DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Mask
by Charles Baudelaire

Allegorical Statue in the Style of the Renaissance
for Ernest Christophe, sculptor
Let us observe this prize, of Tuscan charm;
In how the muscles of the body flow
Those holy sisters, Grace and Strength, abound.
This woman, this extraordinary piece,
Divinely robust, admirably slim,
Was made to be enthroned on sumptuous beds
As entertainment for a pope or prince.
Also, observe the fine voluptuous smile
Where Self-conceit parades its ecstasy;
This long, sly, languorous and mocking gaze;
This dainty visage, with its filmy veil,
Each trait of which cries out triumphantly,
'Pleasure invites Me, and I wear Love's crown!'
In this creation of such majesty
Excitement flows from her gentility!
Let us approach and look from every side!
O blasphemy of art! fatal surprise!
This woman fashioned to embody bliss
Is at the top a monster with two heads!
But no! it's just a mask, a trick design,
This visage lit by an exquisite air,
And look, see here how cruelly it is clenched,
The undissembling face of the true head,
Turned to the shelter of the face that lies.
O beauty, how I pity you! the great
Stream of your tears ends in my anxious heart;
Your lie transports me, and my soul drinks up
The seas brought forth by Sorrow from your eyes!
But what has made her cry? A beauty who
Could have all mankind conquered at her feet,
What secret pain gnaws at her hardy tlank?
The reason, fool, she cries is that she's lived!
And that she lives! But what she most deplores,
What makes her tremble even to her knees,
Is that tomorrow she'll be living still!
Tomorrow, every day! - And so will we!
Mi Love's Come Back.
by John Hartley

Let us have a jolly spree,
An wi' joy an harmonie,
Let the merry moments flee,
For mi love's come back.
O, the days did slowly pass,
When awd lost mi little lass,
But nah we'll have a glass,
For mi love's come back.
O, shoo left me in a hig,
An shoo didn't care a fig,
But nah aw'll donce a jig,
For mi love's come back,
An aw know though far away,
'At her heart ne'er went astray,
An awst ivver bless the day,
For mi love's come back.
When shoo axt me yesterneet,
What made mi een soa breet?
Aw says, "Why cant ta see'ts
'Coss mi love's come back,"
Then aw gave her sich a kiss,
An shoo tuk it nooan amiss; - 
An awm feeard awst brust wi bliss,
For mi love's come back.
Nah, awm gooin to buy a ring,
An a creddle an a swing,
Ther's noa tellin what may spring,
Nah, mi love's come back;
O, aw nivver thowt befooar,
'At sich joy could be i' stooar,
But nah aw'll grieve noa moor,
For mi love's come back.
Mak a Gooid Start.
by John Hartley

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear
What grum'lers an growlers may say;
That nivver need cause yo a tear,
For whear ther's a will ther's a way.
If yo've plenty to ait an to drink,
Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough;
If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think,
Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.
If yor temper gets saar'd an cross,
An yor mind is disturbed an perplext;
Or if troubled wi' sickness an loss,
An yor poverty maks yo feel vext; - 
Nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat
Abaat things at yo connot prevent;
An i'th futer ther may be a treeat,
'At'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent,
I' this new life beginnin, - who knows
What for each on us may be i' stoor?
For th' river o' Time as it flows,
Weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door.
At some it leeavs little, may be,
An at others deposits a prize;
But if yo be watchful yo'll see
Ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries.
Ther's a time booath to wish an decide; - 
For a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews; - 
If yo snuff aght ambition an pride,
Yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes,
Wish for summat 'at's honest an reight,
An detarmine yo'll win it or dee!
Yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate,
An th' black claads o' daat quickly flee.
Young men should seek labor an gains,
Old men wish for rest an repose; - 
Young lasses want brave, lovin swains,
An hanker for th' finest o' clooas.
Old wimmin, - a cosy foirside,
An a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah;
Little childer, a horse they can ride,
Or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee.
One thing a chap cant do withaat,
Is a woman to share his estate;
An mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat,
Think life a dull thing baght a mate.
Ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise,
An its one at should be acted upon; - 
Yo'll do weel, to accept its advice, - 
To, "Begin as yo meean to goa on."
Love one Another.
by John Hartley

