DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Fishers Of Men.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

I had a dream, a varied dream:
Before my ravished sight
The city of my Lord arose,
With all its love and light.
The music of a myriad harps
Flowed out with sweet accord;
And saints were casting down their crowns
In homage to our Lord.
My heart leaped up with untold joy,
Life's toil and pain were o'er;
My weary feet at last had found
The bright and restful shore.
Just as I reached the gates of light,
Ready to enter in,
From earth arose a fearful cry
Of sorrow and of sin.
I turned, and saw behind me surge
A wild and stormy sea;
And drowning men were reaching out
Imploring hands to me.
And ev'ry lip was blanched with dread,
And moaning for relief;
The music of the golden harps
Grew fainter for their grief.
Let me return, I quickly said,
Close to the pearly gate;
My work is with these wretched ones,
So wrecked and desolate.
An angel smiled and gently said:
This is the gate of life,
Wilt thou return to earth's sad scenes,
Its weariness and strife,
The Land of Washington.
by George Pope Morris

I glory in the sages
Who, in the days of yore,
In combat met the foemen,
And drove them from our shore.
Who flung our banner's starry field
In triumph to the breeze,
And spread broad maps of cities where
Once waved the forest-trees.
--Hurrah!--
I glory in the spirit
Which goaded them to rise
And found a might nation
Beneath the western skies.
No clime so bright and beautiful
As that where sets the sun;
No land so fertile, fair, and free,
As that of Washington
--Hurrah!--
I Had A Guinea Golden.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I had a guinea golden;
I lost it in the sand,
And though the sum was simple,
And pounds were in the land,
Still had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye,
That when I could not find it
I sat me down to sigh.
I had a crimson robin
Who sang full many a day,
But when the woods were painted
He, too, did fly away.
Time brought me other robins, --
Their ballads were the same, --
Still for my missing troubadour
I kept the 'house at hame.'
I had a star in heaven;
One Pleiad was its name,
And when I was not heeding
It wandered from the same.
And though the skies are crowded,
And all the night ashine,
I do not care about it,
Since none of them are mine.
My story has a moral:
I have a missing friend, --
Pleiad its name, and robin,
And guinea in the sand, --
And when this mournful ditty,
Accompanied with tear,
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here,
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind,
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.
My Heart And Lute.
by Thomas Moore

I give thee all--I can no more--
Tho' poor the offering be;
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
The soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
Much more than lute could tell.
Tho' love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay.
And even if Care at moments flings
A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let Love but gently touch the strings,
'Twill all be sweet again!
How It Happened
by James Whitcomb Riley

I got to thinkin' of her - both her parents dead and gone -
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time
He settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dime
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on! -
So I got to thinkin' of her - both her parents dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done
That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,
And her without no chances - and the best girl of the pack -
An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,
When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,
And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
To not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline!
I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she
Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly, -
She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,
And talk of her own mother 'at she'd never see again -
Maybe sometimes cry together - though, fer the most part she
Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we
Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet on
And say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say, - and more and more
I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore, -
Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John -
You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife -
'Less some one married Evaline and packed her off some day! -
So I got to thinkin' of her - and it happened thataway.
The Critic.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I had a fellow as my guest,
Not knowing he was such a pest,
And gave him just my usual fare;
He ate his fill of what was there,
And for desert my best things swallow'd,
Soon as his meal was o'er, what follow'd?
Led by the Deuce, to a neighbour he went,
And talk'd of my food to his heart's content:
"The soup might surely have had more spice,
The meat was ill-brown'd, and the wine wasn't nice."
A thousand curses alight on his head!
'Tis a critic, I vow! Let the dog be struck dead!
To Jim
by Henry Lawson

