DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
On The Death Of Swinburne
by Sara Teasdale

He trod the earth but yesterday,
And now he treads the stars.
He left us in the April time
He praised so often in his rhyme,
He left the singing and the lyre and went his way.
He drew new music from our tongue,
A music subtly wrought,
And moulded words to his desire,
As wind doth mould a wave of fire;
From strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung.
I think the singing understands
That he who sang is still,
And Iseult cries that he is dead,
Does not Dolores bow her head
And Fragoletta weep and wring her little hands?
New singing now the singer hears
To lyre and lute and harp;
Catullus waits to welcome him,
And thro' the twilight sweet and dim,
Sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears.
The Life Beyond
by Rupert Brooke

He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.
The Grocery Man And The Bear
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

He was weary of all of his usual joys;
His books and his blocks made him tired,
And so did his games and mechanical toys,
And the songs he had always admired;
So I told him a story, a story so new
It had never been heard anywhere;
A tale disconnected, unlikely, untrue,
Called The Grocery Man and the Bear.
I didn't think much of the story despite
The fact 'twas a child of my brain.
And I never dreamt, when I told it that night,
That I'd have to tell it again;
I never imagined 'twould make such a hit
With the audience of one that was there
That for hours at a time he would quietly sit
Through The Grocery Man and the Bear.
To all other stories, this one is preferred;
It's the season's best seller by far,
And out at our house it's as frequently heard
As cuss-words in Mexico are.
When choo-choos and horses and picture books fail,
He'll remain, quite content, in his chair,
While I tell o'er and o'er the incredible tale
Of The Grocery Man and the Bear.
Christmas Meditation
by George MacDonald

He who by a mother's love
Made the wandering world his own,
Every year comes from above,
Comes the parted to atone,
Binding Earth to the Father's throne.
Nay, thou comest every day!
No, thou never didst depart!
Never hour hast been away!
Always with us, Lord, thou art,
Binding, binding heart to heart!
Sonnet LXXIII. Translation.
by Anna Seward

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives,
Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind
Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd,
And blended with his own. - No more she lives!
No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives
His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind
The Future's darkling maze! - His wish refin'd,
The wish to please, exists no more, that gives
The will its energy, the nerves their tone! - 
He feels the texture of his quiet torn,
And stopt the settled course that Action drew;
Life stands suspended - motionless - till thrown
By outward causes, into channels new; - 
But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!
Teeter-Totter
by Paul Cameron Brown

He was Popeye the Sailor Man
- at least in Picture book and poem
the mind falling from a drooping ledge,
thrust of twilight though working
up to the bargaining edge of words ...
Then, synchronicity and cuteness
aside, the all too old
pretending became the
gaping edge of Popeye's
spinach can, a soul lost
not to Sweet Pea or Olive
Oil, but barnacle and
rip-tides of a brain
slipping its moorings free.
A Dedication To E.C.B.
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

He was, through boyhood's storm and shower,
My best, my nearest friend;
We wore one hat, smoked one cigar,
One standing at each end.
We were two hearts with single hope,
Two faces in one hood;
I knew the secrets of his youth;
I watched his every mood.
The little things that none but I
Saw were beyond his wont,
The streaming hair, the tie behind,
The coat tails worn in front.
I marked the absent-minded scream,
The little nervous trick
Of rolling in the grate, with eyes
By friendship's light made quick.
But youth's black storms are gone and past,
Bare is each aged brow;
And, since with age we're growing bald,
Let us be babies now.
Learning we knew; but still to-day,
With spelling-book devotion,
Words of one syllable we seek
In moments of emotion.
Riches we knew; and well dressed dolls--
Dolls living--who expressed
No filial thoughts, however much
You thumped them in the chest.
Old happiness is grey as we,
And we may still outstrip her;
If we be slippered pantaloons,
Oh let us hunt the slipper!
The old world glows with colours clear;
And if, as saith the saint,
The world is but a painted show,
Oh let us lick the paint!
Far, far behind are morbid hours,
And lonely hearts that bleed.
Far, far behind us are the days,
When we were old indeed.
Leave we the child: he is immersed
With scientists and mystics:
With deep prophetic voice he cries
Canadian food statistics.
But now I know how few and small,
The things we crave need be--
Toys and the universe and you--
A little friend to tea.
Behold the simple sum of things,
Where, in one splendour spun,
The stars go round the Mulberry Bush,
The Burning Bush, the Sun.
Now we are old and wise and grey,
And shaky at the knees;
Now is the true time to delight
In picture books like these.
Hoary and bent I dance one hour:
What though I die at morn?
There is a shout among the stars,
"To-night a child is born."
Struck It At Last
by Edward Dyson

