DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
From Anacreon. Ode 3.
by George Gordon Byron

[Greek: Mesonuktiois poth hopais, k.t.l.] [1]
Ode 3.
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bo'tes, only, seem'd to roll 
His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, - 
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale, 
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow: - 
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd: - 
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"
Love And Reason.
by Thomas Moore

Quand l'homme commence ' raissonner,
il cesse de sentir.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.
'Twas in the summer time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That--who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!
Love told his dream of yesternight,
While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.
The boy in many a gambol flew,
While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
A lengthened shadow, as she walked.
No wonder Love, as on they past,
Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast
Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.
In vain he tried his wings to warm.
Or find a pathway not so dim
For still the maid's gigantic form
Would stalk between the sun and him.
"This must not be," said little Love--
"The sun was made for more than you."
So, turning through a myrtle grove,
He bid the portly nymph adieu.
Now gayly roves the laughing boy
O'er many a mead, by many a stream;
In every breeze inhaling joy,
And drinking bliss in every beam.
From all the gardens, all the bowers,
He culled the many sweets they shaded,
And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers,
Till taste was gone and odor faded.
But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,
And fever thrilled through all his veins.
The dew forsook his baby brow,
No more with healthy bloom he smiled--
Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,
To cast her shadow o'er the child?
Beneath a green and aged palm,
His foot at length for shelter turning,
He saw the nymph reclining calm,
With brow as cool as his was burning.
"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"
In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason oped her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fevered head.
He felt her bosom's icy touch,
And soon it lulled his pulse to rest;
For, ah! the chill was quite too much,
And Love expired on Reason's breast!
*             *             *             *             *
Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear;
While in these arms you lie.
This world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to cost that eye a tear.
That heart, one single sigh.
The world!--ah, Fanny, Love must shun
The paths where many rove;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart to be his only--one,
Are quite enough for Love.
What can we wish, that is not here
Between your arms and mine?
Is there, on earth, a space so dear
As that within the happy sphere
Two loving arms entwine?
For me, there's not a lock of jet
Adown your temples curled,
Within whose glossy, tangling net,
My soul doth not, at once, forget
All, all this worthless world.
'Tis in those eyes, so full of love,
My only worlds I see;
Let but their orbs in sunshine move,
And earth below and skies above
May frown or smile for me.
Holy Thursday
by William Blake

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
April Fool.
by Edwin C. Ranck

'Twas on the f-f-f-first of April D-D-Day,
W-w-w-when Nature s-s-smiled and all w-w-was gay,
And I--w-w-why I was in a w-w-whirl,
'C-c-cause I w-w-was w-w-walking w-w-with my g-g-girl.
We w-w-wandered through a leafless w-w-wood
W-w-where many giant oak-t-t-trees s-s-stood,
And p-p-paused beside a d-d-dark g-g-green pool
And sat d-d-down on a rustic s-s-stool.
T-t-then out I s-s-spoke in accents b-b-bold,
And all m-m-my l-love for her I t-t-told.
She answered w-w-with a sweet, s-s-hy g-g-glance
That pierced m-m-my h-h-heart like C-C-Cupid's l-lance.
I seized her in a t-t-tight embrace,
And s-s-showered k-k-kisses on her f-f-face,
And t-t-told her that I'd g-g-give my l-life
If she would only b-b-be my w-w-wife.
"Please k-k-keep your l-l-life," the m-m-maid replied
"F-f-for I w-w-will gladly b-b-be your b-b-bride,
And y-y-you" she s-s-said, in t-t-tones quite c-c-cool,
"W-w-why you c-c-can b-b-be my April F-F-Fool."
Only A Slight Flirtation
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'Twas just a slight flirtation,
And where's the harm, I pray,
In that amusing pastime
So much in vogue to-day?
Her hand was plighted elsewhere
To one she held most dear,
But why should she sit lonely
When other men were near?
They walked to church together,
They sat upon the shore.
She found him entertaining,
He found her something more.
They rambled in the moonlight;
It made her look so fair.
She let him praise her beauty,
And kiss her flowing hair.
'Twas just a nice flirtation.
'So sad the fellow died.
Was drowned one day while boating,
The week she was a bride.'
A life went out in darkness,
A mother's fond heart broke,
A maiden pined in secret -
With grief she never spoke.
While robed in bridal whiteness,
Queen of a festal throng,
She moved, whose slight flirtation
Had wrought this triple wrong.
The Good Old Concertina
by Henry Lawson

'Twas merry when the hut was full
Of jolly girls and fellows.
We danced and sang until we burst
The concertina's bellows.
From distant Darling to the sea,
From the Downs to Riverina,
Has e'er a gum in all the west
Not heard the concertina?
'Twas peaceful round the campfire blaze,
The long white branches o'er us;
We'd play the tunes of bygone days,
To some good old bush chorus.
Old Erin's harp may sweeter be,
The Scottish pipes blow keener;
But sing an old bush song for me
To the good old concertina.
'Twas cosy by the hut-fire bright
When the pint pot passed between us;
We drowned the voice of the stormy night
With the good old concertina's.
Though trouble drifts along the years,
And the pangs of care grow keener,
My heart is gladdened when it hears
That good old concertina.
'Twas Na Her Bonnie Blue Een.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Laddie, lie near me."
I.
'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin;
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing:
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.
II.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me!
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
III.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter - 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
An Incident
by Arthur Hugh Clough