I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
With hands behind clasped hand in hand,
Now loosely and now fast,
Just as his fathers used to stand
For generations past.
A fair and slight and childish form,
And big brown thoughtful eyes,
God help him! for a life of storm
And stress before him lies:
A wanderer and a gipsy wild,
I've learnt the world and know,
For I was such another child,
Ah, many years ago!
But in those dreamy eyes of him
There is no hint of doubt,
I wish that you could tell me, Jim,
The things you dream about.
Dream on, my son, that all is true
And things not what they seem,
'Twill be a bitter day for you
When wakened from your dream.
You are a child of field and flood,
But with the gipsy strains
A strong Norwegian sailor's blood
Is running through your veins.
Be true, and slander never stings,
Be straight, and all may frown,
You'll have the strength to grapple things
That dragged your father down.
These lines I write with bitter tears
And failing heart and hand,
But you will read in after years,
And you will understand:
You'll hear the slander of the crowd,
They'll whisper tales of shame,
But days will come when you'll be proud
To bear your father's name.
But oh! beware of bitterness
When you are wronged, my lad,
I wish I had the faith in men
And women that I had!
'Tis better far (for I have felt
The sadness in my song)
To trust all men and still be wronged
Than to trust none and wrong.
Be generous and still do good
And banish while you live
The spectre of ingratitude
That haunts the ones who give.
But if the crisis comes at length
That your future might be marred,
Strike hard, my son, with all your strength!
For your own self's sake, strike hard!
Jesus The Souls Rest.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
I gave myself to Jesus
In my sunny childhood's years,
When on my young, unsullied cheek
There lay no trace of tears;
I little knew what gift I gave,
Nor yet what gift I took;
For life without and life within
Were each a sealed-up book.
But soon enough unfolding years
Brought sorrow, toil, and pain, - 
Brought disappointment's burning tears,
And yearnings wild and vain;
And then I learned what precious Gift
In Jesus I received
In that still hour of childish trust,
When my young heart believed.
'Twas then I knew what arm unseen
Was round me 'mid the strife,
The blighted hope, the toil uncheered,
The cold, rude storms of life;
And when the reeds on which I leaned
All failed me one by one,
I clasped my pierced and bleeding hands,
And wept, but not alone.
For He was near me midst the strife,
And, leaning on His arm,
I trod the thorny paths of life,
Safe sheltered from all harm;
The while He whispered to my heart,
"I gave my life for thee!
Then, heavy laden as thou art,
Cast all thy care on me!"
"On me! ON ME!" - oh, gentle word! - 
O Sympathy divine! - 
O Fount of joy, how deeply stirred,
Within this heart of mine! - 
O cool, sweet Waters, how ye stilled
The fever of my brain, - 
And soothed the heart-strings that had thrilled
With agonizing pain!
My own, - My Rock! - the heavy tide
May beat in uproar dread,
Calmly 'gainst its unmoving side
I rest my weary head; - 
For well I know how deep it strikes
Beneath the raging flood - 
My Soul's firm Anchor 'mid the strife,
My Refuge and my God!
Prayer to People
by Alfred Lichtenstein

I go through the days
Like a thief.
And no one hears
My heart lament to itself.
Please have pity.
Like me.
I hate you.
I want to embrace you.
To C. 33.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

(Oscar Wilde.)
I gazed upon thee desolate and heard
Thine anguished cry when fell the iron gin
That all but broke thy soul, yet gave thy word
The strength to ask forgiveness of thy sin.
I saw thee fleeing from the cruel light
Of thine own fame; I saw thee hide thy face
In alien dust to cover up the blight
Upon thy brow that time may yet erase.
I knew thy creed, although thy lips were mute;
I knew the gods thou didst not dare to own;
I knew the Upas poison at the root
Of thy last flower of song, in prison blown.
And out of all thy woe there came to me
This miracle of dogma, like a cry:
"No law but freedom for the vagrant bee--
No love but summer for the butterfly."
Lost Joy.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I had a daily bliss
I half indifferent viewed,
Till sudden I perceived it stir, --
It grew as I pursued,
Till when, around a crag,
It wasted from my sight,
Enlarged beyond my utmost scope,
I learned its sweetness right.
June.
by William Cullen Bryant

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
Within the silent ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat,
Away! I will not think of these,
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.
There through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is, that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
My Friend
by James Elroy Flecker

