DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Chanson Without Music By The Professor Emeritus Of Dead And Live Languages
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

PHI BETA KAPPA. - CAMBRIDGE, 1867
You bid me sing, - can I forget
The classic ode of days gone by, - 
How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette
Exclaimed, "Anacreon, geron ei"?
"Regardez done," those ladies said, - 
"You're getting bald and wrinkled too
When summer's roses all are shed,
Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous!"
In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry,
"Of Love alone my banjo sings"
(Erota mounon). "Etiam si, - 
Eh b'en?" replied the saucy things, - 
"Go find a maid whose hair is gray,
And strike your lyre, - we sha'n't complain;
But parce nobis, s'il vous plait, - 
Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!"
Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine!
Anacreon's lesson all must learn;
O kairos oxiis; Spring is green,
But Acer Hyems waits his turn
I hear you whispering from the dust,
"Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so, - 
The brightest blade grows dim with rust,
The fairest meadow white with snow!"
You do not mean it! Not encore?
Another string of playday rhymes?
You 've heard me - nonne est?-before,
Multoties,-more than twenty times;
Non possum, - vraiment, - pas du tout,
I cannot! I am loath to shirk;
But who will listen if I do,
My memory makes such shocking work?
Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told
Some ancients like my rusty lay,
As Grandpa Noah loved the old
Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day.
I used to carol like the birds,
But time my wits has quite unfixed,
Et quoad verba, - for my words, - 
Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew! - how they're mixed!
Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how
My thoughts were dressed when I was young,
But tempus fugit! see them now
Half clad in rags of every tongue!
O philoi, fratres, chers amis
I dare not court the youthful Muse,
For fear her sharp response should be,
"Papa Anacreon, please excuse!"
Adieu! I 've trod my annual track
How long! - let others count the miles, - 
And peddled out my rhyming pack
To friends who always paid in smiles.
So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit
No doubt has wares he wants to show;
And I am asking, "Let me sit,"
Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"
Song I
by Sara Teasdale

You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.
Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.
Bertha's Eyes
by Charles Baudelaire

You can scorn more illustrious eyes,
sweet eyes of my child, through which there takes flight
something as good or as tender as night.
Turn to mine your charmed shadows, sweet eyes!
Great eyes of a child, adorable secrets,
you resemble those grottoes of magic
where, behind the dark and lethargic,
shine vague treasures the world forgets.
My child has veiled eyes, profound and vast,
and shining like you, Night, immense, above!
Their fires are of Trust, mixed with thoughts of Love,
that glitter in depths, voluptuous or chaste.
Pepys' "Diary"
by Henry Austin Dobson

To One who asked why he wrote it.
You ask me what was his intent?
In truth, I'm not a German;
'Tis plain though that he neither meant
A Lecture nor a Sermon.
But there it is,--the thing's a Fact.
I find no other reason
But that some scribbling itch attacked
Him in and out of season,
To write what no one else should read,
With this for second meaning,
To "cleanse his bosom" (and indeed
It sometimes wanted cleaning);
To speak, as 'twere, his private mind,
Unhindered by repression,
To make his motley life a kind,
Of Midas' ears confession;
And thus outgrew this work per se,--
This queer, kaleidoscopic,
Delightful, blabbing, vivid, free
Hotch-pot of daily topic.
So artless in its vanity,
So fleeting, so eternal,
So packed with "poor Humanity"--
We know as Pepys' his journal.[1]
Sonnet 57
by Michael Drayton

You best discern'd of my interior eies,
And yet your graces outwardly diuine,
Whose deare remembrance in my bosome lies,
Too riche a relique for so poore a shrine:
You in whome Nature chose herselfe to view,
When she her owne perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you;
At whose pure eies Loue lights his halowed fire,
Euen as a man that in some traunce hath scene,
More than his wondring vttrance can vnfolde,
That rapt in spirite in better worlds hath beene,
So must your praise distractedly be tolde;
Most of all short, when I should shew you most,
In your perfections altogether lost.
The Bumblebee
by James Whitcomb Riley

