DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
When Love, Who Ruled.
by Thomas Moore

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er
Has rosy mother's isles of light,
Was cruising off the Paphian shore,
A sail at sunset hove in sight.
"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Aloft the winged sailors sprung,
And, swarming up the mast like bees,
The snow-white sails expanding flung,
Like broad magnolias to the breeze.
"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
The chase was o'er--the bark was caught,
The winged crew her freight explored;
And found 'twas just as Love had thought,
For all was contraband aboard.
"A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Safe stowed in many a package there,
And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass,"
Were lots of all the illegal ware,
Love's Custom-House forbids to pass.
"O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
False curls they found, of every hue,
With rosy blushes ready made;
And teeth of ivory, good as new,
For veterans in the smiling trade.
"Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Mock sighs, too,--kept in bags for use,
Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,--
Lay ready here to be let loose,
When wanted, in young spinsters' ears.
"Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
False papers next on board were found,
Sham invoices of flames and darts,
Professedly for Paphos bound,
But meant for Hymen's golden marts.
"For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Nay, still to every fraud awake,
Those pirates all Love's signals knew,
And hoisted oft his flag, to make
Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.[1]
"A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
"This must not be," the boy exclaims,
"In vain I rule the Paphian seas,
"If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names
"Are lent to cover frauds like these.
"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Each Cupid stood with lighted match--
A broadside struck the smuggling foe,
And swept the whole unhallowed batch
Of Falsehood to the depths below.
"Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!"
Said Love the little Admiral.
Harvest Home
by Robert Herrick

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
To Ulysses*
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Ulysses, much-experienced man,
Whose eyes have known this globe of ours,
Her tribes of men, and trees, and flowers,
From Corrientes to Japan,
II.
To you that bask below the Line,
I soaking here in winter wet'
The century's three strong eights have met
To drag me down to seventy-nine
III.
In summer if I reach my day'
To you, yet young, who breathe the balm
Of summer-winters by the palm
And orange grove of Paraguay,
IV.
I tolerant of the colder time,
Who love the winter woods, to trace
On paler heavens the branching grace
Of leafless elm, or naked lime,
V.
And see my cedar green, and there
My giant ilex keeping leaf
When frost is keen and days are brief'
Or marvel how in English air
VI.
My yucca, which no winter quells,
Altho' the months have scarce begun,
Has push'd toward our faintest sun
A spike of half-accomplish'd bells'
VII.
Or watch the waving pine which here
The warrior of Caprera set,*
A name that earth will not forget
Till earth has roll'd her latest year'
VIII.
I, once half-crazed for larger light
On broader zones beyond the foam,
But chaining fancy now at home
Among the quarried downs of Wight,
IX.
Not less would yield full thanks to you
For your rich gift, your tale of lands
I know not,* your Arabian sands;
Your cane, your palm, tree-fern, bamboo,
X.
The wealth of tropic bower and brake;
Your Oriental Eden-isles,*
Where man, nor only Nature smiles;
Your wonder of the boiling lake;*
XI.
Phra-Chai, the Shadow of the Best,*
Phra-bat* the step; your Pontic coast;
Crag-cloister;* Anatolian Ghost;*
Hong-Kong,* Karnac,* and all the rest.
XII.
Thro' which I follow'd line by line
Your leading hand, and came, my friend,
To prize your various book, and send
A gift of slenderer value, mine.
To ******
by Thomas Gent

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew,
So liquid, languishing, and blue,
How they bewitch me!
Thy bosom hath a magic spell,
For when its full orbs heave and swell,
I feel but, oh! I must not tell,
Lord! how they twitch me!
Nursery Rhyme. CCXCVII. Games.
by Unknown

1. I am a gold lock.
2. I am a gold key.
1. I am a silver lock.
2. I am a silver key.
1. I am a brass lock.
2. I am a brass key.
1. I am a lead lock.
2. I am a lead key.
1. I am a monk lock.
2. I am a monk key!
Connubii Flores, Or The Well-Wishes At Weddings.
by Robert Herrick

