DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
What The Snake Saw (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)
by James Stephens

A little girl and a big ugly man
Went down the road.    The girl was crying
And asking to go home, but when she ran
He hit her on the head and sent her flying,
And called her a young imp, and said he'd break
Her neck unless she went with him, and then
He smacked her on the cheek., I was a snake
At that time crawling through a robber's den,
And diamonds were sticking to my tongue, 
(That's the best dodge), but when I saw the way
He beat the little girl I up and flung
A stone at him.    My aim was bad that day
Because I hit the girl ... and she did sing!
But he jumped round and cursed like anything.
The Drunkard's Child
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

A little child stood moaning
At the hour of midnight lone,
And no human ear was list'ning
To the feebly wailing tone;
The cold, keen blast of winter
With funeral wail swept by,
And the blinding snow fell darkly
Through the murky, wintry sky.
Ah! desolate and wretched
Was the drunkard's outcast child,
Driven forth; amidst the horrors
Of that night of tempests wild.
The babe so fondly cherished
Once 'neath a parent's eye,
Now laid her down in anguish
Midst the drifting snows to die!
"Papa! - papa!" - she murmured,
"The night is cold and drear,
And I'm freezing! - Oh, I'm freezing!
In the storm and darkness here; - 
My naked feet are stiff'ning,
And my little hands are numb, - 
Papa, can I not come to thee,
And warm myself at home?
"Mamma! mamma!" - more wildly,
The little suff'rer cried - 
Forgetting, in her anguish,
How her stricken mother died - 
"Oh, take me to your bosom,
And warm me on your breast,
Then lay me down and kiss me,
In my little bed to rest!"
Poor child! - the sleep that gathers
Thy stiffened eyelids o'er,
Will know no weary waking
To a life of anguish more.
Sleep on! - the snows may gather
O'er thy cold and pulseless form - 
Thou art resting, calmly resting,
In the wild, dark, midnight storm
Envoi
by Kate Seymour Maclean

A little bird woke singing in the night,
Dreaming of coming day,
And piped, for very fulness of delight,
His little roundelay.
Dreaming he heard the wood-lark's carol loud,
Down calling to his mate,
Like silver rain out of a golden cloud,
At morning's radiant gate.
And all for joy of his embowering woods,
And dewy leaves he sung,--
The summer sunshine, and the summer floods
By forest flowers o'erhung.
Thou shalt not hear those wild and sylvan notes
When morn's full chorus pours
Rejoicing from a thousand feathered throats,
And the lark sings and soars,
Oh poet of our glorious land so fair,
Whose foot is at the door;
Even so my song shall melt into the air,
And die and be no more.
But thou shalt live, part of the nation's life;
The world shall hear thy voice
Singing above the noise of war and strife,
And therefore I rejoice!
Ballad Of The Jelly-Cake
by Eugene Field

A little boy whose name was Tim
Once ate some jelly-cake for tea--
Which cake did not agree with him,
As by the sequel you shall see.
"My darling child," his mother said,
"Pray do not eat that jelly-cake,
For, after you have gone to bed,
I fear 't will make your stomach ache!"
But foolish little Tim demurred
Unto his mother's warning word.
That night, while all the household slept,
Tim felt an awful pain, and then
From out the dark a nightmare leapt
And stood upon his abdomen!
"I cannot breathe!" the infant cried--
"Oh, Mrs. Nightmare, pity take!"
"There is no mercy," she replied,
"For boys who feast on jelly-cake!"
And so, despite the moans of Tim,
The cruel nightmare went for him.
At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toes
Or roughly smite his baby cheek--
And now she 'd rudely tweak his nose
And other petty vengeance wreak;
And then, with hobnails in her shoes
And her two horrid eyes aflame,
The mare proceeded to amuse
Herself by prancing o'er his frame---
First to his throbbing brow, and then
Back to his little feet again.
At last, fantastic, wild, and weird,
And clad in garments ghastly grim,
A scowling hoodoo band appeared
And joined in worrying little Tim.
Each member of this hoodoo horde
Surrounded Tim with fierce ado
And with long, cruel gimlets bored
His aching system through and through,
And while they labored all night long
The nightmare neighed a dismal song.
Next morning, looking pale and wild,
Poor little Tim emerged from bed--
"Good gracious! what can ail the child!"
His agitated mother said.
"We live to learn," responded he,
"And I have lived to learn to take
Plain bread and butter for my tea,
And never, never, jelly-cake!
For when my hulk with pastry teems,
I must _expect_ unpleasant dreams!"
On The Death Of Richard Doyle
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

