DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Old Paul And Old Tim
by William Schwenck Gilbert

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why HE should be pitched upon rather than HIM.
This wasn't the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.
No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either or marrying both.
They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes 
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.
Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young EMILY. Let us get on.
No coward's blood ran in young EMILY'S veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."
He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise 
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee 
For an eminent army-contractor was he.
So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she'd marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.
They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.
The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn't care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.
Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
"I'll cover myself with cheap glory I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!
"The German invader is ravaging France
With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,
And beautiful Paris is fighting her best
To shake herself free from her terrible guest.
"The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,
Have all run away from the summons to arms;
They haven't the pluck of a pigeon I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!"
Old TIMOTHY tried it and found it succeed:
That day he caused many French noses to bleed;
Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,
And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.
He took care to abstain from employing his fist
On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;
A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,
But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.
Old TIM and Old PAUL, with the list of their foes,
Prostrated themselves at their EMILY'S toes:
"Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?"
And EMILY answered and EMILY said:
"Old TIM has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores,
Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;
Old PAUL has made little chaps' noses to bleed 
Old PAUL has accomplished the pluckier deed!"
The Alpine Horn.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

When rainbow hues of closing day
O'er evening's portals faintly play,
The Alpine horn calls far away,
"Praised be the Lord."
And every hill and rock around,
As though they loved the grateful sound,
Send back, 'mid solitudes profound,
"Praised be the Lord."
O God! has man so thankless grown,
He brings no anthems to thy throne,
When voiceless things have found a tone
To praise the Lord?
Ah no! for, see, the shepherds come,
Though hardly heard the welcome home;
From toil of day they quickly come
To worship God.
The look that taught their hearts to bow,
And childhood's laugh and sunny brow,
All, all by them forgotten now
In praise to God.
Kneeling the starry vault beneath,
With spirits free as air they breathe,
Oh, pure should be their votive wreath
Of praise to God.
How glorious such a scene must be,
When prayer and praise ascend to Thee
In one glad voice of melody,
Eternal Lord!
All space thy temple, and the air
A viewless messenger, to bear
Creation's holy vesper prayer
On wings to Heaven.
Oh, that for me some Alpine horn,
Both closing eve and wak'ning morn,
Would sound, and bid my bosom scorn
The world's vain joys;
Its treasured idols all resign,
That, when Life's cheating hues decline,
The one undying thought be mine,
To praise the Lord!
The April Shower. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,
Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.
She sees no rainbow in the sky,
But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.
But God, who comforts want and age,
Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.
A Screw Lawse.
by John Hartley

When rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin,
Ther's summat 'at connot be reight.
Wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin
For want ov sufficient to ait.
Ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine,
An if left to goa on varry long,
Ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been,
When gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong.
Discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst,
In a flame 'at ther efforts will mock;
An they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate,
Ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock.
Lines Written In Windsor Park.
by Charles Churchill

When Pope to Satire gave its lawful way,
And made the Nimrods of Mankind his prey;
When haughty Windsor heard through every wood
Their shame, who durst be great, yet not be good;
Who, drunk with power, and with ambition blind,
Slaves to themselves, and monsters to mankind,
Sinking the man, to magnify the prince,
Were heretofore, what Stuarts have been since:
Could he have look'd into the womb of Time,
How might his spirit in prophetic rhyme,
Inspired by virtue, and for freedom bold,
Matters of different import have foretold!
How might his Muse, if any Muse's tongue
Could equal such an argument, have sung
One William,[1] who makes all mankind his care,
And shines the saviour of his country there!
One William, who to every heart gives law;
The son of George, the image of Nassau!
Songs Of Education: VI. Hygiene
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Form 394411102, Sub-Section X
"All practical Eugenists are agreed on the importance of sleep."--The Eugenic Congress.
When Science taught mankind to breathe
A little while ago,
Only a wise and thoughtful few
Were really in the know:
Nor could the Youth his features wreathe,
Puffing from all the lungs beneath:
When Duty whispered softly "Breathe!"
The Youth would answer "Blow!"
When Science proved with lucid care
The need of Exercise,
Our thoughtless Youth was climbing trees
Or lightly blacking eyes:
To reckless idlers breaking bounds
For football or for hare-and-hounds,
Or fighting hard for fourteen rounds,
It came as a surprise.
But when she boldly counsels Sleep
To persons when in bed,
Then, then indeed men blush to see
The daybreak blushing red:
The early risers whom we term
Healthy, grow sickly and infirm;
The Early Bird who caught the Worm
Will catch the Germ instead.
For this at least be Science praised
If all the rest be rot,
That now she snubs the priggish child
That quits too soon his cot:
The pharisaic pachyderm
Of spiritual pride shall squirm:
The Early Bird catches the worm,
The Worm that dieth not.
Absence
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

