DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet III
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Let dainty wits crie on the Sisters nine,
That, brauely maskt, their fancies may be told;
Or, Pindars apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold;
Or else let them in statlier glorie shine,
Ennobling new-found tropes with problemes old;
Or with strange similes enrich each line,
Of herbes or beasts which Inde or Affrick hold.
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know,
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow;
And strange things cost too deare for my poor sprites.
How then? euen thus: in Stellaes face I reed
What Loue and Beautie be; then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.
Let Down The Bars, O Death!
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.
To E---[1]
by George Gordon Byron

Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin'd.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
Dedication (To my Mother)
by Lola Ridge

Let me cradle myself back
Into the darkness
Of the half shapes...
Of the cauled beginnings...
Let me stir the attar of unused air,
Elusive... ironically fragrant
As a dead queen's kerchief...
Let me blow the dust from off you...
Resurrect your breath
Lying limp as a fan
In a dead queen's hand.
Whippoorwill Time
by Madison Julius Cawein

Let down the bars; drive in the cows:
The west is barred with burning rose.
Unhitch the horses from the ploughs,
And from the cart the ox that lows,
And light the lamp within the house:
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the locust blooms are falling
On the hill;
The sunset's rose is dying,
And the whippoorwill is crying,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill";
Soft, now shrill,
The whippoorwill is crying,
"Whippoorwill."
Unloose the watch-dog from his chain:
The first stars wink their drowsy eyes:
A sheep-bell tinkles in the lane,
And where the shadow deepest lies
A lamp makes bright the window-pane:
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the berry-blooms are falling
On the rill;
The first faint stars are springing,
And the whippoorwill is singing,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill";
Softly still
The whippoorwill is singing,
"Whippoorwill."
The cows are milked; the cattle fed;
The last far streaks of evening fade:
The farm-hand whistles in the shed,
And in the house the table's laid;
Its lamp streams on the garden-bed:
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the dogwood blooms are falling
On the hill;
The afterglow is waning
And the whippoorwill's complaining,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill";
Wild and shrill,
The whippoorwill's complaining,
"Whippoorwill."
The moon blooms out, a great white rose;
The stars wheel onward toward the west:
The barnyard-cock wakes once and crows;
The farm is wrapped in peaceful rest;
The cricket chirs; the firefly glows
The whippoorwill is calling,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,"
Where the bramble-blooms are falling
On the rill;
The moon her watch is keeping
And the whippoorwill is weeping,
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill";
Lonely still,
The whippoorwill is weeping,
"Whippoorwill."
Sorrow For A Favourite Tabby Cat, Who Left This Scene Of Troubles, Friday Night, Nov. 26, 1819.
by John Clare

Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones,
Mock The weak Muse's tender moans,
As now she wails o'er Titty's bones
With anguish deep;
Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans
They'd little weep.
Ah, Pity! thine's a tender heart,
Thy sigh soon heaves, thy tears soon start;
And thou hast given the muse her part
Salt tears to shed,
To mourn and sigh with sorrow's smart;
For pussy's dead.
Ah, mourning Memory! 'neath thy pall
Thou utterest many a piercing call,
Pickling in vinegar's sour gall
Ways that are fled--
The way, the feats, the tricks, and all,
Of pussy dead.
Thou tell'st of all the gamesome plays
That mark'd her happy kitten-days:
-Ah, I did love her funny way
On the sand floor;
But now sad sorrow damps my lays:
Pussy's no more.
Thou paint'st her flirting round and round,
As she was wont, with things she'd found,
Chasing the spider o'er the ground,
Straws pushing on;
Thou paint'st them on a bosom-wound:
Poor pussy's gone.
Ah mice, rejoice! ye've lost your foe,
Who watch'd your scheming robberies so,
That while she liv'd twa'n't yours to know
A crumb of bread;
'Tis yours to triumph, mine's the woe,
Now pussy's dead.
While pussy liv'd ye'd empty maws;
No sooner peep'd ye out your nose,
But ye were instant in her claws
With squeakings dread:
Ye're now set free from tyrant-laws;
Poor pussy's dead.
Left freely here to prowl at night,
To wake me, like some squeaking sprite,
There's nothing now but ye dare bite,
Your terror's fled;
Put up I must with all your spite,
Poor pussy's dead.
But if "wide nicks" ye mean to run,
To scoop my barley crust in fun,
And drop your tails on't when ye've done,
Beware your head;
Or ye'll find what ye'd wish to shun,
Though pussy's dead.
As sure's you're born within your clothes,
If puss can't nab ye by the nose,
I'll find a scheme ye'd ill-suppose
To save my bread;
Ye may'nt too much infringe the laws,
If pussy's dead.
So don't ye drive your jokes too far,
Ye cupboard-plunderers as ye are;
For while I've sixpence left to spare,
And traps are had,
I'll make among ye dreadful war,
Though pussy's dead.
And now, poor puss! thou'st lost thy breath,
And decent laid the molds beneath,
As ere a cat could wish in death
For her last bed;
This to thy memory I bequeath,
Poor pussy dead!
The Song Of The Box.
by Thomas Moore