You better not fool with a Bumblebee! -
Ef you don't think they can sting - you'll see!
They're lazy to look at, an' kindo' go
Buzzin' an' bummin' aroun' so slow,
An' ac' so slouchy an' all fagged out,
Danglin' their legs as they drone about
The hollyhawks 'at they can't climb in
'Ithout ist a-tumble-un out agin!
Wunst I watched one climb clean 'way
In a jim'son-blossom, I did, one day, -
An' I ist grabbed it - an' nen let go -
An' "Ooh-ooh! Honey! I told ye so!"
Says The Raggedy Man; an' he ist run
An' pullt out the stinger, an' don't laugh none,
An' says: "They has ben folks, I guess,
'At thought I wuz predjudust, more er less, -
Yit I still muntain 'at a Bumblebee
Wears out his welcome too quick fer me!"
Americans
by Unknown

You can always tell the English,
You can always tell the Dutch,
You can always tell the Yankees -
But you can't tell them much!
Father William
by James Whitcomb Riley

A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
"You are old, Father William, and though one would think
All the veins in your body were dry,
Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink;
I beg your indulgence, but why?"
"You see," Father William replied, "in my youth -
'Tis a thing I must ever regret -
It worried me so to keep up with the truth
That my nose has a flush on it yet."
"You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to detect
A feverish gleam in your eye;
Yet I'm willing to give you full time to reflect.
Now, pray, can you answer me why?"
"Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose
Me a wife in my earlier years,
And the grief, when I think that she didn't refuse,
Has reddened my eyelids with tears."
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And you never touch wine, you declare,
Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed;
Now answer me that if you dare."
"In my youth," said the sage, "I was told it was true,
That the world turned around in the night;
I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew
That at morning my feet would be right."
"You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to note,
As you recently fell through the door,
That 'full as a goose' had been chalked on your coat;
Now answer me that I implore."
"My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair,
While you stuck to the point in dispute,
But this is a personal matter, and there
Is my answer - the toe of my boot."
Epigram.
by Alexander Pope

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.
Worn Out
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

You bid me hold my peace
And dry my fruitless tears,
Forgetting that I bear
A pain beyond my years.
You say that I should smile
And drive the gloom away;
I would, but sun and smiles
Have left my life's dark day.
All time seems cold and void,
And naught but tears remain;
Life's music beats for me
A melancholy strain.
I used at first to hope,
But hope is past and, gone;
And now without a ray
My cheerless life drags on.
Like to an ash-stained hearth
When all its fires are spent;
Like to an autumn wood
By storm winds rudely shent,--
So sadly goes my heart,
Unclothed of hope and peace;
It asks not joy again,
But only seeks release.
Song
by John Collings Squire, Sir

You are my sky; beneath your circling kindness
My meadows all take in the light and grow;
Laugh with the joy you've given,
The joy you've given,
And open in a thousand buds, and blow.
But when you are sombre, sad, averse, forgetful,
Heavily veiled by clouds that brood with rain,
Dumbly I lie all shadowed,
I lie all shadowed,
And dumbly wait for you to shine again.
Mary, Pity Women!
by Rudyard Kipling

You call yourself a man,
For all you used to swear,
An' Leave me, as you can,
My certain shame to bear?
I'ear! You do not care,
You done the worst you know.
I 'ate you, grinnin' there....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over,
Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to you lover!
What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
It aren't no false alarm,
The finish to your fun;
You, you 'ave brung the 'arm,
An' I'm the ruined one!
An' now you'll off an' run
With some new fool in tow.
Your 'eart? You 'aven't none...
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im
All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im.
What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im
(Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im?
What 'ope for me or, it?
What's left for us to do?
I've walked with men a bit,
But this, but this is you.
So 'elp me, Christ, it's true!
Where can I 'de or go?
You coward through and through!...
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin',
Love lies dead, an' you cannot kiss 'im livin'.
Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin'
(Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'!
You'd like to treat me fair?
You can't, because we're pore?
We'd starve? What do I care!
We might, but this is shore!
I want the name, no more,
The name, an' lines to show,
An' not to be an 'ore....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
What the good o' pleadin', when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow
(Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!
Arcades Ambo
by Robert Browning

A.
You blame me that I ran away?
Why, Sir, the enemy advanced:
Balls flew about, and who can say
But one, if I stood firm, had glanced
In my direction? Cowardice?
I only know we don't live twice,
Therefore, shun death, is my advice.
B.
Shun death at all risks? Well, at some
True, I myself, Sir, though I scold
The cowardly, by no means come
Under reproof as overbold
I, who would have no end of brutes
Cut up alive to guess what suits
My case and saves my toe from shoots.
Wrecked Illusions
by Victor James Daley