Let's love one another, it's better bi far;
Mak peace wi yor Brother - it's better nor war!
Life's rooad's rough enuff, - let's mak it mooar smooth,
Let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love.
Ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim,
Ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim;
Ther's want an misfortun, - ther's crime an ther's sin;
Let's feight 'em wi Love, - for Love's sarten to win.
Give yor hand, - a kind hand, - to yor brother i' need,
Dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed, - 
Nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight,
For, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight.
Dooant set up as judge, - it's a dangerous plan,
Luk ovver his failins, - he's nobbut a man;
Suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,'
What might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place?
Fowk praich abaat 'Charity,' - 'pity the poor,'
But turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door; - 
"Indiscriminate Charity's hurtful," they say,
"We hav'nt got riches to throw em away!"
Noa! but if that Grand Book, - th' Grandest Book ivver writ,
(An if ther's a true Book aw think at that's it,)
Says "What yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas
Yo did unto Me;" - Reckon that if yo pleeas.
Awm nooan findin fault, - yet aw cant help but see
Ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee;
They grooan "it's a pity; - Poverty is a curse!"
But they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse.
Ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod,
Do summat for mankind. - Do summat for God.
It wor Jesus commanded 'To love one another,'
Ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as Brother.
Then let us each one, do what little we can,
To help on to comfort a less lucky man;
Remember, some day it may fall to thy lot
To feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got.
But dooant help another i' hooaps at some day.
Tha'll get it all back. - Nay, a thaasand times Nay!
Be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother; - 
Tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi Brother.
To Anthea.
by Robert Herrick

Let's call for Hymen, if agreed thou art;
Delays in love but crucify the heart.
Love's thorny tapers yet neglected lie:
Speak thou the word, they'll kindle by-and-bye.
The nimble hours woo us on to wed,
And Genius waits to have us both to bed.
Behold, for us the naked Graces stay
With maunds of roses for to strew the way:
Besides, the most religious prophet stands
Ready to join, as well our hearts as hands.
Juno yet smiles; but if she chance to chide,
Ill luck 'twill bode to th' bridegroom and the bride.
Tell me, Anthea, dost thou fondly dread
The loss of that we call a maidenhead?
Come, I'll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire
Is not by marriage quench'd, but flames the higher.
Verses Occasioned By Whitshed's [1] Motto On  His Coach.
by Jonathan Swift

Libertas et natale solum: [2]
Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em.
Could nothing but thy chief reproach
Serve for a motto on thy coach?
But let me now the words translate:
Natale solum, my estate;
My dear estate, how well I love it,
My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it,
They swear I am so kind and good,
I hug them till I squeeze their blood.
Libertas bears a large import:
First, how to swagger in a court;
And, secondly, to show my fury
Against an uncomplying jury;
And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention,
To favour Wood, and keep my pension;
And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick,
Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3]
And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,)
To humble that vexatious Dean:
And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it
For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4]
Now since your motto thus you construe,
I must confess you've spoken once true.
Libertas et natale solum:
You had good reason when you stole 'em.
An End Decreed.
by Robert Herrick

Let's be jocund while we may,
All things have an ending day;
And when once the work is done,
Fates revolve no flax they've spun.
To You
by Walt Whitman

Let us twain walk aside from the rest;
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,
Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none, Tell me the whole story,
Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.
Sunday Night. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Let us unfold God's holy book,
And by the taper's light,
With hearts subdued, and sober look,
So spend the Sabbath night.
Where now the thoughts of anxious life,
Its guilty pleasures, where?
Here dies its loud and mourning strife,
And all its sounds of care.
Let other views our hearts engross,
To our Redeemer true,
Who seems expiring on the cross,
To say, I died for you!
The Cup Of Joy.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Let us mix a cup of Joy
That the wretched may employ,
Whom the Fates have made their toy.
Who have given brain and heart
To the thankless world of Art,
And from Fame have won no part.
Who have labored long at thought;
Starved and toiled and all for naught;
Sought and found not what they sought'.
Let our goblet be the skull
Of a fool; made beautiful
With a gold nor base nor dull:
Gold of madcap fancies, once
It contained, that, sage or dunce,
Each can read whoever runs.
First we pour the liquid light
Of our dreams in; then the bright
Beauty that makes day of night.
Let this be the must wherefrom,
In due time, the mettlesome
Care-destroying drink shall come.
Folly next: with which mix in
Laughter of a child of sin,
And the red of mouth and chin.
These shall give the tang thereto,
Effervescence and rich hue
Which to all good wine are due.
Then into our cup we press
One wild kiss of wantonness,
And a glance that says not less.
Sparkles both that give a fine
Lustre to the drink divine,
Necessary to good wine.
Lastly in the goblet goes
Sweet a love-song, then a rose
Warmed upon her breast's repose.
These bouquet our drink. Now measure
With your arm the waist you treasure
Lift the cup and,"Here's to Pleasure!"
Sonnets IX
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!"--for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer."
To Sappho.
by Robert Herrick

Let us now take time and play,
Love, and live here while we may;
Drink rich wine, and make good cheer,
While we have our being here;
For once dead and laid i' th' grave,
No return from thence we have.
Let Us Turn Hitherward Our Bark.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