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,
And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock;
They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins
Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.
Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?--Oh, it isn't
By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;--
Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned,
She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.
How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,
Blown this way and that, by the "populi vox,"
To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,
And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.
Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom--
So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;
But mute be our troops, when to ambush we lead 'em,
"For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.
Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it;
There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks;
While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet,
And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.
'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius
(A namesake of Grote's--being both of Dutch stocks),
Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious,
Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;--
An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius
When suffering in prison for views heterodox,
Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1]
And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box!
But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,
Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;--
That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself,
While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box!
And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes
Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,
May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes,"
And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.
While long at his shrine, both from county and city,
Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks,
And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty,
"Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep--in the Box."
Love Killed By Lack.
by Robert Herrick

Let me be warm, let me be fully fed,
Luxurious love by wealth is nourished.
Let me be lean, and cold, and once grown poor,
I shall dislike what once I lov'd before.
Love Lightly Pleased
by Robert Herrick

Let fair or foul my mistress be,
Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me;
Or let her walk, or stand, or sit,
The posture her's, I'm pleased with it;
Or let her tongue be still, or stir
Graceful is every thing from her;
Or let her grant, or else deny,
My love will fit each history.
Upon Her Voice.
by Robert Herrick

Let but thy voice engender with the string,
And angels will be born while thou dost sing.
Music
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Let me go where'er I will,
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.
'T is not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.
The Story Of Fidgety Philip
by Heinrich Hoffmann

"Let me see if Philip can
Be a little gentleman;
Let me see if he is able
To sit still for once at table":
Thus Papa bade Phil behave;
And Mamma looked very grave.
But fidgety Phil,
He won't sit still;
He wriggles,
And giggles,
And then, I declare,
Swings backwards and forwards,
And tilts up his chair,
Just like any rocking horse--
"Philip! I am getting cross!"
See the naughty, restless child
Growing still more rude and wild,
Till his chair falls over quite.
Philip screams with all his might,
Catches at the cloth, but then
That makes matters worse again.
Down upon the ground they fall,
Glasses, plates, knives, forks, and all.
How Mamma did fret and frown,
When she saw them tumbling down!
And Papa made such a face!
Philip is in sad disgrace.
Where is Philip, where is he?
Fairly covered up you see!
Cloth and all are lying on him;
He has pulled down all upon him.
What a terrible to-do!
Dishes, glasses, snapt in two!
Here a knife, and there a fork!
Philip, this is cruel work.
Table all so bare, and ah!
Poor Papa, and poor Mamma
Look quite cross, and wonder how
They shall have their dinner now.
The Sonnets XXXVI - Let me confess that we two must be twain
by William Shakespeare

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
On Himself.
by Robert Herrick