Dedicated to Louis Becke
You are now in London town,
Louis Becke,
Keeping up your old renown,
Writing yarns of women brown,
Getting yellow money down,
Or a cheque.
That is right enough, maybe,
You are wise;
But your Isles of the South Sea,
Where the life is bold and free,
You may have them all for me,
Dash your eyes!
I armful of you, I am,
To the neck;
And I cannot think with a calm
Of your tales "By Reef and Palm"
But I have to mutter    "D----n
Louis Becke!"
You have lined, the press records
(Not in joke),
At the hospitable boards
Of a lot of dukes and lords,
And beguiled them with you words,
Simple folk!
Yet I would not envy you,
Be it said,
if the tales you told were true
As they were unique and new,
But you made them all up, Loo,
In your head.
Never, as in days of yore,
(You will see)
On your pages shall I pore,
With their yarns of love and gore,
Never, Louis, anymore
Becke for me.
I'd rejoice to have you here
(You might grieve!)
With your pen behind your ear,
In this clammy atmosphere,
Where it rains all round the year,
I believe.
O, you made a fine renown!
Mr. B.,
With your yarns of women brown,
And the red hibiscus crown
On the black hair hanging down
To the knee.
I have seen in Santa Cruz,
(Bet your life!)
Women browner than tan shoes,
And I'd rather die than choose
Any on of them as Muse,
Or as wife.
They had hair limed freely, but
Wore no wreath;
They (a) mouths of comic cut,
Mounts that hardly ever shut,
Red with chewing betel-nut,
And black teeth.
And their tank ears hung in loops,
And were well
Loaded down with rings in groups,
Blocks of wood, and things like scoops,
and their noses shone with hoops
Made of shell.
They exhales a perfume rare
(Potent yet,
Even in this strong sea-air)
Of its name I'm not aware,
But it was not, I can swear,
Mignonette.
Could Romance live there? Alas,
It took wings!
Louis, you can take the class,
You can have the lot, I pass,
With their petticoats of grass,
And nose-rings
And your traders, Grand old Drunks,
Where are they?
I have seen some queer quidnuncs
Who go sober to their bunks,
And are temperate as monks,
Sad to say.
They were clothed in suits of white,
Fresh and neat;
And no marks of recent fight
Marred their countenances bright,
And they spoke in words polite,
Clean and sweet.
If this Reehabitish crew,
This tame lot,
Are indeed the models true
Of the Traders bold you drew,
Then I really think that you
Should be shot.
You may say in weak excuse,
Being gnawed
By your conscience, that the loose
Stories that you did produce
Dealt with other isles. No use!
You're a Fraud!
Well, my Last Illusion so
Come to wreck.
'Tis your fault, as well you know,
Yet I would not wish you woe,
But you know where liars go,
Louis Becke!
PAIN.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

You eat the heart of life like some great beast,
You blacken the sweet sky, that God made blue!
You are the death's-head set amid the feast,
The desert breath, that drinks up every dew!
And no man lives that doth not fear you, Pain!
And no man lives that learns to love your rod;
The white lip smiles, but ever and again
God's image cries your horror unto God!
And yet, 0, Terrible! men grant you this:
You work a mystery; when you are done,
Lo! common living changes into bliss,
Lo! the mere light is as the noonday sun!
The Lily In A Crystal.
by Robert Herrick

You have beheld a smiling rose
When virgins' hands have drawn
O'er it a cobweb-lawn;
And here you see this lily shows,
Tomb'd in a crystal stone,
More fair in this transparent case
Than when it grew alone
And had but single grace.
You see how cream but naked is
Nor dances in the eye
Without a strawberry,
Or some fine tincture like to this,
Which draws the sight thereto
More by that wantoning with it
Than when the paler hue
No mixture did admit.
You see how amber through the streams
More gently strokes the sight
With some conceal'd delight
Than when he darts his radiant beams
Into the boundless air;
Where either too much light his worth
Doth all at once impair,
Or set it little forth.
Put purple grapes or cherries in-
To glass, and they will send
More beauty to commend
Them from that clean and subtle skin
Than if they naked stood,
And had no other pride at all
But their own flesh and blood
And tinctures natural.
Thus lily, rose, grape, cherry, cream,
And strawberry do stir
More love when they transfer
A weak, a soft, a broken beam,
Than if they should discover
At full their proper excellence;
Without some scene cast over
To juggle with the sense.
Thus let this crystal'd lily be
A rule how far to teach
Your nakedness must reach;
And that no further than we see
Those glaring colours laid
By art's wise hand, but to this end
They should obey a shade,
Lest they too far extend.
So though you're white as swan or snow,
And have the power to move
A world of men to love,
Yet when your lawns and silks shall flow,
And that white cloud divide
Into a doubtful twilight, then,
Then will your hidden pride
Raise greater fires in men.
A Chapter Of Froissart.
by Henry Austin Dobson