R. C. TRENCH.
"Let us turn hitherward our bark," they cried,
"And, 'mid the blisses of this happy isle,
Past toil forgetting and to come, abide
In joyfulness awhile.
And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,
If other tasks we yet are bound unto,
Combing the hoary tresses of the main
With sharp swift keel anew."
O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,
O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,
What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,
And of your race divine?
But they, by these prevailing voices now
Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,
Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,
That strewed that fatal strand;
Or seeing, feared not - warning taking none
From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whitened all the shore.
"QUIN HUC, FREMEBANT."
"Quin hue," fremebant, "dirigimus ratem:
Hic, dote laeti divitis insulae,
Paullisper haeremus, futuri
Nec memores operis, nec acti:
"Curas refecti cras iterabimus,
Si qua supersunt emeritis novae
Pexisse pernices acuta
Canitiem pelagi carina."
O rebus olim nobilioribus
Pares: origo Di quibus ac Deae
Heroes! oblitine famiae
Haec struitis, generisque summi?
Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis,
Ducti magistra voce, solum: neque
Videre prorarum nefandas
Fragmina nobilium per oras;
Vidisse seu non poenitet - ominis
Incuriosos tot praeeuntium,
Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti,
Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.
Recipe For The Musical Comedy Composer:
by Unknown

Librettos of all of the operas,
Some shears and a bottle of paste,
Curry the hits of last season,
Add tumpty-tee tra la to taste.
- Life.
The Recalcitrants
by Thomas Hardy

Let us off and search, and find a place
Where yours and mine can be natural lives,
Where no one comes who dissects and dives
And proclaims that ours is a curious case,
That its touch of romance can scarcely grace.
You would think it strange at first, but then
Everything has been strange in its time.
When some one said on a day of the prime
He would bow to no brazen god again
He doubtless dazed the mass of men.
None will recognize us as a pair whose claims
To righteous judgment we care not making;
Who have doubted if breath be worth the taking,
And have no respect for the current fames
Whence the savour has flown while abide the names.
We have found us already shunned, disdained,
And for re-acceptance have not once striven;
Whatever offence our course has given
The brunt thereof we have long sustained.
Well, let us away, scorned unexplained.
Amour 21
by Michael Drayton

Letters and lynes, we see, are soone defaced,
Mettles doe waste and fret with cankers rust;
The Diamond shall once consume to dust,
And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced.
Paper and yncke can paynt but naked words,
To write with blood of force offends the sight,
And if with teares, I find them all too light;
And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords.
O, sweetest shadow! how thou seru'st my turne,
Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne,
Nor whilst the world is neuer shall be done,
Whilst Moone shall shyne by night, or any fire shall burne:
That euery thing whence shadow doth proceede,
May in his shadow my Loues story reade.
Odes From Horace. - To Leuconoe. Book The First, Ode The Eleventh.
by Anna Seward

LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire
Of grave Diviner, if successive years
Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre,
For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears!
Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow,
Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;
If many winters on the naked trees
Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost,
Or this for us the last, that from the seas
Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast. - 
Short since thou know'st the longest vital line,
Nurse the near hope, and pour the rosy wine.
E'en while we speak our swiftly-passing Youth
Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion's shore;
Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth,
Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore?
The Morrow's faithless promise disavow,
And seize, thy only boast, the GOLDEN NOW.
The Longest Day
by William Wordsworth

Let us quit the leafy arbor,
And the torrent murmuring by;
For the sun is in his harbor,
Weary of the open sky.
Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.
Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended,
Is the longest of the year.
Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free;
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!
Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?
Yet at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
From the truths of homely reason,
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;
And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
I would urge this moral pleading,
Last forerunner of "Good night!"
Summer ebbs; each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,
Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of winter lie.
He who governs the creation,
In his providence, assigned
Such a gradual declination
To the life of human kind.
Yet we mark it not; fruits redden,
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,
And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.
Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!
And when thy decline shall come,
Let not dowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.
Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea
That absorbs time, space, and number;
Look thou to Eternity!
Follow thou the flowing river
On whose breast are thither borne
All deceived, and each deceiver,
Through the gates of night and morn;
Through the year's successive portals;
Through the bounds which many a star
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals,
When his light returns from far.
Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Toward the mighty gulf of things,
And the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings;
Think, if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.
Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
While youth's roses are thy crown.
Grasp it, if thou shrink and tremble,
Fairest damsel of the green,
Thou wilt lack the only symbol
That proclaims a genuine queen;
And ensures those palms of honor
Which selected spirits wear,
Bending low before the Donor,
Lord of heaven's unchanging year!
To The Young. Translations. After Heine.
by John Milton Hay

Let your feet not falter, your course not alter
By golden apples, till victory's won!
The sword's sharp clangour, the dart's shrill anger,
Swerve not the hero thundering on.
A bold beginning is half the winning,
An Alexander makes worlds his fee.
No long debating!    The Queens are waiting
In his pavilion on beaded knee.
Thus swift pursuing his wars and wooing,
He mounts old Darius' bed and throne.
O glorious ruin!    O blithe undoing!
O drunk death-triumph in Babylon!
Parcel-Gilt Poetry.
by Robert Herrick