Let me not live if I not love:
Since I as yet did never prove
Where pleasures met, at last do find
All pleasures meet in womankind.
Dreams.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Let me not mar that perfect dream
By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again.
Let It Be Forgotten
by Sara Teasdale

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
Song III
by Sara Teasdale

Let it be forgotten as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If any one asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.
Let Me Enjoy
by Thomas Hardy

(Minor Key)
I
Let me enjoy the earth no less
Because the all-enacting Might
That fashioned forth its loveliness
Had other aims than my delight.
II
About my path there flits a Fair,
Who throws me not a word or sign;
I'll charm me with her ignoring air,
And laud the lips not meant for mine.
III
From manuscripts of moving song
Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown
I'll pour out raptures that belong
To others, as they were my own.
IV
And some day hence, towards Paradise,
And all its blest - if such should be -
I will lift glad, afar-off eyes,
Though it contain no place for me.
Out Of The Depths.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Let me forget her face!
So fresh, so lovely! the abiding place
Of tears and smiles that won my heart to her;
Of dreams and moods that moved my soul's dim deeps,
As strong winds stir
Dark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.
In every lineament the mind can trace,
Let me forget her face!
II.
Let me forget her form!
Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,
Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;
And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,
That makes men's eyes
Bondsmen of beauty eager still to serve.
In every part that memory can warm,
Let me forget her form!
III.
Let me forget her, God!
Her who made honeyed love a bitter rod
To scourge my heart with, barren with despair;
To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!
Oh, hear my prayer!
Out of the hell of love's unquenchable fire
I cry to thee, with face against the sod,
Let me forget her, God!
Let Erin Remember The Days Of Old.
by Thomas Moore

Let Erin remember the days of old.
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1]
Which he won from her proud invader.
When her kings, with standard of green unfurled,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2]
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining:
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]
Let Me Lean Hard.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Let me lean hard upon the Eternal Breast:
In all earth's devious ways I sought for rest
And found it not. I will be strong, said I,
And lean upon myself. I will not cry
And importune all heaven with my complaint.
But now my strength fails, and I fall, I faint:
Let me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon the unfailing Arm.
I said I will walk on, I fear no harm,
The spark divine within my soul will show
The upward pathway where my feet should go.
But now the heights to which I most aspire
Are lost in clouds. I stumble and I tire:
Let me lean hard.
Let me lean harder yet. That swerveless force
Which speeds the solar systems on their course
Can take, unfelt, the burden of my woe,
Which bears me to the dust and hurts me so.
I thought my strength enough for any fate,
But lo! I sink beneath my sorrow's weight:
Let me lean hard.
Not With These Eyes
by John Frederick Freeman

Let me not see your grief!
O, let not any see
That grief,
Nor how your heart still rocks
Like a temple with long earthquake shocks.
Let me not see
Your grief.
These eyes have seen such wrong,
Yet remained cold:
Ills grown strong,
Corruption's many-headed worm
Destroying feet that moved so firm--
Shall these eyes see
Your grief?
And that black worm has crawled
Into the brain
Where thought had walked
Nobly, and love and honour moved as one,
And brave things bravely were begun....
Now, can thought see
Unabashed your grief?
Into that brain your grief
Has run like cleansing fire:
Your grief
Through these unfaithful eyes has leapt
And touched honour where it lightly slept.
Now when I see
In memory your grief
There is no thought that's not
Yours, yours,
No love that sleeps,
No spiritual door that opens not
In the green quiet village of thought
Shining with light,
And silent to your silence.
Prayer
by James Elroy Flecker

Let me not know how sins and sorrows glide
Along the sombre city of our rage,
Or why the sons of men are heavy-eyed.
Let me not know, except from printed page,
The pain of litter love, of baffled pride,
Or sickness shadowing with a long presage.
Let me not know, since happy some have died
Quickly in youth or quietly in age,
How faint, how loud the bravest hearts have cried.
Uselessness
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all
To live beyond my greater self; to see
My faculties decaying, as the tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.
Let me hear rather the imperious call,
Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
And follow death ere I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall.
The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast
Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
Unhappy witness of its own decay.
May no man ever look on me and say,
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."
A Problem.
by Friedrich Schiller