I had a friend who battled for the truth
With stubborn heart and obstinate despair,
Till all his beauty left him, and his youth,
And there were few to love him anywhere.
Then would he wander out among the graves,
And think of dead men lying in a row;
Or, standing on a cliff observe the waves,
And hear the wistful sound of winds below;
And yet they told him nothing. So he sought
The twittering forest at the break of day,
Or on fantastic mountains shaped a thought
As lofty and impenitent as they.
And next he went in wonder through a town
Slowly by day and hurriedly by night,
And watched men walking up the street and down
With timorous and terrible delight.
Weary, he drew man's wisdom from a book,
And pondered on the high words spoken of old,
Pacing a lamplit room: but soon forsook
The golden sentences that left him cold.
After, a woman found him, and his head
Lay on her breast, till he forgot his pain
In gentle kisses on a midnight bed,
And welcomed royal-winged joy again.
When love became a loathing, as it must,
He knew not where to turn; and he was wise,
Being now old, to sink among the dust,
And rest his rebel heart, and close his eyes.
Our Oldest Friend
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I give you the health of the oldest friend
That, short of eternity, earth can lend, - 
A friend so faithful and tried and true
That nothing can wean him from me and you.
When first we screeched in the sudden blaze
Of the daylight's blinding and blasting rays,
And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air,
This old, old friend stood waiting there.
And when, with a kind of mortal strife,
We had gasped and choked into breathing life,
He watched by the cradle, day and night,
And held our hands till we stood upright.
From gristle and pulp our frames have grown
To stringy muscle and solid bone;
While we were changing, he altered not;
We might forget, but he never forgot.
He came with us to the college class, - 
Little cared he for the steward's pass!
All the rest must pay their fee,
Put the grim old dead-head entered free.
He stayed with us while we counted o'er
Four times each of the seasons four;
And with every season, from year to year,
The dear name Classmate he made more dear.
He never leaves us, - he never will,
Till our hands are cold and our hearts are still;
On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-Year's too,
He always remembers both me and you.
Every year this faithful friend
His little present is sure to send;
Every year, wheresoe'er we be,
He wants a keepsake from you and me.
How he loves us! he pats our heads,
And, lo! they are gleaming with silver threads;
And he 's always begging one lock of hair,
Till our shining crowns have nothing to wear.
At length he will tell us, one by one,
"My child, your labor on earth is done;
And now you must journey afar to see
My elder brother, - Eternity!"
And so, when long, long years have passed,
Some dear old fellow will be the last, - 
Never a boy alive but he
Of all our goodly company!
When he lies down, but not till then,
Our kind Class-Angel will drop the pen
That writes in the day-book kept above
Our lifelong record of faith and love.
So here's a health in homely rhyme
To our oldest classmate, Father Time!
May our last survivor live to be
As bald and as wise and as tough as he!
I Grieved For Buonaparte
by William Wordsworth

I Grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
Of that Man's mind, what can it be? what food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could 'he' gain?
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
I Had A Little Nut-Tree
by Walter Crane

I had a little nut-tree, nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear;
The King of Spain's daughter came to visit me,
And all for the sake of my little nut-tree.
Thou Shalt Not Kill
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And hands and features I was sick to death.
Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;
I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.
And he must with his blank face fill my life--
Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.
But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through
A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'
'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,
What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll
There is some living thing for whom this man
Is as seven heavens girt into a span,
For some one soul you take the world away--
Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'
Then I cast down the knife upon the ground
And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.
I turned and laughed: for there was no one by--
The man that I had sought to slay was I.
San Lorenzo Giustiniani's Mother
by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

I had not seen my son's dear face
(He chose the cloister by God's grace)
Since it had come to full flower-time.
I hardly guessed at its perfect prime,
That folded flower of his dear face.
Mine eyes were veiled by mists of tears
When on a day in many years
One of his Order came.    I thrilled,
Facing, I thought, that face fulfilled.
I doubted, for my mists of tears.
His blessing be with me for ever!
My hope and doubt were hard to sever.
--That altered face, those holy weeds.
I filled his wallet and kissed his beads,
And lost his echoing feet for ever.
If to my son my alms were given
I know not, and I wait for Heaven.
He did not plead for child of mine,
But for another Child divine,
And unto Him it was surely given.
There is One alone who cannot change;
Dreams are we, shadows, visions strange;
And all I give is given to One.
I might mistake my dearest son,
But never the Son who cannot change.
Words
by William Butler Yeats