Let's strive to be the best; the gods, we know it,
Pillars and men, hate an indifferent poet.
Anacreontic
by Thomas Oldham

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:
'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'
Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
Since mortals must die,
Since life's but a span,
'Tis wisdom, say I,
To live while we can,
And fill up with pleasure
The poor little measure.
Of fate to complain
How simple and vain!
Long faces I hate;
They shorten the date.
My Friends! while ye may,
Be jovial to-day;
The things that will be
Ne'er wish to foresee;
Or, should ye employ
Your thoughts on to-morrow,
Let Hope sing of joy,
Not Fear croak of sorrow.
But see! the Sage flies, so no more.
Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
Liberty!
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

"Liberty!" Is that the cry, then?
We have heard it oft of yore.
Once it had, we think, a meaning;
Let us hear it now no more.
We have read what history tells us
Of its heroes, martyrs too.
Doubtless they were very splendid,
But they're not for me and you.
There were Greeks who fought and perished,
Won from Persians deathless graves.
Had we lived then, we're aware that
We'd have been those same Greeks' slaves!
Then a Roman came who loved us;
Caesar gave men tongues and swords.
Crying "Liberty," they fought him,
Cato and his cut-throat lords.
When he'd give a broader franchise,
Lift the mangled nations bowed,
Crying "Liberty!" they killed him,
Brutus and his pandar crowd.
We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!
"Liberty!" The stale cry echoes
Past snug homesteads, tinsel thrones,
Over smoking fields and hovels,
Murdered peasants' bleaching bones.
That's the cry that mocked us madly,
Toiling in our living graves,
When hell-mines sent up the chorus:
"Britons never shall be slaves!"
"Liberty!" We care not for it!
What we care for's food, clothes, homes,
For our dear ones toiling, waiting
For the time that never comes!
Let's Take This World As Some Wide Scene.
by Thomas Moore

Let's take this world as some wide scene.
Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat,
With skies now dark and now serene,
Together thou and I must float;
Beholding oft on either shore
Bright spots where we should love to stay;
But Time plies swift his flying oar,
And away we speed, away, away.
Should chilling winds and rains come on,
We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower;
Sit closer till the storm is gone,
And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour.
And if that sunnier hour should shine,
We'll know its brightness cannot stay,
But happy while 'tis thine and mine,
Complain not when it fades away.
So shall we reach at last that Fall
Down which life's currents all must go,--
The dark, the brilliant, destined all
To sink into the void below.
Nor even that hour shall want its charms,
If, side by side, still fond we keep,
And calmly, in each other's arms
Together linked, go down the steep.
To Live Freely
by Robert Herrick

Let's live in haste; use pleasures while we may;
Could life return, 'twould never lose a day.
To A Person Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me
by Matthew Prior

Lie Philo untouch'd, on my peaceable shelf,
Nor take it amiss that so little I heed thee;
I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself:
Then why should I answer since first I must read thee?
Drunk with Helicon's waters, and double-brew'd bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.
Pursue me with satire; what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear;
There can be no danger from what thou shalt print,
There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.
The Covetous Still Captives.
by Robert Herrick

Let's live with that small pittance that we have;
Who covets more, is evermore a slave.
Poems Of The Week
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

SUNDAY
Lie still and rest, in that serene repose
That on this holy morning comes to those
Who have been burdened with the cares which make
The sad heart weary and the tired head ache.
Lie still and rest - 
God's day of all is best.
MONDAY
Awake! arise!    Cast off thy drowsy dreams!
Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams.
"As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say.
Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.
And see! thy neighbour
Already seeks his labour.
TUESDAY
Another morning's banners are unfurled - 
Another day looks smiling on the world.
It holds new laurels for thy soul to win;
Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin,
Nor sad, away,
Send it to yesterday.
WEDNESDAY
Half-way unto the end - the week's high noon.
The morning hours do speed away so soon!
And, when the noon is reached, however bright,
Instinctively we look toward the night.
The glow is lost
Once the meridian cross'd.
THURSDAY
So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend,
Go spend an hour in converse.    It will lend
New beauty to thy labours and thy life
To pause a little sometimes in the strife.
Toil soon seems rude
That has no interlude.
FRIDAY
From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray;
Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day,
Neglect no labour and no duty shirk:
Not many hours are left thee for thy work - 
And it were meet
That all should be complete.
SATURDAY
Now with the almost finished task make haste.
So near the night thou hast no time to waste.
Post up accounts, and let thy Soul's eyes look
For flaws and errors in Life's ledger-book.
When labours cease,
How sweet the sense of peace!