Chorus Sacerdotum. From the temple to your home
May a thousand blessings come!
And a sweet concurring stream
Of all joys to join with them.
Chorus Juvenum. Happy Day,
Make no long stay
Here
In thy sphere;
But give thy place to Night,
That she,
As thee,
May be
Partaker of this sight.
And since it was thy care
To see the younglings wed,
'Tis fit that Night the pair
Should see safe brought to bed.
Chorus Senum. Go to your banquet then, but use delight,
So as to rise still with an appetite.
Love is a thing most nice, and must be fed
To such a height, but never surfeited.
What is beyond the mean is ever ill:
'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill;
Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,
And this remember, virtue keeps the measure.
Chorus Virginum. Lucky signs we have descri'd
To encourage on the bride,
And to these we have espi'd,
Not a kissing Cupid flies
Here about, but has his eyes
To imply your love is wise.
Chorus Pastorum. Here we present a fleece
To make a piece
Of cloth;
Nor, fair, must you be both
Your finger to apply
To housewifery.
Then, then begin
To spin:
And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will come
Into your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.
Chorus Matronarum. Set you to your wheel, and wax
Rich by the ductile wool and flax.
Yarn is an income, and the housewives' thread
The larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.
Chorus Senum. Let wealth come in by comely thrift
And not by any sordid shift;
'Tis haste
Makes waste:
Extremes have still their fault:
The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:
Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sand
Holds none at all, or little in his hand.
Chorus Virginum. Goddess of pleasure, youth and peace,
Give them the blessing of increase:
And thou, Lucina, that dost hear
The vows of those that children bear:
Whenas her April hour draws near,
Be thou then propitious there.
Chorus Juvenum. Far hence be all speech that may anger move:
Sweet words must nourish soft and gentle love.
Chorus Omnium. Live in the love of doves, and having told
The raven's years, go hence more ripe than old.
Distinction
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

"I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,
"But worse, for thou art mire."
The Mocking-Bird.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Hear! hear! hear!
Listen! the word
Of the mocking-bird!
Hear! hear! hear!
I will make all clear;
I will let you know
Where the footfalls go
That through the thicket and over the hill
Allure, allure.
How the bird-voice cleaves
Through the weft of leaves
With a leap and a thrill
Like the flash of a weaver's shuttle, swift and sudden and sure!
And la, he is gone--even while I turn
The wisdom of his runes to learn.
He knows the mystery of the wood,
The secret of the solitude;
But he will not tell, he will not tell,
For all he promises so well.
The Angel And The Child.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

"0, was it on that awful road,
The way of death, you came?"
"It was a little road," he said,
"I never knew its name."
"Is it not rough along that road?"
"I cannot tell," said he,
"Up to your gate, in her two arms.
My mother carried me."
"And will you show me Christ?" he said,
"And must we seek Him far?"
"That is our Lord, with children round.
Where little blue-bells are."
"Why, so my mother sits at night,
When all the lights are dim!
0, would He mind, would it be right
If I should sit by Him?"
Charon And Philomel; A Dialogue Sung.
by Robert Herrick

Ph. Charon! O gentle Charon! let me woo thee
By tears and pity now to come unto me.
Ch. What voice so sweet and charming do I hear?
Say what thou art. Ph. I prithee first draw near.
Ch. A sound I hear, but nothing yet can see;
Speak, where thou art. Ph. O Charon pity me!
I am a bird, and though no name I tell,
My warbling note will say I'm Philomel.
Ch. What's that to me? I waft nor fish or fowls,
Nor beasts, fond thing, but only human souls.
Ph. Alas for me! Ch. Shame on thy witching note
That made me thus hoist sail and bring my boat:
But I'll return; what mischief brought thee hither?
Ph. A deal of love and much, much grief together.
Ch. What's thy request? Ph. That since she's now beneath
Who fed my life, I'll follow her in death.
Ch. And is that all? I'm gone. Ph. By love I pray thee.
Ch. Talk not of love; all pray, but few souls pay me.
Ph. I'll give thee vows and tears. Ch. Can tears pay scores
For mending sails, for patching boat and oars?
Ph. I'll beg a penny, or I'll sing so long
Till thou shalt say I've paid thee with a song.
Ch. Why then begin; and all the while we make
Our slothful passage o'er the Stygian Lake,
Thou and I'll sing to make these dull shades merry,
Who else with tears would doubtless drown my ferry.
A Sentiment
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