A light of blameless laughter, fancy-bred,
Soft-souled and glad and kind as love or sleep,
Fades, and sweet mirth's own eyes are fain to weep
Because her blithe and gentlest bird is dead.
Weep, elves and fairies all, that never shed
Tear yet for mortal mourning: you that keep
The doors of dreams whence nought of ill may creep,
Mourn once for one whose lips your honey fed.
Let waters of the Golden River steep
The rose-roots whence his grave blooms rosy-red
And murmuring of Hybl'an hives be deep
About the summer silence of its bed,
And nought less gracious than a violet peep
Between the grass grown greener round his head.
The Lion Grown Old.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A lion, mourning, in his age, the wane
Of might once dreaded through his wild domain,
Was mock'd, at last, upon his throne,
By subjects of his own,
Strong through his weakness grown.
The horse his head saluted with a kick;
The wolf snapp'd at his royal hide;
The ox, too, gored him in the side;
The unhappy lion, sad and sick,
Could hardly growl, he was so weak.
In uncomplaining, stoic pride,
He waited for the hour of fate,
Until the ass approach'd his gate;
Whereat, 'This is too much,' he saith;
'I willingly would yield my breath;
But, ah! thy kick is double death!'
A Little Dog
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

A little dog disturbed my trust in Heaven.
I praised most faithfully
All the great things that be,
Man's pain and pleasure even,
I said though hard this weighing
Of pains and tears and praying
He will reward most just.
I said your bitter weeping man or maid,
Your tears or laughter
Shall gain a just Hereafter;
Meet you the will of God then unafraid,
Gird you to your trials for God's abode
Is open for all sorrow;
Live for the great to-morrow.
There passed me on the road
A little dog with hungry eyes, and sad
Thin flesh all shivering,
All sore and quivering,
Whining beneath the fell disease he had.
I hurried home and praised God as before
For thus affording
To man rewarding,
The dog was whining outside my door.
I flung it wide, and said, Come enter in,
Outcast of God.
Beneath His rod
You suffer sore, poor beast, that had no sin.
Not at my door then must you cry complaining
Your lot unjust,
But His who thrust
You from His door your body maiming.
Not mine the pleasure that you bear this pain,
Hurled into being
Without hope of freeing
By grief and patience a soul for any gain.
Thus I reproached God while I tended
The sores to healing
A voice stealing
And whispering out of the beast I friended,
Said, 'God had quickened my flesh, bestowing
Joys without measure,
Made for its pleasure,
An Eden's garden for ever glowing.
Gave me to Man, his care and protection
To gain and to give,
And bid us so live
In united bonds of help and affection.
'Man wrecked our garden, so we were hurled
Out from the skies
Of Paradise
Into the sorrows of a weeping world.
He forgets my care, I, as God has said,
Give still affection
For that connection
Which into all our bodies life has breathed.
'And why are you abusing God, and praising
With mock effacement
And false abasement
Your own heart's kindness, deeming it amazing
That you should do this duty for my sake,
Which is His bidding,
Nor blame for ridding
Himself of me, your neighbour, he who spake hard words,
Hard words and drove me forth all sore and ill?'
Thus while I tended
This dog I friended
Gave back my faith in Heaven by God's will.
Queen Mab.
by Thomas Hood

