DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnet CXXXIV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina.
LAURA SINGS.
If Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline,
And all her soul concentring in a sigh,
Then breathe it in her voice of melody,
Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;
My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,
And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,--
"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,
If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"
But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,
And the strong will, thus listening to possess
Heaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.
And thus I live; and thus drawn out and wound
Is my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,
By this sole syren from the realms of day.
DACRE.
Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends--
Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh--
A brief pause--a fond hush--her voice on high,
Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.
Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,
New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,
Perforce I say,--"Thus be it mine to die,
If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"
But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,
The strong desire of more that in me yearns,
Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.
Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turns
The yarn of life which to my lot is given,
Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.
MACGREGOR.
If It's Ever Spring Again (Song)
by Thomas Hardy

If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I when
Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,
Seeing me not, amid their flounder,
Standing with my arm around her;
If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I then.
If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay crop at the prime,
And the cuckoos two in rhyme,
As they used to be, or seemed to,
We shall do as long we've dreamed to,
If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay, and bees achime.
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXIX. Songs.
by Unknown

If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend;
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;
I never would cry old chairs to mend.
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;
I never would cry old clothes to sell.
No Pains, No Gains
by Robert Herrick

If little labour, little are our gains;
Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
If I Were City Editor.
by Edwin C. Ranck

(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)
If I were City Editor
And you should come to my cold desk and choke,
And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."
I say, if I were City Editor,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe
And say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"
I might arise with slow and solemn wink
And lecture you upon the curse of drink.
If I were City Editor
And you should come to my hotel and reel,
Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel,
I say if I were City Editor
And you should come in trembling and in fear
And even hint about licking up that beer,
I'd hit you just one swat, and then,
I guess I'd have to order one more bier.
Tu Quoque, An Idyll In The Conservatory
by Henry Austin Dobson

nellie
If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,
If I were you!
frank
If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would at least pretend I recollected,
If I were you!
nellie
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish,
If I were you!
frank
If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff of the best, the mildest "honey dew,"
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!
nellie
If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,
Even to write the "Cynical Review";
frank
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
If I were you!
nellie
Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
If I were you!
frank
"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!
nellie
Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir!
Where shall it be? To China, or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,
If I were you!
frank
No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do,
Ah, you are strong, I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!
nellie
One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,
frank
One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,
nellie
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?
frank
I should admit that I was pique, too.
nellie
Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,
If I were you!
[Waltz - Exeunt.]
To Laura In Death. Sonnet IX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

S' Amor novo consiglio non n' apporta.
HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.
If Love to give new counsel still delay,
My life must change to other scenes than these;
My troubled spirit grief and terror freeze,
Desire augments while all my hopes decay.
Thus ever grows my life, by night and day,
Despondent, and dismay'd, and ill at ease,
Harass'd and helmless on tempestuous seas,
With no sure escort on a doubtful way.
Her path a sick imagination guides,
Its true light underneath--ah, no! on high,
Whence on my heart she beams more bright than eye,
Not on mine eyes; from them a dark veil hides
Those lovely orbs, and makes me, ere life's span
Is measured half, an old and broken man.
MACGREGOR.
When?
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sun
Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
For any one,
All the fight fought, all the short journey through:
What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on,
Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;
But rise and move and love and smile and pray
For one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear
Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping
How should I fear?
And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.
Do Thou Thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie
All the night long; and when the morning splendor
Flashed o'er the sky,
I think that I could smile--could calmly say,
"It is His day."
But, if instead a hand from the blue yonder
Held out a scroll,
On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll
To a long century's end its mystic clew,
What should I do?
What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
Other than this:
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Nor fear to miss
The road, although so very long it be,
While led by Thee?
Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
Although unseen,
Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee,
Or heavens serene,
Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,
Thy love decay.
I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth
Thy counsels wise;
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
No voice replies
To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
Thy will always,
Through a long century's ripening fruition,
Or a short day's.
Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
If thou come late.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XLV
by Alfred Edward Housman

If it chance your eye offend you,
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
And many a balsam grows on ground.
And if your hand or foot offend you,
Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
When your sickness is your soul.
Mother o' Mine
by Rudyard Kipling

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
War.
by Robert Herrick

If kings and kingdoms once distracted be,
The sword of war must try the sovereignty
Love's Expostulation.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

S' un casto amor.
If love be chaste, if virtue conquer ill,
If fortune bind both lovers in one bond,
If either at the other's grief despond,
If both be governed by one life, one will;
If in two bodies one soul triumph still,
Raising the twain from earth to heaven beyond,
If Love with one blow and one golden wand
Have power both smitten breasts to pierce and thrill;
If each the other love, himself forgoing,
With such delight, such savour, and so well,
That both to one sole end their wills combine;
If thousands of these thoughts, all thought outgoing,
Fail the least part of their firm love to tell:
Say, can mere angry spite this knot untwine?
My Romance
by Madison Julius Cawein