(Grandpapa Loquitur.)
You don't know Froissart now, young folks.
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes,
And startling titles;
But, in my time, when still some few
Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him "poet" too,
Were scarce misnomer),
Sir John was less ignored. Indeed,
I can re-call how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read
And find him pleasant;
For,--by this copy,--hangs a Tale.
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of "morning ale"
Than "Lindley Murray,"
In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall,
'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversation,"
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,
I turned the brown old leaves. For there
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,
Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token;--
A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall,"
An ivy-leaf for "Orchard corner,"
A thorn to say "Don't come at all,"--
Unwelcome warner!--
Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid;
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;
Though, as a rule, all used to end
In such kind confidential parley
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,
When your time comes. How years slip on!
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;
And once, for three long days disdained,
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some-one nettled,
That sure was in the wrong, but spake
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of "Boney,"
Who yet survived--ten years at least.
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!
Here is the leaf-stained Chapter:--How
The English King laid Siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now,--
Go ask her, Alice.
At Half-Mast
by Emily Pauline Johnson

You didn't know Billy, did you? Well, Bill was one of the boys,
The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise a noise, - 
An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you heard Billy sing.
I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've got there'd bring
A mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in your vest,
If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-ranchin' West."
An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't know
A robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard rooster's crow.
But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice lives anyhow, - 
That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place he's gone to now.
The last time that I seen him was the day he rode away;
He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for the East next day.
'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he didn't laugh
Or sing, an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around, and chaff,
For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to hurry home,
For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she wanted Bill to come.
Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up right away,
An' started across the plains to take the train for the East, next day.
Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of the rest,
For that was the great big blizzard day, when the wind come down from west,
An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't put foot outside,
But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his lonely ride.
We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at the break o' day,
An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thousand mile away.
Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the end of the week,
Fer all of us fellers thought a lot, - a lot that we darsn't speak.
We'd been up the trail about forty mile, an' was talkin' of turnin' back,
But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right on to the railroad track.
As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, "Say, bless my soul!
Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?"
Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin' an' flyin' in the wind,
An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter tightly pinned.
"Why, he must a-boarded the train right here," says Dan, but I kinder knew
That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two;
Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer hours, - all hope is past.
You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin' at half-mast."
His Favorite Role
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

You could be president as well as not,
Since all you'd have to do is think you were,
With that imagination that you've got;
Or multimillionaire if you prefer,
Or you could be some famous football star,
Or Tyrus Cobb, admired by ev'ry fan;
Instead of that, you tell me that you are
The Garbage Man.
Why pick him out, when you can take your choice?
Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a role
That acting it should make you to rejoice
And be a source of comfort to your soul?
Is there some hidden happiness that he
Uncovers in his march from can to can
That you above all else should want to be
The Garbage Man?
Woman To Man
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Woman is man's enemy, rival, and competitor. - JOHN. J. INGALLS.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals!    How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we entertwine
And make the perfect whole.    You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted.    (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid,
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman!    Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best,
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful occupation in this life?
Why prate of our defects, of where we fail,
When just the story of our worth would need
Eternity for telling, and our best
Development comes ever through your praise,
As through our praise you reach your highest self?
Oh! had you not been miser of your praise
And let our virtues be their own reward,
The old-established order of the world
Would never have been changed.    Small blame is ours
For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse.
Effeminising of the male.    We were
Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.
All we have done, or wise, or otherwise,
Traced to the root, was done for love of you.
Let us taboo all vain comparisons,
And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,
Companions, mates, and comrades evermore;
Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.