DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Yorksher Bite.
by John Hartley

Bless all them bonny lasses,
I' Yorksher born an bred!
Ther beauty nooan surpasses,
Complete i'th' heart an th' heead.
An th' lads, - tho aw've seen monny lands,
Ther equal aw ne'er met;
For honest hearts an willin hands,
They nivver can be bet.
Aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh,
Or feel sich true delight,
As when fowk point me aght an say,
"Thear gooas a Yorksher Bite."
Fragment Of A Mythological Hymn To Love.[1]
by Thomas Moore

Blest infant of eternity!
Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
Thou wert alone, oh Love!
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,
As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,
That latent in his heart was sleeping,--
Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour
Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.
But look, what glory through the darkness beams!
Celestial airs along the water glide:--
What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide
So beautiful? oh, not of earth,
But, in that glowing hour, the birth
Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams.
'Tis she!
Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air.
To thee, oh Love, she turns,
On thee her eyebeam burns:
Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be!
They meet--
The blooming god--the spirit fair
Meet in communion sweet.
Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine;
All Nature feels the thrill divine,
The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,
And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!
Lines To D. G. T., Of Sherwood.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

Blessings on thee, noble boy!
With thy sunny eyes of blue,
Speaking in their cloudless depths
Of a spirit pure and true.
In thy thoughtful look and calm,
In thy forehead broad and high,
We have seemed to meet again
One whose home is in the sky.
Thou to Earth art still a stranger,
To Life's tumult and unrest;
Angel visitants alone
Stir the fountains in thy breast.
Thou hast yet no Past to shadow
With a fear the Future's light,
And the Present spreads before thee
Boundless as the Infinite.
But each passing hour must waken
Energies that slumber now,
Manhood with its fire and action
Stamp that fair, unfurrowed brow.
Into Life's sublime arena,
Opening through the world's broad mart,
Bear thy Mother's gentle spirit,
And her kind and loving heart.
With exalted hope and purpose,
To the great and good aspire;
Downward, in unsullied glory,
Hand the honor of thy sire, - 
With that love for Truth and Justice,
Future annals shall declare
Highest proof of moral greatness; - 
Nobly live and bravely dare.
Cloudless pass thine infant days,
Childhood bring thee naught but joy,
Manhood, thought, and dignity;
Blessings on thee, noble boy!
Bless God, He Went As Soldiers,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast;
Grant, God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest.
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white,
I should not fear the foe then,
I should not fear the fight.
Sonnet.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.
The Ground Squirrel.
by Clara Doty Bates

By Paul H. Hayne.
I.
Bless us, and save us! What's here?
Pop!
At a bound,
A tiny brown creature, grotesque in his grace,
Is sitting before us, and washing his face
With his little fat paws overlapping;
Where does he hail from? Where?
Why, there,
Underground,
From a nook just as cosey,
And tranquil, and dozy,
As e'er wooed to Sybarite napping
(But none ever caught him a-napping).
Don't you see his burrow so quaint and queer?
II.
Gone! like the flash of a gun!
This oddest of chaps,
Mercurial,
Disappears
Head and ears!
Then, sly as a fox,
Swift as Jack in his box,
Pops up boldly again!
What does he mean by thus frisking about,
Now up and now down, and now in and now out,
And all done quicker than winking?
What does it mean? Why, 'tis plain--fun!
Only Fun! or, perhaps,
The pert little rascal's been drinking?--
There's a cider-press yonder all say on the run!
III.
Capture him! no, we won't do it,
Or, be sure in due time we would rue it!
IV.
Such a piece of perpetual motion,
Full of bother
And pother,
Would make paralytic old Bridget
A Fidget.
So you see (to my notion),
Better leave our downy
Diminutive browny
Alone, near his "diggings;"
Ever free to pursue,
Rush round, and renew
His loved vaulting
Unhalting,
His whirling,
And curling,
And twirling,
And swirling,
And his ways, on the whole
So unsteady!
'Pon my soul,
Having gazed
Quite amazed,
On each wonderful antic
And summersault frantic,
For just a bare minute,
My head, it feels whizzy;
My eyesight's grown dizzy;
And both legs, unstable
As a ghost's tipping table,
Seem waltzing, already!
V.
Capture him! no we won't do it,
Or, in less than no time, how we'd rue it!
Hippity hop
To the barber's shop
To buy a stick of candy.
The Barefoot Boy
by William F. Kirk