'Twas on a sunny summer day
I trod a mighty city's street,
And when I started on my way
My heart was full of fancies sweet;
But soon, as nothing could be seen,
But countenances sharp and keen,
Nought heard or seen around but told
Of something bought or something sold,
And none that seemed to think or care
That any save himself was there, 
Full soon my heart began to sink
With a strange shame and inward pain,
For I was sad within to think
Of this absorbing love of gain,
And various thoughts my bosom tost;
When suddenly my path there crossed,
Locked hand in hand with one another,
A little maiden and her brother 
A little maiden, and she wore
Around her waist a pinafore.
And hand in hand along the street
This pretty pair did softly go,
And as they went, their little feet
Moved in short even steps and slow
It was a sight to see and bless,
That little sister's tenderness;
One hand a tidy basket bore
Of flowers and fruit a chosen store,
Such as kind friends oft send to others 
And one was fastened in her brother's.
It was a voice of meaning sweet,
And spake amid that scene of strife
Of home and homely duties meet,
And charities of daily life;
And often, should my spirit fail,
And under cold strange glances quail,
'Mid busy shops and busier throng,
That speed upon their ways along
The thick and crowded thoroughfare,
I'll call to mind that little pair.
My Mollie, O!
by Freeman Edwin Miller

'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
When roses bloomed and holly, O,
That in the brightness of her bloom,
I first did meet my Mollie, O.
Although she said for lives to love
Was nothing but pure folly, O,
My heart was lit with light above,
And I true loved my Mollie, O.
O, swift and fast the days did flee
And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
For evermore was near to me
My fair and lovely Mollie, O.
Now I doth sit through all the day
And nurse my melancholy, O,
For from me she has turned away,
O, false and fickle Mollie, O!
The Declaration.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had staid
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss
Upon it unforbidden - and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting place, and looked
Earnestly on me - She had been asleep!
The Indian Boat.
by Thomas Moore

'Twas midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, thro' the night,
He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
"She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
"With her freight of golden ore;
"Sail on! sail on!"
When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast
The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.
Bright daylight came,
And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
While the waves overtop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.
Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,
And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,
He swept the main,
But all in vain,
That boat seemed never the nigher.
And many a day
To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
While still his flight,
Thro day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows--who knows what seas
He is now careering o'er?
Behind, the eternal breeze,
And that mocking bark, before!
For, oh, till sky
And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
That boat must flee
O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.
John Maynard.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene,-
Could dream that ere an hour had sped
That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?
A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench the insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly Faces everywhere
Looked from the doomed ship.
"Is there no hope--no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore,
"But one," the captain made reply,
"To run the ship on shore."
A sailor, whose heroic soul
That hour should yet reveal,
By name John Maynard, eastern-born,
Stood calmly at the wheel.
"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,
Above the smothered roar,--
"Head her south-east without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!"
No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
Or clouds his dauntless eye,
As, in a sailor's measured tone,
His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"
Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,
Crowd forward wild with fear,
While at the stern the dreaded flames
Above the deck appear.
John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still with steady hand
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.
"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
He heard the captain cry;
A voice from out the stifling smoke
Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"
But half a mile! a hundred hands
Stretch eagerly to shore.
But half a mile! That distance sped
Peril shall all be o'er.
But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames
No longer slowly creep,
But gather round that helmsman bold,
With fierce, impetuous sweep.
"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice
The captain cries once more,
"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,
And we shall reach the shore."
Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart
Responded firmly still,
Unawed, though face to face with death,-
"With God's good help I will!"
The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hand and brow;
One arm, disabled, seeks his side,
Ah! he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set,
He crushes down his pain,
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.
One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er,
The pebbles grate beneath the keel.
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voice rise
In praise to God that he
Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from the engulphing sea.
But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel,-
His nerveless hands released their task,
He sank beside the wheel.
The wave received his lifeless corpse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Never hero had
A nobler funeral pyre!
Starlight Recollections.
by George Pope Morris

'Twas night.    Near the murmuring Saone,
We met with no witnesses by,
But such as resplendently shone
In the blue-tinted vault of the sky:
Your head on my bosom was laid,
As you said you would ever be mine;
And I promised to love, dearest maid,
And worship alone at your shrine.
Your love on my heart gently fell
As the dew on the flowers at eve,
Whose blossoms with gratitude swell,
A blessing to give and receive:
And I knew by the glow on your cheek,
And the rapture you could not control,
No power had language to speak
The faith or content of your soul.
I love you as none ever loved--
As the steel to the star I am true;
And I, dearest maiden, have proved
That none ever loved me but you.
Till memory loses her power,
Or the sands of existence have run,
I'll remember the star-lighted hour
That mingled two hearts into one.
Mulga Bill's Bicycle
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk, I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."
Mary's Ghost. - A Pathetic Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.
O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.
The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!
You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone,
They've come and boned your Mary.
The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.
I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.
As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t'other's in the City.
I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.
I wish you'd go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride;
I don't half like the outside place,
They've took for my inside.
The cock it crows - I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.
Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.
Evening Star
by Edgar Allan Poe

'Twas noontide of summer,
And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold, too cold for me, 
There passed, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
Great Fire In Ingersoll, May, 1872.
by James McIntyre

'Twas on a pleasant eve in May,
Just as the sun shed its last ray,
The bell it rang, citizens to warn,
For lo! a fire appears in barn.
An ancient barn near hotel stood,
The joining buildings all were wood,
This barn a relic of the past,
There farmers' horses were made fast.
Our once fair town is now in woe,
And we have had our Chicago,
But soon a nobler town will rise,
For our town is all enterprise.