DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The New Englishman
by Frederic William Moorman

I've lived all my life i' Keighley,
I'm a Yorkshire artisan;
An' when I were just turned seventy
I became an Englishman.
Nat'ralised German! nay, deng it!
I'm British-born, same as thee!
But I niver thowt mich to my country,
While(1) my country thowt mich to me.
I were proud o' my lodge an' my union,
An' proud o' my town an' my shire;
But all t' consans o' t' nation,
I left to t' parson an' t' squire.
Class-war were t' faith that I Iived for,
I call'd all capit'lists sharks;
An' "T' workin' man has no country,"
Were my Gospel accordin' to Marx.
When I'd lossen my job back i' t' eighties,
An were laikin' for well-nigh two year,
Who said that an out-o'-wark fettler
Were costin' his country dear?
Owd England cared nowt about me,
I could clem(2) wi' my barns an' my wife;
Shoo were ower thrang wi' buildin' up t' empire
To build up a brokken life.
"Ivery man for hissen," shoo said,
"An' t' dule can catch what he can;
Labour's cheap an' trade's worth more
Nor t' life of a workin' man."
When t' country were chuff,(3) an' boasted
That t' sun niver set on her flags,
I thowt o' wer back-to-back houses,
Wer childer i' spetches(4) an' rags,
When t' country drave by i' her carriage,
Wi' flunkies afore an' behind,
I left her to bettermy bodies,
An' I gav her a taste o' my mind.
But when shoo were liggin' i' t' gutter,
Wi' a milit'rist mob at her throit,
"Hands off her!" I cried, "shoo's my mother:"
An' I doffed my cap an' my coit.
I'd gien ower wark at seventy,
But I gat agate once more;
"I'll live for my country, not on her"
Were my words on t' fettlers' floor.
Shoo's putten her trust i' us workers,
We'll save her, niver fear;
Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,
Her childer that loves her dear.
Eight o' my grandsons has fallen,
My youngest lad's crippled i' t' arm;
But I'll give her choose-what(5) shoo axes,
Afore I'll see her tak harm.
T' war is a curse an' a blessin',
If fowks could understan';
It's brokken my home an' my childer,
But it's made me an Englishman.
To His Peculiar Friend, Mr. Thomas Shapcott, Lawyer.
by Robert Herrick

I've paid thee what I promis'd; that's not all;
Besides I give thee here a verse that shall
(When hence thy circummortal part is gone),
Arch-like, hold up thy name's inscription.
Brave men can't die, whose candid actions are
Writ in the poet's endless calendar:
Whose vellum and whose volume is the sky,
And the pure stars the praising poetry.
Farewell
Sonnet: - XIII.
by Charles Sangster

I've almost grown a portion of this place,
I seem familiar with each mossy stone;
Even the nimble chipmunk passes on,
And looks, but never scolds me. Birds have flown
And almost touched my hand; and I can trace
The wild bees to their hives. I've never known
So sweet a pause from labour. But the tone
Of a past sorrow, like a mournful rill
Threading the heart of some melodious hill,
Or the complainings of the whippoorwill,
Passes through every thought, and hope, and aim.
It has its uses; for it cools the flame
Of ardent love that burns my being up - 
Love, life's celestial pearl, diffused through all its cup.
At Eleusis.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,
When early morning's banners were unfurled.
From high Olympus, gazing on the world,
The ancient gods once saw it with delight.
Sad Demeter had in a single night
Removed her sombre garments! and mine eyes
Beheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyes
Thrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clear
There fell the sound of music on mine ear.
And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyre
One time appeased the great Apollo's ire.
The rescued maid, Persephone, by the hand
He led to waiting Demeter, and cheer
And light and beauty once more blessed the land.
Moonset
by Emily Pauline Johnson

Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,
That waking murmur low,
As some lost melody returning stirs
The love of long ago;
And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.
The moon is sinking into shadow-land.
The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,
Wanders on restless wing;
The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea,
Await its answering,
That comes in wash of waves along the strand,
The while the moon slips into shadow-land.
O! soft responsive voices of the night
I join your minstrelsy,
And call across the fading silver light
As something calls to me;
I may not all your meaning understand,
But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXIX. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

If a man who turnips cries
Cries not when his father dies,
It is a proof that he would rather
Have a turnip than his father.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. From The Introduction Of Christianity Into Britain, To The Consummation Of The Papal Dominion - Introduction
by William Wordsworth