Blessings on yu, little man!
Barefoot boy, ay tenk yu can
Getting all yu lak, by yee!
Yu ban gude enuff for me.
Yu ant got so many clo'es,
Dar ban freckles on yure nose,
And ay guess yu're purty tuff,
'Cause yu ask for chew of snuff.
But, by yinks, ay lak yure face,
Yu can passing any place.
Barefoot boy, ef ay could du
Yenuine po'try lak the kind
Maester Vittier wrote for yu,
Ay vould write; but never mind,
Ay can tal yu vat ay know,
Even ef dese vords ant flow
Half so slick sum poet's song.
Anyhow, ay don't mean wrong.
Ven ay see yu, little kid,
Ay skol taking off my lid.
Oder little boys ay see
Ant look half so gude to me.
Some of dem ban rich men's boys,
Who ban having planty toys,
Vearing nicest clo'es in town,
Lak dis little Buster Brown.
Don't yu care! Ven dey grow up,
And ban shining at pink tea,
Drenking tea from china cup,
Yu skol give dem loud tee-hee.
Yu skol laugh at dis har mob
Ven dey come to yu for yob.
Barefoot boy, yu ant got cent;
But ay tal yu dis, some day
Yu got chance for president
Ef dese woters com yure vay.
Yust keep vistling all day long,
Yust keep senging little song,
And ef yu skol alvays love
Some one who ban op above,
Who ban making day and night,
He skol fix yu out all right.
Jobson's Amen
by Rudyard Kipling

'Blessed be the English and all their ways and works.
Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
'But a palm-tree in full bearing, bowing down, bowing down,
To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown, walled town,
Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome,
And a low moon out of Africa said: 'This way home!''
'Blessed be the English and all that they profess.
Cursed be the Savages that prance in nakedness!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:
'But a well-wheel slowly creaking, going round, going round,
By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground,
Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine,
And a high sun over Asia shouting: 'Rise and shine!''
'Bless'd be the English and everything they own.
Cursed be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:
'But a desert stretched and stricken, left and right, left and right,
Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light,
A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside,
And a red wind out of Libya roaring: 'Run and hide!''
'Bless'd be the English and all they make or do.
Curs'd be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I mean to die
Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:
'But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast,
In a million summits bedding on the last world's past,
A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb,
And, the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!'
Psal. I.  Done into Verse
by John Milton

Bless'd is the man who hath not walk'd astray
In counsel of the wicked, and ith'way
Of sinners hath not stood, and in the seat
Of scorners hath not sate. But in the great
Jehovahs Law is ever his delight,
And in his law he studies day and night.
He shall be as a tree which planted grows
By watry streams, and in his season knows
To yield his fruit, and his leaf shall not fall.
And what he takes in hand shall prosper all.
Not so the wicked, but as chaff which fann'd
The wind drives, so the wicked shall not stand
In judgment, or abide their tryal then
Nor sinners in th'assembly of just men.
For the Lord knows th'upright way of the just
And the way of bad men to ruine must.
Gentleness.
by Archibald Lampman

Blind multitudes that jar confusedly
At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest
From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed
With ravelling self-engendered misery?
And will ye never know, till sleep shall see
Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed
Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed,
And malice with its subtle cruelty?
How beautiful is gentleness, whose face
Like April sunshine, or the summer rain,
Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought?
So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace
Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain.
Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught?
Written In The Nouveaux Interests Des Princes De L'Europe
by Matthew Prior