A little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,
With silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.
She has a little silver wand,
And when a good child goes to bed
She waves her wand from right to left,
And makes a circle round its head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish;
Of arbors filled with dainty scents
From lovely flowers that never fade;
Bright flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worms shining in the shade.
And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed,
From left to right she weaves her rings,
And then it dreams all through the night
Of only ugly horrid things!
Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,
To shed the blood of girls and boys.
Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
Or raging flames come scorching round,
Fierce dragons hover in the air,
And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away;
But good ones love the dark, and find
The night as pleasant as the day.
The Lion, The Wolf, And The Fox.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A lion, old, and impotent with gout,
Would have some cure for age found out.
Impossibilities, on all occasions,
With kings, are rank abominations.
This king, from every species, - 
For each abounds in every sort, - 
Call'd to his aid the leeches.
They came in throngs to court,
From doctors of the highest fee
To nostrum-quacks without degree, - 
Advised, prescribed, talk'd learnedly;
But with the rest
Came not Sir Cunning Fox, M.D.
Sir Wolf the royal couch attended,
And his suspicions there express'd.
Forthwith his majesty, offended,
Resolved Sir Cunning Fox should come,
And sent to smoke him from his home.
He came, was duly usher'd in,
And, knowing where Sir Wolf had been,
Said, 'Sire, your royal ear
Has been abused, I fear,
By rumours false and insincere;
To wit, that I've been self-exempt
From coming here, through sheer contempt.
But, sire, I've been on pilgrimage,
By vow expressly made,
Your royal health to aid,
And, on my way, met doctors sage,
In skill the wonder of the age,
Whom carefully I did consult
About that great debility
Term'd in the books senility,
Of which you fear, with reason, the result.
You lack, they say, the vital heat,
By age extreme become effete.
Drawn from a living wolf, the hide
Should warm and smoking be applied.
The secret's good, beyond a doubt,
For nature's weak, and wearing out.
Sir Wolf, here, won't refuse to give
His hide to cure you, as I live.'
The king was pleased with this advice.
Flay'd, jointed, served up in a trice,
Sir Wolf first wrapp'd the monarch up,
Then furnish'd him whereon to sup.
Beware, ye courtiers, lest ye gain,
By slander's arts, less power than pain;
For in the world where ye are living,
A pardon no one thinks of giving.
Tenebris Interlucentem
by James Elroy Flecker

A linnet who had lost her way
Sang on a blackened bough in Hell,
Till all the ghosts remembered well
The trees, the wind, the golden day.
At last they knew that they had died
When they heard music in that land,
And someone there stole forth a hand
To draw a brother to his side.
Plagues (Prose)
by John Hartley

A lecture on this subject was delivered on Tuesday evening, to the members of the Ladies' Needle and Thimble Association, by the Rev. James Sleek, curate of St. Enock's-in-the-Mist. After adverting to the plagues of Egypt, the learned lecturer dwelt at length upon the plagues of the present day, which he classed under the following heads: - Servants, poor relations, borrowers, teetotallars, tobacco-smokers, and children in arms. To counteract these evils were such associations as the one he had the honor to address, select tea meetings, fancy bazaars, and perambulators. The lecture gave great satisfaction.
The Chimney-sweeper (Songs Of Experience )
by William Blake

A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon the heath.
And smil'd among the winters snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death.
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy. & dance & sing.
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,
Who made up a heaven of our misery.
The Vale To You, To Me The Heights. - A Fable.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

[Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.]
A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird
Of Jove to drink:
When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd,
The moistened brink,
Beneath the palm - they always tempt pugnacious hands - 
Both travel-sore;
But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands
Straight to each core;
As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call
Of Eagle shrill:
"Yon crown'd couple, who supposed the world too small,
Now one grave fill!
Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleach'd sapless bone
Becomes a pipe
Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone
By quail and snipe.
Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid,
And mortal feud?
I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo - none afraid - 
In solitude:
At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood.
Kings, he and I;
For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood,
And he to me the sky."
H.L.W.
The Trip to the Mental Hospital (II)
by Alfred Lichtenstein

A little girl crouches with her little brother
Next to an overturned barrel of water.
In rags, a beast of a person lies gulping food
Like a cigarette butt on the yellow sun.
Two skinny goats stand in broad green spaces
On pegs, and their ropes sometimes tighten.
Invisible behind monstrous trees
Unbelievably at peace the huge horror approaches.
Lion, Fox, And Gander.
by John Gay