O Bios Bpaxus, - life is but a song;
H rexvn uakpn, - art is wondrous long;
Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair,
And Patience smiles, though Genius may despair.
Give us but knowledge, though by slow degrees,
And blend our toil with moments bright as these;
Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful way,
And Love's pure planet lend its guiding ray, - 
Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings,
And life shall lengthen with the joy it brings!
Babyhood
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
A baby shines as bright
If winter or if May be
On eyes that keep in sight
A baby.
Though dark the skies or grey be,
It fills our eyes with light,
If midnight or midday be.
Love hails it, day and night,
The sweetest thing that may be
Yet cannot praise aright
A baby.
II.
All heaven, in every baby born,
All absolute of earthly leaven,
Reveals itself, though man may scorn
All heaven.
Yet man might feel all sin forgiven,
All grief appeased, all pain outworn,
By this one revelation given.
Soul, now forget thy burdens borne:
Heart, be thy joys now seven times seven:
Love shows in light more bright than morn
All heaven.
III.
What likeness may define, and stray not
From truth's exactest way,
A baby's beauty?    Love can say not
What likeness may.
The Mayflower loveliest held in May
Of all that shine and stay not
Laughs not in rosier disarray.
Sleek satin, swansdown, buds that play not
As yet with winds that play,
Would fain be matched with this, and may not:
What likeness may?
IV.
Rose, round whose bed
Dawn's cloudlets close,
Earth's brightest-bred
Rose!
No song, love knows,
May praise the head
Your curtain shows.
Ere sleep has fled,
The whole child glows
One sweet live red
Rose.
Silence
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'T is better to sit here beside the sea,
Here on the spray-kissed beach,
In silence, that between such friends as we
Is full of deepest speech.
St. Andrew's Day - A Toast.
by Jean Blewett

Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
Wha heeds November weather?
Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
The whole wide warl' thegither.
We're a' a prood and stubborn lot,
And clannish - sae fowk name us - 
Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
Tae judge us, or tae blame us,
For joys that are we'll pledge to-day
A land baith fair and glowing - 
Here's tae the hames o' Canada,
Wi' luve and peace o'erflowing!
For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
For tender chords that bind us,
A toast - your hand, auld friend, in mine - 
"The land we left behind us!"
Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
We'll toast her a' thegither,
Here's tae each bonnie loch and glen!
Here's tae her hills and heather!
Here's tae the auld hame far away!
While tender mists do blind us,
We'll pledge on this, St. Andrew's day,
"The land we left behind us!"
The Dairy-Woman And The Pail Of Milk (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

A young country woman named Perrette set out one morning from her little dairy-farm with a pail of milk which she cleverly balanced upon her head over a pad or cushion. She hurried with sprightly steps to the market town, and so that she might be the less encumbered, wore a kirtle that was short and light - in truth a simple petticoat - and shoes low and easy. As she went, her thoughts ran upon the price to be gained for her milk, and she schemed a way to lay out the sum in the purchase of one hundred eggs. She was sure that with care and diligence these would yield three broods. "It would be quite easy to me," she said, "to raise the chicks near the house. The fox would be clever who would not leave me enough to buy one pig. A pig would fatten at the cost of a little bran, and when he had grown a fair size I should make a bargain of him for a good round sum. And then, considering the price he will fetch, what is to prevent my putting into our stable a cow and a calf? I can fancy how the calf will frisk about among the sheep!" Thereupon Perrette herself frisked for joy, transported with the picture of her affluence. Over toppled the milk! Adieu to calf and cow and pig and broods! This lady of wealth had to leave, with tearful eyes, her dissipated fortunes, and go straight to her husband framing excuses to avoid a beating.
The farce became known to the whole countryside, and people called Perrette by the name of "Milkpail" ever after.
Who has never talked wildly? Who has never built castles in Spain? Wise men as well as milkmaids; sages and fools, all have waking dreams and find them sweet! Our senses are carried away by some flattering falsehood, and then wealth, honours, and beauty seem ours to command.
Alone with my thoughts I challenge the bravest. I dethrone monarchs and the people rejoicing crown me instead, showering diadems upon my head. Then lo! a little accident happens to bring me back to my senses, and I am Poor Jack as before.
Nursery Rhyme. DXCV. Accumulative Stories.
by Unknown