When she had left us but a little while
Methought I sensed her spirit here and there
About my house: upon the empty stair
Her robe brusht softly; o'er her chamber still
There lay her fragrant presence to beguile
Numb heart, dead heart. I knelt before her chair,
And praying felt her hand laid on my hair,
Felt her sweet breath, and guess'd her wistful smile.
Then thro' my tears I lookt about the room,
But she was gone. I heard my heart beat fast;
The street was silent; I could not see her now.
Sorrow and I took up our load, and past
To where our station was with heads bent low,
And autumn's death-moan shiver'd thro' the gloom.
The Dancing Heart
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

When she came she said:
You know that your love is granted,
Why is your heart trembling?
And I:
You are bringing joy for my heart
And so my heart is dancing.
From the Arabic of Urak El Hutail.
Prologue to The Duchess of Malfy
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

When Shakespeare soared from life to death, above
All praise, all adoration, save of love,
As here on earth above all men he stood
That were or are or shall be, great, and good,
Past thank or thought of England or of man,
Light from the sunset quickened as it ran.
His word, who sang as never man may sing
And spake as never voice of man may ring,
Not fruitless fell, as seed on sterile ways,
But brought forth increase even to Shakespeare's praise.
Our skies were thrilled and filled, from sea to sea,
With stars outshining all their suns to be.
No later light of tragic song they knew
Like his whose lightning clove the sunset through.
Half Shakespeare's glory, when his hand sublime
Bade all the change of tragic life and time
Live, and outlive all date of quick and dead,
Fell, rested, and shall rest on Webster's head.
Round him the shadows cast on earth by light
Rose, changed, and shone, transfiguring death and night.
Where evil only crawled and hissed and slew
On ways where nought save shame and bloodshed grew,
He bade the loyal light of honour live,
And love, when stricken through the heart, forgive.
Deep down the midnight of the soul of sin
He lit the star of mercy throned therein.
High up the darkness of sublime despair
He set the sun of love to triumph there.
Things foul or frail his touch made strong and pure,
And bade things transient like to stars endure.
Terror, on wings whose flight made night in heaven,
Pity, with hands whence life took love for leaven,
Breathed round him music whence his mortal breath
Drew life that bade forgetfulness and death
Die: life that bids his light of fiery fame
Endure with England's, yea, with Shakespeare's name.
When Severn's Sweeping Flood Had Overthrown
by William Wordsworth

When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown
St. Mary's Church, the preacher then would cry:
"Thus, Christian people, God his might hath shown
That ye to him your love may testify;
Haste, and rebuild the pile." But not a stone
Resumed its place. Age after age went by,
And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety
In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan.
But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim
In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice;
Let the new Church be worthy of its aim,
That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice!
Oh! in the past if cause there was for shame,
Let not our times halt in their better choice.
G. K. Chesterton
by Oliver Herford

When Plain Folk, such as you or I,
See the Sun sinking in the sky,
We think it is the Setting Sun,
But Mr. Gilbert Chesterton
Is not so easily misled.
He calmly stands upon his head,
And upside down obtains a new
And Chestertonian point of view,
Observing thus, how from his toes
The sun creeps nearer to his nose,
He cries with wonder and delight,
"How Grand the SUNRISE is to-night!"
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLII. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

When shall we be married,
My dear Nicholas Wood?
We will be married on Monday,
And will not that be very good?
What, shall we be married no sooner?
Why sure the man's gone wood![*]
What shall we have for our dinner,
My dear Nicholas Wood?
We will have bacon and pudding,
And will not that be very good?
What, shall we have nothing more?
Why sure the man's gone wood!
Who shall we have at our wedding,
My dear Nicholas Wood?
We will have mammy and daddy,
And will not that be very good?
What, shall we have nobody else?
Why sure the man's gone wood!
A Catch.
by Madison Julius Cawein

When roads are mired with ice and snow,
And the air of morn is crisp with rime;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And bells ring in the CHRISTMAS time: - 
It's - Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,
To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!
Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring - 
A man's strong love and a wedding-ring - 
It's - Saddle, my Heart, and ride!
When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,
And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And the CHRISTMAS service is sung and said: - 
It's - Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,
Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,
For the gifts that the church now gives to you - 
A woman's hand and a heart that's true.
It's - Come, O my Heart, and wait!
When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,
And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And CHRISTMAS revels begin again: - 
It's - Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!
And her happy breast to your own held fast;
A song to sing and a tale to tell,
A good-night kiss, and all is well.
It's - Home, O my Heart, and love!
Queen Djenira
by Walter De La Mare

