DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Return Of Youth.
by William Cullen Bryant

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light, 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.
Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age,
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.
There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
A gentle rustling of the morning gales;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
Of streams that water banks for ever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?
Private Ortheris's Song
by Rudyard Kipling

My girl she give me the go onest,
When I was a London lad;
An' I went on the drink for a fortnight,
An' then I went to the bad.
The Queen she give me a shillin'
To fight for 'er over the seas;
But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap,
An' Injia give me disease.
(Chorus) Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,
An' don't you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere.
I fired a shot at a Afghan,
The beggar 'e fired again,
An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed,
An' missed the next campaign!
I up with my gun at a Burman
Who carried a bloomin' dah,
But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk,
An' all I got was the scar.
(Chorus) Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan,
When you stand on the skyline clear;
An' don't you go for a Burman
If none o' your friends is near.
I served my time for a Corp'ral,
An' wetted my stripes with pop,
For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,
An' finished the night in the 'shop.'
I served my time for a Sergeant;
The Colonel 'e sez 'No!
The most you'll see is a full C.B.'
An' . . . very next night 'twas so!
(Chorus) Ho! don't you go for a Corp'ral
Unless your 'ed is clear;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere.
I've tasted the luck o' the Army
In barrack an' camp an' clink,
An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip
Along o' the women an' drink.
I'm down at the heel o' my service,
An' when I am laid on the shelf,
My very worst friend from beginning to end
By the blood of a mouse was myself!
(Chorus) Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,
An' don't you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere!
Nursery Rhyme. CCXLV. Charms.
by Unknown

My father he left me, just as he was able,
One bowl, one bottle, one lable,
Two bowls, two bottles, two lables,
Three, & c. [And so on ad. lib. in one breath.]
Rest
by Abram Joseph Ryan

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed --
And I desire, what I have long desired --
Rest -- only rest.
'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,
In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,
In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer
For rest -- sweet rest.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap
The Autumn yield;
'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep
O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry,
So heart oppressed;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
For rest -- for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years,
And cares infest
My path, and through the flowing of hot tears,
I pine -- for rest.
'Twas always so; when but a child I laid
On mother's breast
My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed
As now -- for rest.
And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er;
For down the West
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore
Where I shall rest.
Lines Suggested By The Conversation Of A Brother And Sister In The Chamber Of A Deceased And Highly Valued Parent.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

My father! Oh! I cannot dwell
On hours when we shall meet again;
I only feel, I only know
That all my prayers for thee were vain.
"Come, brother, take a last farewell;
Soon, soon they'll bear him far away." 
"No, sister, no, he is not there,
I parted with him yesterday.
"Our father is in Heaven now,
Forever free from care and pain;
And, if a half-formed wish could bring
His sainted spirit back again,
"The selfish wish I would not breathe;
'Twould cloud with woe that placid brow,
Round which a seraph seems to wreathe
A crown of glory even now.
"How deep the gloom that mantled there!
How sweetly, too, 'twas all withdrawn!
Thus, ever thus, night's darkest hour
Precedes the day's triumphant dawn.
"Oh! while he lingered, struggling still
With pain and anguish and despair,
The sting of death was felt indeed,
And then I wearied Heaven with prayer.
"But when the unfettered spirit fled
From earth and earthly cares away,
I joyed to think how blest would be
Its entrance on eternal day.
"I joyed to think that never more
That tranquil breast would throb with pain;
Hope pencilled, too, the sheltering port
Where parted spirits meet again.
"Oh! I would drain the bitter cup
To him in boundless mercy given,
A glorious Sabbath-day to win
Of never-ending rest in Heaven.
"Come, sister, let us follow him,
Though rugged was the path he trod;
'Twill lead us to the 'saints in light,'
'Twill lead us to our father's God."
Music
by Stephen Vincent Benet

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest,
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
... And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
An army stormed the bastions of the air!
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
Marching together as the lightnings march,
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed,
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast --
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture
To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;
Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,
And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;
That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,
From the loose net of words to deeds again
And to all courage! Perilous and sharp
The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!
... And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,
"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.
Phantasmagoria Canto II ( Hys Fyve Rules )
by Lewis Carroll