[The original of 'The house that Jack built' is presumed to be a hymn in Sepher Haggadah, fol. 23, a translation of which is here given. The historical interpretation was first given by P. N. Leberecht, at Leipsic, in 1731, and is printed in the 'Christian Reformer,' vol. xvii, p. 28. The original is in the Chaldee language, and it may be mentioned that a very fine Hebrew manuscript of the fable, with illuminations, is in the possession of George Offer, Esq. of Hackney.]
1.    A kid, a kid, my father bought,
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
2.    Then came the cat, and ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
3.    Then came the dog, and bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
4.    Then came the staff, and beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
5.    Then came the fire, and burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
6.    Then came the water, and quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
7.    Then came the ox, and drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
8.    Then came the butcher, and slew the ox,
That drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
9.    Then came the angel of death, and killed the butcher,
That slew the ox,
That drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
10. Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!
And killed the angel of death,
That killed the butcher,
That slew the ox,
That drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
The Portent
by Rudyard Kipling

0h, late withdrawn from human-kind
And following dreams we never knew!
Varus, what dream has Fate assigned
To trouble you?
Such virtue as commends of law
Of Virtue to the vulgar horde
Suffices not. You needs must draw
A righteous sword;
And, flagrant in well-doing, smite
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshipper invite
The God again.
Whence public strife and naked crime
And-deadlier than the cup you shun,
A people schooled to mock, in time,
All law--not one.
Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin,
Nor give thy children cause to doubt
That Virtue springs from Iron within,
Not lead without.
In The Morning
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Lias! 'Lias! Bless de Lawd!
Don' you know de day's erbroad?
Ef you don' git up, you scamp,
Dey 'll be trouble in dis camp.
T'ink I gwine to let you sleep
W'ile I meks yo' boa'd an' keep?
Dat's a putty howdy-do--
Don' you hyeah me, 'Lias--you?
Bet ef I come crost dis flo'
You won' fin' no time to sno'.
Daylight all a-shinin' in
Wile you sleep--w'y hit's a sin!
Ain't de can'le-light enough
To bu'n out widout a snuff,
But you go de mo'nin' thoo
Bu'nin' up de daylight too?
'Lias, don' you hyeah me call?
No use tu'nin' to'ds de wall;
I kin hyeah dat mattuss squeak;
Don' you hyeah me w'en I speak?
Dis hyeah clock done struck off six--
Ca'line, bring me dem ah sticks!
Oh, you down, suh; huh, you down--
Look hyeah, don' you daih to frown.
Ma'ch yo'se'f an' wash yo' face,
Don' you splattah all de place;
I got somep'n else to do,
'Sides jes' cleanin' aftah you.
Tek dat comb ah' fix yo' haid--
Looks jes' lak a feddah baid.
Look hyeah, boy, I let you see
You sha' n't roll yo' eyes at me.
Come hyeah; bring me dat ah strap!
Boy, I'll whup you 'twell you drap;
You done felt yo'se'f too strong,
An' you sholy got me wrong.
Set down at dat table thaih;
Jes' you whimpah ef you daih!
Evah mo'nin' on dis place,
Seem lak I mus' lose my grace.
Fol' yo' han's an' bow yo' haid--
Wait ontwell de blessin' 's said;
"Lawd, have mussy on ouah souls--"
(Don' you daih to tech dem rolls--)
"Bless de food we gwine to eat--"
(You set still-I see yo' feet;
You jes' try dat trick agin!)
"Gin us peace an' joy. Amen!"
Nursery Rhyme. CCCVII. Games.
by Unknown