In series, 1821-22.
Part I. From the introduction of Christianity into Britain, to the consummation of the papal dominion
"a verse may catch a wandering soul, that flies
profounder tracts, and by a blest surprise
convert delight into a sacrifice."
I. Introduction
I, who accompanied with faithful pace
Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring,
And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing
Of mountain quiet and boon nature's grace;
I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace
Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string
Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing,
Won for herself a lasting resting-place;
Now seek upon the heights of Time the source
Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found
Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned
Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force;
And, for delight of him who tracks its course,
Immortal amaranth and palms abound.
Ambition's Trail
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

If all the end of this continuous striving
Were simply to attain,
How poor would seem the planning and contriving
The endless urging and the hurried driving
Of body, heart and brain!
But ever in the wake of true achieving,
There shines this glowing trail -
Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving,
New strength and hope, in its own power believing,
Because thou didst not fail.
Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,
If thou doth miss the goal,
Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow
From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow -
On, on, ambitious soul.
Ich habe dich nie je so geliebt
by Bertolt Brecht

[Original Poem]
Ich habe dich nie je so geliebt, ma soeur
Als wie ich fortging von dir in jenem Abendrot.
Der Wald schluckte mich, der blaue Wald, ma soeur
'ber dem immer schon die bleichen Gestirne im Westen standen.
Ich lachte kein klein wenig, gar nicht, ma soeur
Der ich spielend dunklem Schicksal entgegenging,
W'hrend schon die Gesichter hinter mir
Langsam im Abend des blauen Walds verbla'ten.
Alles war sch'n an diesem einzigen Abend, ma soeur
Nachher nie wieder und nie zuvor,
Freilich: mir blieben nur mehr die gro'en V'gel
Die abends im dunklen Himmel Hunger haben.
[Translated Poem]
I never loved you more, ma soeur
Than as I walked away from you that evening.
The forest swallowed me, the blue forest, ma soeur
The blue forest and above it pale stars in the west.
I did not laugh, not one little bit, ma soeur
As I playfully walked towards a dark fate,
While the faces behind me
Slowly paled in the evening of the blue forest.
Everything was grand that one night, ma soeur
Never thereafter and never before,
I admit it: I was left with nothing but the big birds
And their hungry cries in the dark evening sky.
Robert Fulton Tanner
by Edgar Lee Masters

If a man could bite the giant hand
That catches and destroys him,
As I was bitten by a rat
While demonstrating my patent trap,
In my hardware store that day.
But a man can never avenge himself
On the monstrous ogre Life.
You enter the room    that's being born;
And then you must live    work out your soul,
Of the cross-current in life
Which Bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame.
To Cedars.
by Robert Herrick

If 'mongst my many poems I can see
One only worthy to be wash'd by thee,
I live for ever, let the rest all lie
In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die.
Apologia pro Poemate Meo
by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

I, too, saw God through mud--
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
Merry it was to laugh there--
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.
I, too, have dropped off fear--
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear
Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;
And witnessed exultation--
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.
I have made fellowships--
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,
By Joy, whose ribbon slips,--
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,
You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.
November 1917.
To A Butterfly (2)
by William Wordsworth

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
Alphonso Of Castile
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

I, Alphonso, live and learn,
Seeing Nature go astern.
Things deteriorate in kind;
Lemons run to leaves and rind;
Meagre crop of figs and limes;
Shorter days and harder times.
Flowering April cools and dies
In the insufficient skies.
Imps, at high midsummer, blot
Half the sun's disk with a spot;
'Twill not now avail to tan
Orange cheek or skin of man.
Roses bleach, the goats are dry,
Lisbon quakes, the people cry.
Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools,
Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,
Are no brothers of my blood;--
They discredit Adamhood.
Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,
O'er your ramparts as ye lean,
The general debility;
Of genius the sterility;
Mighty projects countermanded;
Rash ambition, brokenhanded;
Puny man and scentless rose
Tormenting Pan to double the dose.
Rebuild or ruin: either fill
Of vital force the wasted rill,
Or tumble all again in heap
To weltering Chaos and to sleep.
Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry,
Which fed the veins of earth and sky,
That mortals miss the loyal heats,
Which drove them erst to social feats;
Now, to a savage selfness grown,
Think nature barely serves for one;
With science poorly mask their hurt;
And vex the gods with question pert,
Immensely curious whether you
Still are rulers, or Mildew?
Masters, I'm in pain with you;
Masters, I'll be plain with you;
In my palace of Castile,
I, a king, for kings can feel.
There my thoughts the matter roll,
And solve and oft resolve the whole.
And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,
Ye shall not fail for sound advice.
Before ye want a drop of rain,
Hear the sentiment of Spain.
You have tried famine: no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty.
I have thought it thoroughly over,--
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety.
Hear you, then, celestial fellows!
Fits not to be overzealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump.
Men and gods are too extense;
Could you slacken and condense?
Your rank overgrowths reduce
Till your kinds abound with juice?
Earth, crowded, cries, 'Too many men!'
My counsel is, kill nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal.
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in one hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears.
There, growing slowly old at ease
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage.
So shall ye have a man of the sphere
Fit to grace the solar year.
Gipsy
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