"My First,    but don't suppose," he said,
"I'm setting you a riddle, 
Is,    if your Victim be in bed,
Don't touch the curtains at his head,
But take them in the middle,
"And wave them slowly in and out,
While drawing them asunder;
And in a minute's time, no doubt,
He'll raise his head and look about
With eyes of wrath and wonder.
"And here you must on no pretence
Make the first observation.
Wait for the Victim to commence:
No Ghost of any common sense
Begins a conversation.
"If he should say 'HOW CAME YOU HERE?'
(The way that YOU began, Sir,)
In such a case your course is clear, 
'ON THE BAT'S BACK, MY LITTLE DEAR!'
Is the appropriate answer.
"If after this he says no more,
You'd best perhaps curtail your
Exertions,    go and shake the door,
And then, if he begins to snore,
You'll know the thing's a failure.
"By day, if he should be alone, 
At home or on a walk, 
You merely give a hollow groan,
To indicate the kind of tone
In which you mean to talk.
"But if you find him with his friends,
The thing is rather harder.
In such a case success depends
On picking up some candle-ends,
Or butter, in the larder.
"With this you make a kind of slide
(It answers best with suet),
On which you must contrive to glide,
And swing yourself from side to side, 
One soon learns how to do it.
"The Second tells us what is right
In ceremonious calls:-
'FIRST BURN A BLUE OR CRIMSON LIGHT'
(A thing I quite forgot to-night),
'THEN SCRATCH THE DOOR OR WALLS.'"
I said "You'll visit HERE no more,
If you attempt the Guy.
I'll have no bonfires on MY floor, 
And, as for scratching at the door,
I'd like to see you try!"
"The Third was written to protect
The interests of the Victim,
And tells us, as I recollect,
TO TREAT HIM WITH A GRAVE RESPECT,
AND NOT TO CONTRADICT HIM."
"That's plain," said I, "as Tare and Tret,
To any comprehension:
I only wish SOME Ghosts I've met
Would not so CONSTANTLY forget
The maxim that you mention!"
"Perhaps," he said, "YOU first transgressed
The laws of hospitality:
All Ghosts instinctively detest
The Man that fails to treat his guest
With proper cordiality.
"If you address a Ghost as 'Thing!'
Or strike him with a hatchet,
He is permitted by the King
To drop all FORMAL parleying, 
And then you're SURE to catch it!
"The Fourth prohibits trespassing
Where other Ghosts are quartered:
And those convicted of the thing
(Unless when pardoned by the King)
Must instantly be slaughtered.
"That simply means 'be cut up small':
Ghosts soon unite anew.
The process scarcely hurts at all, 
Not more than when YOU're what you call
'Cut up' by a Review.
"The Fifth is one you may prefer
That I should quote entire:-
THE KING MUST BE ADDRESSED AS 'SIR.'
THIS, FROM A SIMPLE COURTIER,
IS ALL THE LAWS REQUIRE:
"BUT, SHOULD YOU WISH TO DO THE THING
WITH OUT-AND-OUT POLITENESS,
ACCOST HIM AS 'MY GOBLIN KING!
AND ALWAYS USE, IN ANSWERING,
THE PHRASE 'YOUR ROYAL WHITENESS!'
"I'm getting rather hoarse, I fear,
After so much reciting :
So, if you don't object, my dear,
We'll try a glass of bitter beer, 
I think it looks inviting."
My Father-In-Law And I
by Henry Lawson

My father-in-law is a careworn man,
And a silent man is he;
But he summons a smile as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
The sign we make with a silent shake
That speaks of the days gone by,
Like men who meet at a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a sober man
(And a virtuous man, I think);
But we spare a shilling whenever we can,
And we both drop in for a drink.
Our pints they fill, and we say, 'Ah, well!'
With the sound of the world-old sigh,
Like the drink that comes after a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a kindly man,
A domestic man is he.
He tries to look cheerful as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
But we stand and think till the second drink
In a silence that might imply
That we'd both get over a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
Fragment. (Translations From The Hebrew Poets Of Medaeval Spain.)
by Emma Lazarus

My friend spoke with insinuating tongue:
"Drink wine, and thy flesh shall be made whole. Look how
it hisses in the leathern bottle like a captured serpent."
Oh fool! can the sun be forged into a cask stopped with
earthly bungs. I know not that the power of wine has ever
overmastered my sorrows; for these mighty giants I have found
as yet no resting-place.
Solomon Ben Judah Gabirol (Died Between 1070-80.)
Winter Roses
by John Greenleaf Whittier