Bless'd be the princes who have fought
For pompous names or wide dominion,
Since by their error we are taught
That happiness is but opinion.
Benediction
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Blest in death and life beyond man's guessing
Little children live and die, possest
Still of grace that keeps them past expressing
Blest.
Each least chirp that rings from every nest,
Each least touch of flower-soft fingers pressing
Aught that yearns and trembles to be prest,
Each least glance, gives gifts of grace, redressing
Grief's worst wrongs:    each mother's nurturing breast
Feeds a flower of bliss, beyond all blessing
Blest.
The Deer's Cry
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

Blessed Patrick made this hymn one time he was going to preach the Faith at Teamhuir, and his enemies lay in hiding to make an attack on him as he passed. But all they could see passing as he himself and Benen his servant went by, was a wild deer and a fawn. And the Deer's Cry is the name of the hymn to this day.
I bind myself to-day to a strong strength, to a calling on the Trinity. I believe in a Threeness with confession of a Oneness in the Creator of the World.
I bind myself to-day to the strength of Christ's birth and His baptism; to the strength of His crucifixion with His burial; to the strength of His resurrection with His ascension; In stability of earth, in steadfastness of rock, I bind to myself to-day God's strength to pilot me;
God's power to uphold me; God's wisdom to guide me; God's eye to look before me; God's ear to hear me;
God's word to speak for me; God's hand to guard me; God's path to lie before me; God's shield to protect me; God's host to save me;
Against snares of demons; against the begging of sins; against the asking of nature; against all my ill-wishers near me and far from me; alone and in a crowd.
So I have called on all these strengths to come between me and every fierce and merciless strength that may come between my body and my soul;
Against incantations of false prophets; against black laws of heathens; against false laws of heretics; against craft of idolatry; against spells of women & smiths and druids; against every knowledge forbidden to the souls of men.
Christ for my protection to-day against poison, against burning, against drowning, against wounding; that a multitude of rewards may come to me. Christ with me, Christ before me; Christ behind me, Christ in me; Christ under me, Christ over me; Christ to the right of me, Christ to the left of me; Christ in lying down, Christ in sitting, Christ in rising up;
Christ in the heart of everyone that thinks of me; Christ in the mouth of everyone that speaks to me; Christ in every eye that sees me; Christ in every ear that hears me.
I bind to myself to-day a strong strength to a calling upon the Trinity; I believe in a Threeness with confession of a Oneness in the Creator of the World.
At Sea Off The Isle Of Man
by William Wordsworth

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong
And doubts and scruples seldom teased the brain,
That no adventurer's bark had power to gain
These shores if he approached them bent on wrong;
For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main,
Mists rose to hide the Land that search, though long
And eager, might be still pursued in vain.
O Fancy, what an age was 'that' for song!
That age, when not by 'laws' inanimate,
As men believed, the waters were impelled,
The air controlled, the stars their courses held;
But element and orb on 'acts' did wait
Of 'Powers' endued with visible form, instinct
With will, and to their work by passion linked.
Sunset In Autumn
by Madison Julius Cawein

Blood-Coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass;
Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras,
And broom-sedge strips of smoky-pink and pearl gray clumps of grass
In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain pools gleam like glass.
From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,
The winds, the sowers of the Lord, with thunderous footsteps stride;
Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,
Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.
The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell;
And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell
Glimmers; while, wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell
Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.
The oaks, against a copper sky o'er which, like some black lake
Of Dis, bronze clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break
Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales that make
A pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.
Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a limbo-litten pane,
Within its walls of storm, the West opens to hill and plain,
On which the wild-geese ink themselves, a far triangled train,
And then the shuttering clouds close down and night is here again.
Wars And Rumours, 1920
by John Collings Squire, Sir

Blood, hatred, appetite and apathy,
The sodden many and the struggling strong,
Who care not now though for another wrong
Another myriad innocents should die.
At candid savagery or oily lie
We laugh, or, turning, join the noisy throng
Which buries the dead with gluttony and song.
Suppose this very evening from on high
Broke on the world that unexampled flame
The choir-thronged sky, and Thou, descending, Lord;
What agony of horror, fear, and shame,
For those who knew and wearied of Thy word,
I dare not even think, who am confest
Idle, malignant, lustful as the rest.
Blue Iris
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