I, the man with the red scarf,
Will give thee what I have, this last week's earnings.
Take them, and buy thee a silver ring
And wed me, to ease my yearnings.
For the rest, when thou art wedded
I'll wet my brow for thee
With sweat, I'll enter a house for thy sake,
Thou shalt shut doors on me.
The Hushed House
by Madison Julius Cawein

I, who went at nightfall, came again at dawn;
On Love's door again I knocked. Love was gone.
He who oft had bade me in, now would bid no more;
Silence sat within his house; barred its door.
When the slow door opened wide through it I could see
How the emptiness within stared at me.
Through the dreary chambers, long I sought and sighed,
But no answering footstep came; naught replied.
Then at last I entered, dim, a darkened room:
There a taper glimmered gray in the gloom.
And I saw one lying crowned with helichrys;
Never saw I face as fair as was his.
Like a wintry lily was his brow in hue;
And his cheeks were each a rose, wintry too.
Then my soul remembered all that made us part,
And what I had laughed at once broke my heart.
Breitmann's Last Ballads - Cobus Hagelstein
by Charles G. Leland

Ich bin ein Deutscher,
und mein name is Cobus Hagelstein,
I coom from Cincinn'ti,
and I life peyond der Rhein;
Und I dells you all a shdory
dot makes me mad ash blitz,
Pout how a Yankee gompany
vas shvindle me to fits.
I heardt apout dis gompany,
und vished to see dot same,
Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft
vos ids name;
Dot is de name in Sherman
in English it will say
Dot it insures your life mit fire,
ven you de money pay.
Now, I hod a liddle house-line
vhere I life so shtill ash mice,
Und yoost drei tausand dollar
vos dot little pilding's brice;
I vos always yoost so happy
ash ein Kaisar in de land
Dill at last I kit in drople,
for mein haus vas abgebrannt.
Den I goes undo dot gompany
und dells em right afay
(Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft),
und I say,
'At last de youngest day ist coom
for you to plank de cash,
And you moost bay me monies,
for mine haus is purned to ash.'
Den de segredary answered,
'All dis is fery drue,
Boot you know ve have de option
to pild your house anew;
Dere ist a lot of beoples
vot burns deir hauser doun,
Den coom to kit de money pack
all over in de toun.'
I look indo de bapers
und I find it ash he say,
Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft
need not bay;
So I dells em all to go ahet
und pild anoder shdore,
Und dey make me von in Yankee shdyle
more petter ash pefore.
Den I met der segredary
dereafter on a day,
Of Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft,
und he say,
'You've found oos vellers honoraple
und honest in our line,
Vy tont you go insure
de life of Madame Hagelstein?'
I poots mine dum oopon mine nose,
and vinks him mit mine eye,
Und says I cooms to do it
ven de oc'an runs dry,
Ven gooses turn to ganders,
und de bigs kits shanged to shvine;
Oh, den I makes insure de life
of Madame Hagelstein.
'I haf dried you on insurance,
ash you know, yust vonce pefore,
Und ven mein haus vas abgebrannt
you pild anoder shdore;
Id's drue you pild it goot enough,
boot I dell you allaweil,
I vas liket id moosh petter
if it vas in Sharman shdyle.
'Now, if I goes insure my wife
anoder dime mit you
Das Lebensfeuerversicherunggesellschaft,
I knows vot it would do,
If from dis vorldt Frau Hagelstein
should rise to Himmel life,
Inshtead of paying gelt you'd kit
for me a Yankee vife!'
I poots mine dum pelow mine eye,
und vinks him merrily,
Und say, 'Go find soom Deutscherman
dot is more creen ash me.
Dere's blendy of dem creen enough,
I know, peyond der Rhein,
But none among dem wears de name
of Cobus Hagelstein.'
A New Song To An Old Tune--From Victor Hugo
by Robert Fuller Murray

If a pleasant lawn there grow
By the showers caressed,
Where in all the seasons blow
Flowers gaily dressed,
Where by handfuls one may win
Lilies, woodbine, jessamine,
I will make a path therein
For thy feet to rest.
If there live in honour's sway
An all-loving breast
Whose devotion cannot stray,
Never gloom-oppressed--
If this noble breast still wake
For a worthy motive's sake,
There a pillow I will make
For thy head to rest.
If there be a dream of love,
Dream that God has blest,
Yielding daily treasure-trove
Of delightful zest,
With the scent of roses filled,
With the soul's communion thrilled,
There, oh! there a nest I'll build
For thy heart to rest.
Nancy Walsh
by James Stephens