My garden roses long ago
Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks;
Their pale, fair sisters smile no more
Upon the sweet-brier stalks.
Gone with the flower-time of my life,
Spring's violets, summer's blooming pride,
And Nature's winter and my own
Stand, flowerless, side by side.
So might I yesterday have sung;
To-day, in bleak December's noon,
Come sweetest fragrance, shapes, and hues,
The rosy wealth of June!
Bless the young bands that culled the gift,
And bless the hearts that prompted it;
If undeserved it comes, at least
It seems not all unfit.
Of old my Quaker ancestors
Had gifts of forty stripes save one;
To-day as many roses crown
The gray head of their son.
And with them, to my fancy's eye,
The fresh-faced givers smiling come,
And nine and thirty happy girls
Make glad a lonely room.
They bring the atmosphere of youth;
The light and warmth of long ago
Are in my heart, and on my cheek
The airs of morning blow.
O buds of girlhood, yet unblown,
And fairer than the gift ye chose,
For you may years like leaves unfold
The heart of Sharon's rose
Percy Bysshe Shelley
by Edgar Lee Masters

My father who owned the wagon-shop
And grew rich shoeing horses
Sent me to the University of Montreal.
I learned nothing and returned home,
Roaming the fields with Bert Kessler,
Hunting quail and snipe.
At Thompson's Lake the trigger of my gun
Caught in the side of the boat
And a great hole was shot through my heart.
Over me a fond father erected this marble shaft,
On which stands the figure of a woman
Carved by an Italian artist.
They say the ashes of my namesake
Were scattered near the pyramid of Caius Cestius
Somewhere near Rome.
My Flower Room
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

My Flower Room is such a little place,
Scarce twenty feet by nine; yet in that space
I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour
Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing-Cause,
About His laws.
And He has shown me, in each vine and flower
Such miracles of power
That day by day this Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine.
Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere
Pale, tender shoots appear
Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.
One speeds to crimson bloom;
One slowly creeps to unassuming grace;
One climbs, one trails;
One drinks the light and moisture;
One exhales.
Up through the earth together, stem by stem
Two plants push swiftly in a floral race;
Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem;
And one gives only fragrance
In a seed
So small it scarce is felt within the hand.
Lie hidden such delights
Of scents and sights,
When by the elements of Nature freed,
As Paradise must have at its command.
From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things
What gorgeous beauty springs!
Such infinite variety appears
A hundred artists in a hundred years
Could never copy from the floral world
The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.
Nor could the most colossal mind of man
Create one little seed of plant or vine
Without assistance from the First Great Plan;
Without the aid divine.
Who but a God
Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold,
And fashion in earth's mould,
A multitude of blooms to deck one sod?
Who but a God!
Not one man knows
Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose
Or how its tints were blent;
Or why the white Camelia without scent
Up through the same soil grows;
Or how the daisy and the violet
And blades of grass first on wild meadows met.
Not one, not one man knows;
The wisest but SUPPOSE.
This Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine;
And I go hence
Each day with larger faith and reverence.
Driftwood
by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
And iridescent fires;
As the driftwood burning
Learned its jewelled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.
A Gift.
by George MacDonald

My gift would find thee fast asleep,
And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
In the golden dream to thee.
Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.
Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
Its censers the blossom-heaps.
And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
Thanks to thy mirror-soul,
Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime
Of the waters after the roll;
And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,
And with heaven roof in the whole.
The Wind-Child
by Enid Derham

My folk's the wind-folk, it's there I belong,
I tread the earth below them, and the earth does me wrong,
Before my spirit knew itself, before this frame unfurled,
I was a little wandering breeze and blew about the world.
The winds of the morning that breathe against my cheek
Are kisses of comfort from a love too great to speak;
The whimpering airs that cry by night and never find their rest
Are sobbing to be taken in and soothed upon my breast.
The storm through the mountains, the tempest from the sea,
That ride their cloudy horses and take no thought of me,
They are my noble brothers that hasten to the fight,
They fill my heart with singing, they fill my eyes with light,
They're a shield upon my shoulder, a sword by my side,
A battle cry for weariness, and a plume of pride.
But sometimes in the moonlight, when the moon is in the west,
Young and strange and virginal and dropping to her rest,
There comes a wind from out the south, a little chill and thin,
And draws me from the human warmth that houses it within.
My soul streams forth to follow a soul that lures it on,
The sleepy flesh calls kin to it, and murmurs to be gone;
Across the dreaming dewy flowers and through the shadowy trees
The sweet insistent whisper comes, and I am ill at ease.
How, they have not told me, and where, I do not know,
But the wind-folk is my folk, and some day I'll go.
Past And Future
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