Blue is the Adrian sea, and darkly blue
The 'gean; and the shafted sun thro' them,
That fishes grope to, gives the beamy hue
Rayed from her iris's deep diadem.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXLIII. Relics.
by Unknown

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!
That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it,
And into rolls make it,
And send us some hot in the morn.
A December Day
by Robert Fuller Murray

Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
Blue, fringed with white.
That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
Is there a heart to-day,
A heart that grieves
For flowers that fade away,
For fallen leaves?
Oh, not in leaves or flowers
Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
With love-light warm.
O dear St. Andrews Bay,
Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
Memories that cling
All round thy girdling reefs,
That walk thy shore,
Memories of joys and griefs
Ours evermore.
Blythe Hae I Been.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Liggeram Cosh."
I.
Blythe hae I been on yon hill
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free
As the breeze flew o'er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
II.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.
The Song Of Elf
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel,
With womanish hair and ring,
Yet heavy was his hand on sword,
Though light upon the string.
And as he stirred the strings of the harp
To notes but four or five,
The heart of each man moved in him
Like a babe buried alive.
And they felt the land of the folk-songs
Spread southward of the Dane,
And they heard the good Rhine flowing
In the heart of all Allemagne.
They felt the land of the folk-songs,
Where the gifts hang on the tree,
Where the girls give ale at morning
And the tears come easily,
The mighty people, womanlike,
That have pleasure in their pain;
As he sang of Balder beautiful,
Whom the heavens loved in vain.
As he sang of Balder beautiful,
Whom the heavens could not save,
Till the world was like a sea of tears
And every soul a wave.
'There is always a thing forgotten
When all the world goes well;
A thing forgotten, as long ago
When the gods forgot the mistletoe,
And soundless as an arrow of snow
The arrow of anguish fell.
'The thing on the blind side of the heart,
On the wrong side of the door;
The green plant groweth, menacing
Almighty lovers in the spring;
There is always a forgotten thing,
And love is not secure.'
The Two Bobbies.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Bobbie Burns and Bobbie Browning,
They're the boys I'd like to see.
Though I'm not the boy for Bobbie,
Bobbie is the boy for me!
Bobbie Browning was the good boy;
Turned the language inside out,
Wrote his plays and had his days,
Died--and held his peace, no doubt.
Poor North Bobbie was the bad boy,--
Bad, bad, bad, bad Bobbie Burns!
Loved and made the world his lover,
Kissed and barleycomed by turns.
London's dweller, child of wisdom,
Kept his counsel, took his toll;
Ayrshire's vagrant paid the piper,
Lost the game--God save his soul!
Bobbie Burns and Bobbie Browning,
What's the difference, you see?
Bob the lover, Bob the lawyer;
Bobbie is the boy for me!
Affirm
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Body and mind, and spirit, all combine
To make the Creature, human and divine.
Of this great trinity no part deny.
Affirm, affirm, the Great Eternal I.
Affirm the body, beautiful and whole,
The earth-expression of immortal soul.
Affirm the mind, the messenger of the hour,
To speed between thee and the source of power.
Affirm the spirit, the Eternal I - 
Of this great trinity no part deny.
Evening: New York
by Sara Teasdale

Blue dust of evening over my city,
Over the ocean of roofs and the tall towers
Where the window-lights, myriads and myriads,
Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.
Blithe Was She.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Andro and his cutty gun."
Chorus.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
I.
By Auchtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes of Yarrow ever saw.
II.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
III.
Her bonnie face it was as meek
As any lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
IV.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern.
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
Fame's Penny-Trumpet
by Lewis Carroll

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back,
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails,
"Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!"
And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty
Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!
Who preach of Justice, plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound,
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:
Who prate of Wisdom, nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other's drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak.
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other's little heads
With mutual Flattery's golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory's ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain,
So many hundred pounds a year,
Then let Fame's banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun,
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When YE have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!