better ordered by a Blessed Power above
Who sends us cross and trial, as a token of His Love;
For we'd cling, ah! far too closely to earthly joys and ties,
Unwilling e'er to leave them for our home beyond the skies.
As the pages of this volume, unwritten, stainless, fair,
Life opens out before thee, let it be thine aim and care
To keep the record spotless, and ever free from all
That thou might'st wish hereafter remorseful to recall.
Not seeking to o'ershadow thy smiling azure eyes,
Nor see that girlish bosom heave with sad thoughts and sighs,
I would whisper low, while wishing thee, all earthly, cloudless bliss,
Be life a preparation for a better life than this!
Hero.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

Claudio. Know you any Hero?
Hero. None my lord!                As You Like it.
Gentle and modest Hero! I can see
Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,
Like a warm vision - lovely as she stood,
Veiled in the presence of young Claudio.
Modesty bows her head, and that young heart
That would endure all suffering for the love
It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf
Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung
Her all upon the venture of her vow,
And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower
By the still river tempted from its stem,
And on its bosom floating.
Once again
I see her, and she standeth in her pride,
With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip
Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line
Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice
That was her music utter it, and still
To her affection faithful, she hath turned
And questioned in her innocent unbelief,
"Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?" - 
How did they look upon that open brow,
And not read purity? Alas for truth!
It hath so many counterfeits. The words,
That to a child were written legibly,
Are by the wise mistaken, and when light
Hath made the brow transparent, and the face
Is like an angel's - virtue is so fair - 
They read it like an over-blotted leaf,
And break the heart that wrote it.
A Song
by William Browne

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,
Love's neglect is time's abusing,
They and beauty are but lent you;
Take the one and keep the other;
Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;
Beauty gone you will repent you.
'Twill be said when ye have proved,
Never swains more truly loved:
Oh then fly all nice behaviour!
Pity fain would (as her duty)
Be attending still on Beauty,
Let her not be out of favour.
From Britannia's Pastorals.