A lion, sick of pomp and state,
Resolved his cares to delegate.
Reynard was viceroy named - the crowd
Of courtiers to the regent bowed;
Wolves, bears, and tigers stoop and bend,
And strive who most could condescend;
Whilst he, with wisdom in his face,
Assumed the regal grace and pace.
Whilst flattery hovered him around,
And the pleased ear in thraldom bound,
A fox, well versed in adulation,
Rose to pronounce the due oration:
"Vast talents, trained in virtue's school,
With clemency, from passion cool - 
And uncorrupted - such a hand
Will shed abundance o'er the land.
The brain shall prompt the wiser part,
Mercy and justice rule the heart;
All blessings must attend the nation
Under such bright administration."
A gander heard and understood,
And summoned round his gosling brood:
"Whene'er you hear a rogue commended,
Be sure some mischief is intended;
A fox now spoke in commendation - 
Foxes no doubt will rise in station;
If they hold places, it is plain
The geese will feel a tyrant reign.
'Tis a sad prospect for our race
When every petty clerk in place
Will follow fashion, and ne'er cease
On holidays to feed on geese."
The Early Bird.
by George MacDonald

A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;
Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
Day-long she had worked almost without rest,
And had filled every one of their gibbous crops;
Her own she had filled just over-full,
And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.
"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head
Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all,
Looking like an apple on a feather-bed
Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball,
"What's to be done if things don't reform?
I cannot tell where there is one more worm!
"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each,
Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders:
Who will dare say I don't do as I preach?
I set an example to all providers!
But what's the use? We want a storm:
I don't know where there's a single worm!"
"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird
Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain;
"I know where there's five!" And with the word
He tucked in his head and went off again.
"The folly of childhood," sighed his mother,
"Has always been my especial bother!"
Careless the yellow-beaks slept on,
They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow;
The mother sat outside making her moan--
"I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow!
I have always to say, the night before,
Where shall I find one red worm more!"
Her case was this, she had gobbled too many,
And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight:
A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any!
Could she but get of the great worm-store sight!
The eastern sky was growing red
Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.
Just then, the fellow who knew of five,
Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks,
Woke, and stirred, and felt alive:
"To-day," he said, "I am up to six!
But my mother feels in her lot the crook--
What if I tried my own little hook!"
When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes
As if she had dreamed that she was a mole:
Could she believe them? "What a huge prize
That child is dragging out of its hole!"
The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third!
And here is a fable to catch the bird!
The Little Fish And The Fisher.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A little fish will grow,
If life be spared, a great;
But yet to let him go,
And for his growing wait,
May not be very wise,
As 'tis not sure your bait
Will catch him when of size.
Upon a river bank, a fisher took
A tiny troutling from his hook.
Said he, ''Twill serve to count, at least,
As the beginning of my feast;
And so I'll put it with the rest.'
This little fish, thus caught,
His clemency besought.
'What will your honour do with me?
I'm not a mouthful, as you see.
Pray let me grow to be a trout,
And then come here and fish me out.
Some alderman, who likes things nice,
Will buy me then at any price.
But now, a hundred such you'll have to fish,
To make a single good-for-nothing dish.'
'Well, well, be it so,' replied the fisher,
'My little fish, who play the preacher,
The frying-pan must be your lot,
Although, no doubt, you like it not:
I fry the fry that can be got.'
In some things, men of sense
Prefer the present to the future tense.
The Lake.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