Let none resemble another; let each resemble the highest!
How can that happen? let each be all complete in itself.
To ..........
by William Wordsworth

Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!
Heed not tho' none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved.
Song From 'She Stoops To Conquer'
by Oliver Goldsmith

Let school-masters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives 'genus' a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians:
Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,
They're all but a parcel of Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
When Methodist preachers come down
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever;
Our hearts and our liquors are stout;
Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
But of all the birds in the air,
Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Nature's Law. - A Poem Humbly Inscribed To G. H. Esq.
by Robert Burns

"Great nature spoke, observant man obey'd."
Pope.
Let other heroes boast their scars,
The marks of sturt and strife;
And other poets sing of wars,
The plagues of human life;
Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun
To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name, and nobler fame,
Wha multiplies our number.
Great Nature spoke with air benign,
"Go on, ye human race!
This lower world I you resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire
I've pour'd it in each bosom;
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand,
And there, is beauty's blossom."
The hero of these artless strains,
A lowly bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains
With meikle mirth an' glee;
Kind Nature's care had given his share,
Large, of the flaming current;
And all devout, he never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.
He felt the powerful, high behest,
Thrill vital through and through;
And sought a correspondent breast,
To give obedience due:
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers,
From mildews of abortion;
And lo! the bard, a great reward,
Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another B[urns],
With future rhymes, an' other times,
To emulate his sire;
To sing auld Coil in nobler style,
With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious eyes;
And bless auld Coila, large and long,
With multiplying joys:
Lang may she stand to prop the land,
The flow'r of ancient nations;
And B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing,
Thro' endless generations!
To Anne On Her Birthday
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Let mirth and joy a season reign
And sorrow flee away
Sadness were perfect sin it is
My Anne's natal day
And now a birthday rhyme for her
This sister of my own
Accept the song then for my sake
Sister and only one
So long we've lived together here
Our hopes and fears the same
Like two of autumn's last grown leaves
Last of our race and name
The past we know its grief and joy
Its pleasure and its pain
But know not what may happen ere
Your birthday comes again
Shall we be cradled in the deep
Beneath the briny wave?
Or shall the white deer lightly bound
Over my forest grave?
Or living yet divided far
With lands and seas between
And sorrow reigning in the hearts
Where childhood's joy has been
The future's sealed we know it not
But wander where we will
On this broad earth we shall remain
Lone loving sisters still
Nivver Heed.
by John Hartley

Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An if it's little 'at aw get,
It's little 'at aw need;
An if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to nivver heed.
Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An things they find they connot get,
Why, try to nivver heed.
Ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls,
An letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi' grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! nivver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An th' flaars smile at mi feet.
An when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed;
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, nivver heed.
Ode To The Woods And Forests. By One Of The Board.
by Thomas Moore

Let other bards to groves repair,
Where linnets strain their tuneful throats;
Mine be the Woods and Forests where
The Treasury pours its sweeter notes.
No whispering winds have charms for me,
Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask;
To raise the wind for Royalty
Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task!
And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods,
And all such vulgar irrigation,
Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods
Divert its "course of liquidation."
Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well
What Woods and Forests ought to be,
When sly, he introduced in hell
His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]--
Nor see I why, some future day,
When short of cash, we should not send
Our Herries down--he knows the way--
To see if Woods in hell will lend.
Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts,
Beneath whose "branches of expense"
Our gracious King gets all he wants,--
Except a little taste and sense.
Long, in your golden shade reclined.
Like him of fair Armida's bowers,
May Wellington some wood-nymph find,
To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours;
To rest from toil the Great Untaught,
And soothe the pangs his warlike brain
Must suffer, when, unused to thought,
It tries to think and--tries in vain.
Oh long may Woods and Forests be
Preserved in all their teeming graces,
To shelter Tory bards like me
Who take delight in Sylvan places!