I, without bite or sup,
If thou wert fated for me,
I would up
And would go after thee
Through mountains.
A thousand thanks from me
To God have gone,
Because I have not lost my senses to thee,
Though it was hardly I escaped from thee,
O ringleted one!
The Plaudite, Or End Of Life
by Robert Herrick

If after rude and boisterous seas
My wearied pinnace here finds ease;
If so it be I've gain'd the shore,
With safety of a faithful oar;
If having run my barque on ground,
Ye see the aged vessel crown'd;
What's to be done?    but on the sands
Ye dance and sing, and now clap hands.
The first act's doubtful, but (we say)
It is the last commends the Play.
Russian Sonia
by Edgar Lee Masters

I, born in Weimar
Of a mother who was French
And German father, a most learned professor,
Orphaned at fourteen years,
Became a dancer, known as Russian Sonia,
All up and down the boulevards of Paris,
Mistress betimes of sundry dukes and counts,
And later of poor artists and of poets.
At forty years, passe, I sought New York
And met old Patrick Hummer on the boat,
Red-faced and hale, though turned his sixtieth year,
Returning after having sold a ship-load
Of cattle in the German city, Hamburg.
He brought me to Spoon River and we lived here
For twenty years - they thought that we were married
This oak tree near me is the favorite haunt
Of blue jays chattering, chattering all the day.
And why not? for my very dust is laughing
For thinking of the humorous thing called life.
Barney Hainsfeather
IF the excursion train to Peoria
Had just been wrecked, I might have escaped with my life - 
Certainly I should have escaped this place.
But as it was burned as well, they mistook me
For John Allen who was sent to the Hebrew Cemetery
At Chicago,
And John for me, so I lie here.
It was bad enough to run a clothing store in this town,
But to be buried here - ach!
The Little Poem Of Life
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

I;--
Thou;--
We;--
They;--
Small words, but mighty.
In their span
Are bound the life and hopes of man.
For, first, his thoughts of his own self are full;
Until another comes his heart to rule.
For them, life's best is centred round their love;
Till younger lives come all their love to prove.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXV. Relics.
by Unknown

If a body meet a body,
In a field of fitches;
Can a body tell a body
Where a body itches?
The Land Of F'l
by James Stephens

If all must suffer equally, and pay
In equal share for that sin wrought by Eve,
O Thou, if Thou wilt deign to answer, say:
Why are the poor tormented? why made grieve
The innocent? why are the free enslaved?
Why have the wicked peace tho' void of ruth?
Why are there none to pity, when, dismayed,
And sick with fear, the lamb bleats to the tooth
That tears him down? why is the cry unheard
Of lonely anguish? why, when the land of F'l
Had loved Thee long and well, was she not spared
The ruin that hath stamped her under all
That mourn and die?
To The Love Of Andr' And Gwen
by Richard Le Gallienne

If after times
Should pay the least attention to these rhymes,
I bid them learn
'Tis not my own heart here
That doth so often seem to break and burn - 
O no such thing! - 
Nor is it my own dear
Always I sing:
But, as a scrivener in the market-place,
I sit and write for lovers, him or her,
Making a song to match each lover's case - 
A trifling gift sometimes the gods confer!
(After STRATO)
Shakespeare's Ghost. A Parody.
by Friedrich Schiller

I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty, 
Saw his shade. He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians,
And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended,
And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture,
Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?" 
"'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet
Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?"
"If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly
Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them."
"Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured,
Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count."
"What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then,
Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?" 
"There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely
Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad."
"Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations,
And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black." 
"Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren,
But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist."
"But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia,
Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?" 
"Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral;
And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain."
"What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now,
Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?"
"No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce,
Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse."
"But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with
That can be truly called great? what that is great can they do?"
"What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket
Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed."
"Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic,
Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?" 
"All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also,
And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here."
"But all this ye possess at home both apter and better, 
Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?"
"Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question;
Ever is destiny blind, ever is righteous the bard."
"Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature,
While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?"
"There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning;
And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!"
State's Attorney Fallas
by Edgar Lee Masters

I, the scourge-wielder, balance-wrecker,
Smiter with whips and swords;
I, hater of the breakers of the law;
I, legalist, inexorable and bitter,
Driving the jury to hang the madman, Barry Holden,
Was made as one dead by light too bright for eyes,
And woke to face a Truth with bloody brow:
Steel forceps fumbled by a doctor's hand
Against my boy's head as he entered life
Made him an idiot. I turned to books of science
To care for him.
That's how the world of those whose minds are sick
Became my work in life, and all my world.
Poor ruined boy! You were, at last, the potter
And I and all my deeds of charity
The vessels of your hand.