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers
In mist no moonlight breaks,
The leagues of the years my spirit covers,
And my self myself forsakes.
And I live in a land of stars and flowers,
White cliffs by a silvery sea;
And the pearly points of her opal towers
From the mountains beckon me.
And I think that I know that I hear her calling
From a casement bathed with light
Through music of waters in waters falling
Mid palms from a mountain height.
And I feel that I think my love's awaited
By the romance of her charms;
That her feet are early and mine belated
In a world that chains my arms.
But I break my chains and the rest is easy
In the shadow of the rose,
Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,
We meet and no one knows.
And we dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;
The world it may live or die!
The world that forgets; that never misses
The life that has long gone by.
We speak old vows that have long been spoken;
And weep a long-gone woe:
For you must know our hearts were broken
Hundreds of years ago.
If
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

If life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme,--
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I 'd only ask that with a kiss
You 'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain,--
I 'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I 'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!
Rules For Monarchs.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

If men are never their thoughts to employ,
Take care to provide them a life full of joy;
But if to some profit and use thou wouldst bend them,
Take care to shear them, and then defend them.
If In Loving, Singing.
by Thomas Moore

If in loving, singing, night and day
We could trifle merrily life away,
Like atoms dancing in the beam,
Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream,
Or summer blossoms, born to sigh
Their sweetness out, and die--
How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,
Thou and I could make our minutes glide!
No atoms ever glanced so bright,
No day-flies ever danced so light,
Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh,
So close, as thou and I!
Francois Villon.
by Eugene Field

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?
He would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away,
And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!
But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride,
And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside,
What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie;
"Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel
The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!"
He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane--
"Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!"
And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly,
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;
He in his meager, shabby home, I in my roaring den--
He with his babes around him, I with my hunted men!
His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!--
"Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!"
*        *        *        *        *
So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality--
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
Prefixed to Book ij. of Primaleon, &c. Translated by Anthony Munday (1619). - OF THE WORKE and Translation.
by Michael Drayton

If in opinion of iudiciall wit,
Primaleons sweet Invention well deserue:
Then he (no lesse) which hath translated it,
Which doth his sense, his forme, his phrase, obserue.
And in true method of his home-borne stile,
(Following the fashion of a French conceate)
Hath brought him heere into this famous Ile,
Where but a stranger, now hath made his seate.
He liues a Prince, and comming in this sort,
Shall to his Countrey of your fame report.
Tartary
by Walter De La Mare

If I were Lord of Tartary,
Myself and me alone,
My bed should be of ivory,
Of beaten gold my throne;
And in my court should peacocks flaunt,
And in my forests tigers haunt,
And in my pools great fishes slant
Their fins athwart the sun.
If I were Lord of Tartary,
Trumpeters every day
To all my meals should summon me,
And in my courtyards bray;
And in the evenings lamps should shine,
Yellow as honey, red as wine,
While harp, and flute, and mandoline,
Made music sweet and gay.
If I were Lord of Tartary,
I'd wear a robe of beads,
White, and gold, and green they'd be - 
And small, and thick as seeds;
And ere should wane the morning-star,
I'd don my robe and scimitar,
And zebras seven should draw my car
Through Tartary's dark glades.
Lord of the fruits of Tartary,
Her rivers silver-pale!
Lord of the hills of Tartary,
Glen, thicket, wood, and dale!
Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,
Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,
Her bird-delighting citron-trees
In every purple vale!
Rhymes On The Road. Extract XII. Florence.
by Thomas Moore

Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together.
If it be true that Music reigns,
Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony so famous,
Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS
Declared had such transcendent merit
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come--from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Thro' MILAN and that land which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]--
By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave,
Which made VERONA'S bard so blest--
Places that (like the Attic shore,
Which rung back music when the sea
Struck on its marge) should be all o'er
Thrilling alive with melody--
I've heard no music--not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float
In my own land among the throng
And speak our nation's soul for song.
Nay, even in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer if not sweeter makes
The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes--
Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend[2]--long, truly dear--
Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
Still more so every note she sings--
Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing
With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied
In music to her, as in love,
Breathing that language by her side,
All other language far above,
Eloquent Song--whose tones and words
In every heart find answering chords!
How happy once the hours we past,
Singing or listening all daylong,
Till Time itself seemed changed at last
To music, and we lived in song!
Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er,
As quick beneath her master hand
They opened all their brilliant store,
Like chambers, touched by fairy wand;
Or o'er the page of MOZART bending,
Now by his airy warblings cheered,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
Voices thro' which the heart was heard.
And still, to lead our evening choir,
Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]--
He who if aught of grace there be
In the wild notes I write or sing,
First smoothed their links of harmony,
And lent them charms they did not bring;--
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employed in his sweet art,
(That art which gives this world of ours
A notion how they speak in heaven.)
I've past more bright and charmed hours
Than all earth's wisdom could have given.
Oh happy days, oh early friends,
How Life since then hath lost its flowers!
But yet--tho' Time some foliage rends,
The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;
And long may it endure, as green
And fresh as it hath always been!
How I have wandered from my theme!
But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
Thro' which these best of feelings burn?--
Not all the works of Science, Art,
Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh that from the heart
Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.
Mary And John.
by William Cowper