My future will not copy fair my past
On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully done,
Supernal Will! I would not fain be one
Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast
Upon the fulness of the heart, at last
Saith no grace after meat. My wine hath run
Indeed out of my cup, and there is none
To gather up the bread of my repast
Scattered and trampled! Yet I find some good
In earth's green herbs, and streams that bubble up
Clear from the darkling ground, content until
I sit with angels before better food.
Dear Christ! when thy new vintage fills my cup,
This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill.
A British-Roman Song
by Rudyard Kipling

My father's father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come
To look on that so-holy spot,
That very Rome,
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height,
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakable, we pray, that clings
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood,
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round,
In us thy Sons
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee, thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills
The Imperial Fire!
Prologue To South Ontario Sketches.
by James McIntyre

The district lying South of Georgian Bay and Lake Simcoe, including Toronto.
My friends we sing Canadian themes,
For in them we proudly glory,
Her lakes and rivers and her streams,
Worthy of renown in story;
And in these leaves we hope is strewn
Some wheat among the chaff,
And maple boughs by rude axe hewn,
Where one may find a rustic staff;
To help him o'er the rugged lines
If he to weariness inclines.
Some see no beauties near to home,
But do admire the distant far,
They always love abroad to roam,
View glory in but far off star;
But let it never be forgot
That distant hills when closer seen
Are after all a barren spot
Not like your own hills clad in green;
You'll find they are but idle dreams
To seek for happiness afar.
At home there's lovely lakes and streams,
Remain content now where you are;
At us we hope you will not rage
Because we sing of local charms
In each varied town and village
As well as round our local farms,
But our address it must be brief,
So now we bid you all adieu,
But of our book pray read each leaf
Until the whole you have gone through;
Each one doth know it is not wise,
Though our songs may not be vocal,
Chants of our home for to despise,
But prize them 'cause they are local.
A Western Voyage
by James Elroy Flecker

My friend the Sun--like all my friends
Inconstant, lovely, far away -
Is out, and bright, and condescends
To glory in our holiday.
A furious march with him I'll go
And race him in the Western train,
And wake the hills of long ago
And swim the Devon sea again.
I have done foolishly to head
The footway of the false moonbeams,
To light my lamp and call the dead
And read their long black printed dreams.
I have done foolishly to dwell
With Fear upon her desert isle,
To take my shadowgraph to Hell,
And then to hope the shades would smile.
And since the light must fail me soon
(But faster, faster, Western train!)
Proud meadows of the afternoon,
I have remembered you again.
And I'll go seek through moor and dale
A flower that wastrel winds caress;
The bud is red and the leaves pale,
The name of it Forgetfulness.
Then like the old and happy hills
With frozen veins and fires outrun,
I'll wait the day when darkness kills
My brother and good friend, the Sun.
My Gentle Harp.
by Thomas Moore

My gentle harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee,
Are sadly mixt--half flowers, half chains?
But come--if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;
How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill--
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
Mid desolation tuneful still!
The Whipper-In
by Thomas Hardy

My father was the whipper-in, -
Is still if I'm not misled?
And now I see, where the hedge is thin,
A little spot of red;
Surely it is my father
Going to the kennel-shed!
"I cursed and fought my father aye,
And sailed to a foreign land;
And feeling sorry, I'm back, to stay,
Please God, as his helping hand.
Surely it is my father
Near where the kennels stand?"
" True. Whipper-in he used to be
For twenty years or more;
And you did go away to sea
As youths have done before.
Yes, oddly enough that red there
Is the very coat he wore.
"But he he's dead; was thrown somehow,
And gave his back a crick,
And though that is his coat, 'tis now
The scarecrow of a rick;
You'll see when you get nearer -
'Tis spread out on a stick.
"You see, when all had settled down
Your mother's things were sold,
And she went back to her own town,
And the coat, ate out with mould,
Is now used by the farmer
For scaring, as 'tis old."