A limpid lake, a diamond gem,
The moonbeams kissed with light;
And all the stars that heaven knew
Were mirrored in the night.
How fair the world, how fair the night,
When lake and river run
Like jeweled streams of fairy land
Beneath a silver sun.
The lake grew proud and claimed each star
That lay upon her breast;
"Ah! they are mine," she said; "these gems
That in my bosom rest.
"And yonder moon, that sails on high,
Doth shine for me alone;
Beneath the foam that crests my waves
Is built her silver throne."
A star-king knelt and kissed the waves
That swept the shadowed shore;
"Our moon is queen of heaven," he said,
"Is queen forevermore.
A thousand lakes are hers by night,
A thousand lakes of light;
A thousand rivers kiss her feet,
A thousand rivers bright.
"Then be not vain, thou lakelet small,
The moon is not for thee;
Her home is in the river wide,
Her throne is in the sea."
The bright waves swept the silent shore,
The star-king crept away;
Yet calm and fair, still unconvinced,
The lake in silence lay.
The moon, that swept her silvery light
Far o'er the waters wide,
Belonged to her, and all the stars
That floated side by side.
Ah! silver lake, too well we know
How like we are to thee;
A thousand truths are in the world
That we may never see!
The Chimney Sweeper
by William Blake

A little black thing in the snow,
Crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? Say!"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.
"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."
Love
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn.
Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn.
I had not dreamed that I could turn away
From all that men with brush and pen had wrought;
But ever since that memorable day
When to my heart the truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought.
The Little Cock-Sparrow
by Walter Crane

1
A little cock-sparrow sat on a high tree,
A little cock-sparrow sat on a high tree,
A little cock-sparrow sat on a high tree,
And he chirrupped, he chirrupped so merrily.
He chirrupped, he chirrupped, he chirrupped, he chirrupped,
He chirrupped, he chirrupped, he chirrupped, he chirrupped,
A little cock-sparrow sat on a high tree,
And he chirrupped, he chirrupped so merrily.
2 
A naughty little boy with a bow and arrow,
Determined to shoot this little cock-sparrow;
3 
For this little cock-sparrow would make a nice stew,
And his giblets would make a nice little pie too.
4 
"Oh, no," says cock-sparrow, "I won't make a stew,"
And he fluttered his wings, and away he flew.
The Vampire
by Madison Julius Cawein

A lily in a twilight place?
A moonflow'r in the lonely night? - 
Strange beauty of a woman's face
Of wildflow'r-white!
The rain that hangs a star's green ray
Slim on a leaf-point's restlessness,
Is not so glimmering green and gray
As was her dress.
I drew her dark hair from her eyes,
And in their deeps beheld a while
Such shadowy moonlight as the skies
Of Hell may smile.
She held her mouth up redly wan,
And burning cold, - I bent and kissed
Such rosy snow as some wild dawn
Makes of a mist.
God shall not take from me that hour,
When round my neck her white arms clung!
When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,
Her white throat swung!
Or words she murmured while she leaned!
Witch-words, she holds me softly by, - 
The spell that binds me to a fiend
Until I die.
Child And Father
by Madison Julius Cawein

A Little child, one night, awoke and cried,
"Oh, help me, father! there is something wild
Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side
I answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."
"A dream?" he questioned."Oh, I could not see!
It was so dark! Take me into your bed!"
And I, who loved him, held him soothingly,
And smiling on his terror, comforted.
He nestled in my arms. I held him fast;
And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears,
Until he smiled again, asleep at last,
Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....
How like a child the world! who, in this night
Of strife, beholds strange monsters threatening;
And with black fear, having so little light,
Cries to its Father, God, for comforting.
And well for it, if, answering the call,
The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!
How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall,
Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.
Pains Without Profit.
by Robert Herrick

A long life's-day I've taken pains
For very little, or no gains;
The evening's come, here now I'll stop,
And work no more, but shut up shop.
Villanelle Of Marguerite's
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

"A little, passionately, not at all?"
She casts the snowy petals on the air:
And what care we how many petals fall!
Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall?
It is but playing, and she will not care,
A little, passionately, not at all!
She would not answer us if we should call
Across the years: her visions are too fair;
And what care we how many petals fall!
She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall
With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair,
A little, passionately, not at all!
Knee-deep she goes in meadow grasses tall,
Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear:
And what care we how many petals fall!
We pass and go: but she shall not recall
What men we were, nor all she made us bear:
"A little, passionately, not at all!"
And what care we how many petals fall!
"A Little Road Not Made Of Man,"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself,
'T is that I cannot say;
I only sigh, -- no vehicle
Bears me along that way.