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone,
'Tis a very good match between Mary and John.
Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!
It can't be a match''tis a bundle of matches.
Pastoral
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

If it were only still!--
With far away the shrill
Crying of a cock;
Or the shaken bell
From a cow's throat
Moving through the bushes;
Or the soft shock
Of wizened apples falling
From an old tree
In a forgotten orchard
Upon the hilly rock!
Oh, grey hill,
Where the grazing herd
Licks the purple blossom,
Crops the spiky weed!
Oh, stony pasture,
Where the tall mullein
Stands up so sturdy
On its little seed!
My Romance
by Madison Julius Cawein

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers
In mist no moonlight breaks,
The leagues of the years my spirit covers,
And my self myself forsakes.
And I live in a land of stars and flowers,
White cliffs by a silvery sea;
And the pearly points of her opal towers
From the mountains beckon me.
And I think that I know that I hear her calling
From a casement bathed with light - 
Through music of waters in waters falling
Mid palms from a mountain height.
And I feel that I think my love's awaited
By the romance of her charms;
That her feet are early and mine belated
In a world that chains my arms.
But I break my chains and the rest is easy - 
In the shadow of the rose,
Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,
We meet and no one knows.
And we dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;
The world - it may live or die!
The world that forgets; that never misses
The life that has long gone by.
We speak old vows that have long been spoken;
And weep a long-gone woe:
For you must know our hearts were broken
Hundreds of years ago.
If Love Were King.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

If Love were king,
That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure,
But for its children spends its fondest treasure,
Sad hearts would sing,
And all the hosts of misery and wrong
Forget their anguish in the happy song
That joy would bring.
If Love were king,
Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features,
And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures
Her treasures fling;
Till drooping souls would rise above their fate,
And find sweet flowers for all the desolate
And sorrowing.
If Love were king,
Before the scepter of his might should vanish
Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish
Want's awful sting;
While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw
Delightful raptures over all below,
And gladness bring.
If Love were king,
The nations would eternal sunshine borrow,
And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow
And every thing
That binds the race in groans and agony;
Life's changing seasons would forever be
Unvaried spring.
If Love were king!
O, broken feet that wander worn and weary
Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary,
With rapture cling
Your anguished arms about him; drink delight
Upon his perfect bosom soft and white
And comforting!
Laughing Rose
by William Henry Davies

If I were gusty April now,
How I would blow at laughing Rose;
I'd make her ribbons slip their knots,
And all her hair come loose.
If I were merry April now,
How I would pelt her cheeks with showers;
I'd make carnations, rich and warm,
Of her vermilion flowers.
Since she will laugh in April's face,
No matter how he rains or blows, 
Then O that I wild April were,
To play with laughing Rose.
York Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin)
by James Stephens

If in winter you shall drive
Birds from crumbs, you shall not thrive;
But if you feed them, they will fly
To sing it sweetly on the sky.
So throw up the window, and
Scatter with a lavish hand,
Taking care you do not spill
Flower-pots from the window-sill,
Singing, "Ireland shall be free
From the centre to the sea";
Singing bravely once again,
"We are Dan O'Connell's Men."
A Prayer
by John Charles McNeill

If many years should dim my inward sight,
Till, stirred with no emotion,
I might stand gazing at the fall of night
Across the gloaming ocean;
Till storm, and sun, and night, vast with her stars,
Would seem an oft-told story,
And the old sorrow of heroic wars
Be faded of its glory;
Till, hearing, while June's roses blew their musk,
The noise of field and city,
The human struggle, sinking tired at dusk,
I felt no thrill of pity;
Till dawn should come without her old desire,
And day brood o'er her stages,--
O let me die, too frail for nature's hire,
And rest a million ages.
Steam In Sacrifice.
by Robert Herrick

If meat the gods give, I the steam
High-towering will devote to them,
Whose easy natures like it well,
If we the roast have, they the smell.
A Match
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
Upon A Comely And Curious Maid.
by Robert Herrick

If men can say that beauty dies,
Marbles will swear that here it lies.
If, reader, then thou canst forbear
In public loss to shed a tear,
The dew of grief upon this stone
Will tell thee pity thou hast none.
Valentines From A Commercial Lover
by Arthur Macy

If I were but a syndicate,
And love were merchandise,
I'd buy it at the market rate,
And hold it for a rise.
And should the price of all this love
Bound upward like a ball,
And reach 1000 or above,
Still you should have it all.
Riddles
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

If it's fun to take books from the bookcase,
If you really believe it's worth while
To carry them out to the kitchen
And build them all up in a pile,
Why isn't it just as agreeable then
To carry them back to the bookcase again?
If it's fun to make marks with a pencil
In books that one cares for a heap;
To tear out the pages from volumes
One likes and is anxious to keep,
Why isn't it pleasure to put on the hummer
A magazine read and discarded last summer?