When Queen Djenira slumbers through
The sultry noon's repose,
From out her dreams, as soft she lies,
A faint thin music flows.
Her lovely hands lie narrow and pale
With gilded nails, her head
Couched in its banded nets of gold
Lies pillowed on her bed.
The little Nubian boys who fan
Her cheeks and tresses clear,
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voices
Seem afar to hear.
They slide their eyes, and nodding, say,
"Queen Djenira walks to-day
The courts of the lord Pthamasar
Where the sweet birds of Psuthys are."
And those of earth about her porch
Of shadow cool and grey
Their sidelong beaks in silence lean,
And silent flit away.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XLI.
by Thomas Moore

When Spring adorns the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,
As o'er the scented mead it flies!
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to burst in tears of wine;
And with some maid, who breathes but love,
To walk, at noontide, through the grove,
Or sit in some cool, green recess--
Oh, is this not true happiness?
Doubts
by Rupert Brooke

When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
Goes a wanderer on the air,
Wings where I may never go,
Leaves her lying, still and fair,
Waiting, empty, laid aside,
Like a dress upon a chair. . . .
This I know, and yet I know
Doubts that will not be denied.
For if the soul be not in place,
What has laid trouble in her face?
And, sits there nothing ware and wise
Behind the curtains of her eyes,
What is it, in the self's eclipse,
Shadows, soft and passingly,
About the corners of her lips,
The smile that is essential she?
And if the spirit be not there,
Why is fragrance in the hair?
After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. Love's Triumph Over Death.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Quand' el ministro de' sospir.
When she who was the source of all my sighs,
Fled from the world, herself, my straining sight,
Nature who gave us that unique delight,
Was sunk in shame, and we had weeping eyes.
Yet shall not vauntful Death enjoy this prize,
This sun of suns which then he veiled in night;
For Love hath triumphed, lifting up her light
On earth and mid the saints in Paradise.
What though remorseless and impiteous doom
Deemed that the music of her deeds would die,
And that her splendour would be sunk in gloom,
The poet's page exalts her to the sky
With life more living in the lifeless tomb,
And death translates her soul to reign on high.
An Epitaph.
by Herman Melville

When Sunday tidings from the front
Made pale the priest and people,
And heavily the blessing went,
And bells were dumb in the steeple;
The Soldier's widow (summering sweerly here,
In shade by waving beeches lent)
Felt deep at heart her faith content,
And priest and people borrowed of her cheer.
Fragment: 'When Soft Winds And Sunny Skies'.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

When soft winds and sunny skies
With the green earth harmonize,
And the young and dewy dawn,
Bold as an unhunted fawn,
Up the windless heaven is gone, -
Laugh - for ambushed in the day, -
Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey.
Macer : A Character
by Alexander Pope

When simple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd short, nor since has write a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.
The Burial
by Rudyard Kipling