I had this thought a while ago,
"My darling cannot understand
What I have done, or what would do
In this blind bitter land."
And I grew weary of the sun
Until my thoughts cleared up again,
Remembering that the best I have done
Was done to make it plain;
That every year I have cried, "At length
My darling understands it all,
Because I have come into my strength,
And words obey my call";
That had she done so who can say
What would have shaken from the sieve?
I might have thrown poor words away
And been content to live.
The Unwed Mother To The Wife
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I had been almost happy for an hour,
Lost to the world that knew me in the park
Among strange faces; while my little girl
Leaped with the squirrels, chirruped with the birds
And with the sunlight glowed.    She was so dear,
So beautiful, so sweet; and for the time
The rose of love, shorn of its thorn of shame,
Bloomed in my heart.    Then suddenly you passed.
I sat alone upon the public bench;
You, with your lawful husband, rode in state;
And when your eyes fell on me and my child,
They were not eyes, but daggers, poison tipped.
God! how good women slaughter with a look!
And, like cold steel, your glance cut through my heart,
Struck every petal from the rose of love
And left the ragged stalk alive with thorns.
My little one came running to my side
And called me Mother.    It was like a blow
Between the eyes; and made me sick with pain.
And then it seemed as if each bird and breeze
Took up the word, and changed its syllables
From Mother into Magdalene; and cried
My shame to all the world.
It was your eyes
Which did all this.    But listen now to me
(Not you alone, but all the barren wives
Who, like you, flaunt their virtue in the face
Of fallen women):    I do chance to know
The crimes you think are hidden from all men
(Save one who took your gold and sold his skill
And jeopardized his name for your base ends).
I know how you have sunk your soul in sense
Like any wanton; and refused to bear
The harvest of your pleasure-planted seed;
I know how you have crushed the tender bud
Which held a soul; how you have blighted it;
And made the holy miracle of birth
A wicked travesty of God's design;
Yea, many buds, which might be blossoms now
And beautify your selfish, arid life,
Have been destroyed, because you chose to keep
The aimless freedom, and the purposeless,
Self-seeking liberty of childless wives.
I was an untaught girl.    By nature led,
By love and passion blinded, I became
An unwed mother.    You, an honoured wife,
Refuse the crown of motherhood, defy
The laws of nature, and fling baby souls
Back in the face of God.    And yet you dare
Call me a sinner, and yourself a saint;
And all the world smiles on you, and its doors
Swing wide at your approach.
I stand outside.
Surely there must be higher courts than earth,
Where you and I will some day meet and be
Weighed by a larger justice.
Anticipation.[1]
by Thomas Hood

"Coming events cast their shadow before."
I had a vision in the summer light - 
Sorrow was in it, and my inward sight
Ached with sad images. The touch of tears
Gushed down my cheeks: - the figured woes of years
Casting their shadows across sunny hours.
Oh, there was nothing sorrowful in flowers
Wooing the glances of an April sun,
Or apple blossoms opening one by one
Their crimson bosoms - or the twittered words
And warbled sentences of merry birds; - 
Or the small glitter and the humming wings
Of golden flies and many colored things - 
Oh, these were nothing sad - nor to see Her,
Sitting beneath the comfortable stir
Of early leaves - casting the playful grace
Of moving shadows in so fair a face - 
Nor in her brow serene - nor in the love
Of her mild eyes drinking the light above
With a long thirst - nor in her gentle smile - 
Nor in her hand that shone blood-red the while
She raised it in the sun. All these were dear
To heart and eye - but an invisible fear
Shook in the trees and chilled upon the air,
And if one spot was laughing brightest - there
My soul most sank and darkened in despair! - 
As if the shadows of a curtained room
Haunted me in the sun - as if the bloom
Of early flow'rets had no sweets for me,
Nor apple blossoms any blush to see - 
As if the hour had brought too bright a day - 
And little birds were all too gay! - too gay! - 
As if the beauty of that Lovely One
Were all a fable. - Full before the sun
Stood Death and cast a shadow long before,
Like a dark pall enshrouding her all o'er,
Till eyes, and lips, and smiles, were all no more!
On Opening An Old School Volume Of Horace
by Madison Julius Cawein

I had forgot how, in my day
The Sabine fields around me lay
In amaranth and asphodel,
With many a cold Bandusian well
Bright-bubbling by the mountain-way.
In forest dells of Faun and Fay
How, lounging in the fountain's spray,
I talked with Horace; felt his spell,
I had forgot.
With Pyrrha and with Lydia
How oft I sat, while Lalaga
Sang, and the fine Falerian fell,
Sparkling, and heard the poet tell
Of loves whose beauty lasts for aye,
I had forgot.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXXVII. Relics.
by Unknown

I had a little moppet,
I put it in my pocket,
And fed it with corn and hay;
Then came a proud beggar,
And swore he would have her,
And stole little moppet away.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXIV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

[This nursery song may probably commemorate a part of Tom Thumb's history, extant in a Little Danish work, treating of 'Swain Tomling, a man no bigger than a thumb, who would be    married to a woman three ells and three quarters long.' See Mr. Thoms' Preface to 'Tom & Lincoln,' p. xi.]
I had a little husband,
No bigger than my thumb;
I put him in a pint pot,
And there I bid him drum.
I bought a little horse,
That galloped up and down;
I bridled him, and saddled him,
And sent him out of town.
I gave him some garters,
To garter up his hose,
And a little handkerchief,
To wipe his pretty nose.