1. I went up one pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went up two pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went into a room.
2. Just like me.
1. I looked out of a window.
2. Just like me.
1. And there I saw a monkey.
2. Just like me.
A Dialogue Betwixt Horace And Lydia, Translated Anno 1627, And Set By Mr. Ro. Ramsey.
by Robert Herrick

Hor.    While, Lydia, I was loved of thee,
Nor any was preferred 'fore me
To hug thy whitest neck, than I
The Persian king lived not more happily.
Lyd.    While thou no other didst affect,
Nor Chloe was of more respect
Than Lydia, far-famed Lydia,
I flourished more than Roman Ilia.
Hor.    Now Thracian Chloe governs me,
Skilful i' th' harp and melody;
For whose affection, Lydia, I
(So fate spares her) am well content to die.
Lyd.    My heart now set on fire is
By Ornithes' son, young Calais,
For whose commutual flames here I,
To save his life, twice am content to die.
Hor.    Say our first loves we should revoke,
And, severed, join in brazen yoke;
Admit I Chloe put away,
And love again love-cast-off Lydia?
Lyd.    Though mine be brighter than the star,
Thou lighter than the cork by far,
Rough as the Adriatic sea, yet I
Will live with thee, or else for thee will die.
A Boy's Summer Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Tis fine to play
In the fragrant hay,
And romp on the golden load;
To ride old Jack
To the barn and back,
Or tramp by a shady road.
To pause and drink,
At a mossy brink;
Ah, that is the best of joy,
And so I say
On a summer's day,
What's so fine as being a boy?
Ha, Ha!
With line and hook
By a babbling brook,
The fisherman's sport we ply;
And list the song
Of the feathered throng
That flit in the branches nigh.
At last we strip
For a quiet dip;
Ah, that is the best of joy.
For this I say
On a summer's day,
What's so fine as being a boy?
Ha, Ha!
Scotland: A Jacobite's Lament.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Where are those days, O Caledon,
So glorious and bright,
In which thy star resplendent shone
With passing lustrous light?
Alas! alas! those happier days
Are shrouded in the past,
Thy glory was like that of Greece,
Too bright it shone to last.
Where are those knightly heroes bold,
Those champions of the right,
That bore the shield and couched the lance
So valiant in the fight?
Whether for king and country's weal
In freedom's cause they strove,
Or courted glory and renown
To win their lady-love.
The Wallace nobly lived and died
To save his land from shame,
The royal Bruce as nobly fought
Her freedom to reclaim.
How would their generous hearts have mourned
Could they have pierced the veil,
And, peering into future years,
Have read thy woful tale!
Then patriots raised the royal flag
Around the noble Graemes,
And dyed the heather with their blood
For Scotland and King James.
A wreath of honour nobly won
Encircled then thy brow;
How is that garland, once so green,
So sadly faded now?
Now mercenary lust hath ta'en
The place of chivalry,
And that devoted Faith of yore
Is gone for bigotry.
What wonder then that to my eye
The tear will sometimes start?
What wonder that the clouds of grief
Hang heavy o'er my heart?
Gramercy Park
by Sara Teasdale

For W. P.
The little park was filled with peace,
The walks were carpeted with snow,
But every iron gate was locked.
Lest if we entered, peace would go.
We circled it a dozen times,
The wind was blowing from the sea,
I only felt your restless eyes
Whose love was like a cloak for me.
Oh heavy gates that fate has locked
To bar the joy we may not win,
Peace would go out forevermore
If we should dare to enter in.