(C. F. Rhodes, buried in the Matoppos, April 10, 1902)
When that great Kings return to clay,
Or Emperors in their pride,
Grief of a day shall fill a day,
Because its creature died.
But we, we reckon not with those
Whom the mere Fates ordain,
This Power that wrought on us and goes
Back to the Power again.
Dreamer devout, by vision led
Beyond our guess or reach,
The travail of his spirit bred
Cities in place of speech.
So huge the all-mastering thought that drove,
So brief the term allowed,
Nations, not words, he linked to prove
His faith before the crowd.
It is his will that he look forth
Across the world he won,
The granite of the ancient North,
Great spaces washed with sun.
There shall he patient take his seat
(As when the Death he dared),
And there await a people's feet
In the paths that he prepared.
There, till the vision he foresaw
Splendid and whole arise,
And unimagined Empires draw
To council 'neath his skies,
The immense and brooding Spirit still
Shall quicken and control.
Living he was the land, and dead,
His soul shall be her soul!
When My Sweet Lady Sings
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When she, my lady, smiles,
I feel as one who, lost in darksome wilds,
Sees suddenly the sun in middle sky
Shining upon him like a great glad eye.
When my sweet lady smiles.
When she, my lady laughs,
I feel as one who some elixir quaffs;
Some nameless nectar, made of wines of suns,
And through my veins a subtle iveresse runs.
When my sweet lady laughs.
And when my lady talks,
I am as one who by a brooklet walks,
Some sweet-tongued brooklet, which the whole long day,
Holds converse with the birds along the way.
When my loved lady talks.
And when my lady sings,
Oh then I hear the beat of silver wings;
All that is earthly from beneath me slips,
And in the liquid cadence of her lips
I float, so near the Infinite, I seem
Lost in the glory of a white starred dream.
When my sweet lady sings.
To Laura In Death. Canzone VI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quando il suave mio fido conforto.
SHE APPEARS TO HIM, AND, WITH MORE THAN WONTED AFFECTION, ENDEAVOURS TO CONSOLE HIM.
When she, the faithful soother of my pain,
This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer,
Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear,
With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain;
O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain,
I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?"
She from her beauteous breast
A branch of laurel and of palm displays,
And, answering, thus she says.
"From th' empyrean seat of holy love
Alone thy sorrows to console I move."
In actions, and in words, in humble guise
I speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it be
That thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she
"Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighs
Breathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise.
And there disturb thy blissful state serene;
So grievous hath it been,
That freed from this poor being, I at last
To a better life have pass'd,
Which should have joy'd thee hadst thou loved as well
As thy sad brow, and sadder numbers tell."
"Oh! not thy ills, I but deplore my own,
In darkness, and in grief remaining here,
Certain that thou hast reach'd the highest sphere,
As of a thing that man hath seen and known.
Would God and Nature to the world have shown
Such virtue in a young and gentle breast,
Were not eternal rest
The appointed guerdon of a life so fair?
Thou! of the spirits rare,
Who, from a course unspotted, pure and high,
Are suddenly translated to the sky.
"But I! how can I cease to weep? forlorn,
Without thee nothing, wretched, desolate!
Oh, in the cradle had I met my fate,
Or at the breast! and not to love been born!"
And she: "Why by consuming grief thus worn?
Were it not better spread aloft thy wings,
And now all mortal things,
With these thy sweet and idle fantasies,
At their just value prize,
And follow me, if true thy tender vows,
Gathering henceforth with me these honour'd boughs?"
Then answering her:--"Fain would I thou shouldst say
What these two verdant branches signify."
"Methinks," she says, "thou may'st thyself reply,
Whose pen has graced the one by many a lay.
The palm shows victory; and in youth's bright day
I overcame the world, and my weak heart:
The triumph mine in part,
Glory to Him who made my weakness strength!
And thou, yet turn at length!
'Gainst other powers his gracious aid implore,
That we may be with Him thy trial o'er!"
"Are these the crisped locks, and links of gold
That bind me still? And these the radiant eyes.
To me the Sun?" "Err not with the unwise,
Nor think," she says, "as they are wont. Behold
In me a spirit, among the blest enroll'd;
Thou seek'st what hath long been earth again:
Yet to relieve thy pain
'Tis given me thus to appear, ere I resume
That beauty from the tomb,
More loved, that I, severe in pity, win
Thy soul with mine to Heaven, from death and sin."
I weep; and she my cheek,
Soft sighing, with her own fair hand will dry;
And, gently chiding, speak
In tones of power to rive hard rocks in twain;
Then vanishing, sleep follows in her train.
DACRE.
Gloire De Dijon
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.
ICKING
Hymn
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

When storms arise
And dark'ning skies
About me threat'ning lower,
To thee, O Lord, I raise mine eyes,
To thee my tortured spirit flies
For solace in that hour.
The mighty arm
Will let no harm
Come near me nor befall me;
Thy voice shall quiet my alarm,
When life's great battle waxeth warm--
No foeman shall appall me.
Upon thy breast
Secure I rest,
From sorrow and vexation;
No more by sinful cares oppressed,
But in thy presence ever blest,
O God of my salvation.
To ---
by Joseph Rodman Drake

When that eye of light shall in darkness fall,
And thy bosom be shrouded in death's cold pall,
When the bloom of that rich red lip shall fade,
And thy head on its pillow of dust be laid;
Oh! then thy spirit shall see how true
Are the holy vows I have breathed to you;
My form shall moulder thy grave beside,
And in the blue heavens I'll seek my bride.
Then we'll tell, as we tread yon azure sphere,
Of the woes we have known while lingering here;
And our spirits shall joy that, their pilgrimage o'er,
They have met in the heavens to sever no more.
A Song.
by John Carr (Sir)

When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend,
And with their weight the lily bend,
The Sun will soon his aid bestow,
And drink the drops that laid it low.
Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart,
A sigh may rise, a tear may start;
Pity shall soon the face impress
With all its looks of happiness.