He was almost blind, and wasted
With the wear of many years;
He had laboured, and had tasted
Bitter troubles, many cares;
But his laugh was loud and ringing,
And his flag was on the mast
Every day they heard him singing:
'Bound to strike it rich at last.'
Here he brandished axe and maul ere
Buninyong, and after that
Fought and bled with Peter Lalor
And the boys at Ballarat.
East and west and northward, striving,
As the tides set fresh and fast
Ever trying, rarely thriving
Yes, he'd strike it rich at last.
Now and then she'd pan out snugly,
Mostly all the other way,
But he never cut up ugly
When he bottomed on the clay;
Never cursed, or got disgusted,
Mourned the days and chances past
Geordie always hoped and trusted
He would strike it rich at last.
If the days were very dull, or
When the store-men cut up rough
And he couldn't raise a colour
From a cart-load of the stuff,
No man found him chicken-hearted,
He'd no time to bang and blast;
Pegged her out again and started
Bound to strike it rich at last.
Blinded by a shot in Eighty,
Sinking for the Pegleg Reef,
If he sorrowed o'er his fate, he
Let no mortal see his grief.
In the Home there in the city
Geordie won their favor fast,
All the inmates learned his ditty
'Bound to strike it rich at last.'
When brought low, and bowed, and hoary,
Still his eyes alone were blind,
Fortune left undimmed the glory
Of his happy, tranquil mind;
In his heart a flame was glowing
That defied the roughest blast,
And he sang: 'There is no knowing,
Mates, I'll strike it rich at last.'
As the end approached he prattled
Of old days at Ballarat,
And again the windlass rattled
At Jim Crow and Blanket Flat;
And the nurses heard him mutter
As his dauntless spirit passed:
'Streak of luck, boys! On the gutter!'
Geordie struck it rich at last.
Mismet
by Thomas Hardy

I
He was leaning by a face,
He was looking into eyes,
And he knew a trysting-place,
And he heard seductive sighs;
But the face,
And the eyes,
And the place,
And the sighs,
Were not, alas, the right ones the ones meet for him -
Though fine and sweet the features, and the feelings all abrim.
II
She was looking at a form,
She was listening for a tread,
She could feel a waft of charm
When a certain name was said;
But the form,
And the tread,
And the charm
Of name said,
Were the wrong ones for her, and ever would be so,
While the heritor of the right it would have saved her soul to know!
Translation Of The Epitaph On Virgil And Tibullus, By Domitius Marsus.
by George Gordon Byron

He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death's unequal[1] hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
God's Handwriting
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

He writes in characters too grand
For our short sight to understand;
We catch but broken strokes, and try
To fathom all the mystery
Of withered hopes, of death, of life,
The endless war, the useless strife,--
But there, with larger, clearer sight,
We shall see this--His way was right.
Lines To John Rankine.
by Robert Burns

He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
The Warrior
by John Alexander McCrae

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.
Heart Brokken.
by John Hartley

He wor a poor hard workin lad,
An shoo a workin lass,
An hard they tew'd throo day to day,
For varry little brass.
An oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day,
An lang'd for th' happy time,
When poverty noa moor should part,
Two lovers i' ther prime.
But wark wor scarce, an wages low,
An mait an drink wor dear,
They did ther best to struggle on,
As year crept after year.
But they wor little better off,
Nor what they'd been befoor;
It tuk 'em all ther time to keep
Grim Want aghtside o'th' door.
Soa things went on, wol Hope at last,
Gave place to dark despair;
They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts,
An want an toil to share.
At length he screw'd his courage up
To leeav his native shore;
An goa where wealth wor worshipped less,
An men wor valued moor.
He towld his tale; - poor lass! - a tear
Just glistened in her e'e;
Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,
But think sometimes o' me:
An whether tha's gooid luck or ill,
Tha knows aw shall be glad
To see thee safe at hooam agean,
An welcome back mi lad."
"Awl labor on, an do mi best;
Tho' lonely aw must feel,
But awst be happy an content
If tha be dooin weel.
But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,
An keep us far apart;
Tha's left a poor, poor lass behind,
An taen away her heart."
"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,
Whearivver aw may rooam,
That bonny face an lovin heart,
Aw've prized soa dear at hooam?
Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,
'At till next time we meet
Tha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn,
An last thowt ivvery neet."
He went away an years flew by,
But tidins seldom came;
Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,
But breathed noa word o' blame;
When one fine day a letter came,
'Twor browt to her at th' mill,
Shoo read it, an her tremblin hands,
An beating heart stood still.
Her fellow workers gathered raand
An caught her as shoo fell,
An as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,
Shoo sighed a sad "farewell."
Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,
He'd play'd a traitor's part,
He'd taen another for his bride,
An broke a trustin heart.
Her doleful stooary sooin wor known,
An monny a tear wor shed;
They took her hooam an had her laid,
Upon her humble bed;
Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come
Her burial fees to pay;
But some poor comrade's undertuk,
To see her put away.
Each gave what little helps they could,
From aght ther scanty stooar;
I' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealth
Wod give a trifle moor.
But th' maisters ordered 'em away,
Abaat ther business, sharp!
For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,
An shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.
Old Dame And Cats.
by John Gay

He who holds friendship with a knave,
Will reputation hardly save;
And thus upon our choice of friends
Our good or evil name depends.
A wrinkled hag - of naughty fame - 
Sat hovering o'er a flickering flame,
Propped with both hands upon her knees
She shook with palsy and the breeze.
She had perhaps seen fourscore years,
And backwards said her daily prayers;
Her troop of cats with hunger mewed, - 
Tabbies and toms, a numerous brood.
Teased with their murmuring, out she flew
In angry passion: "Hence, ye crew! - 
What made me take to keeping cats?
Ye are as bad as bawling brats:
With brats I might perhaps have grown rich;
I never had been thought a known witch.
Boys pester me, and strive to awe - 
Across my path they place a straw;
They nail the horse-shoe, hide the broom-stick,
Put pins, and every sort of trick."
"Dame," said a tabby, "cease your prate,
Enough to break a pussy's pate.
What is our lot beneath your roof?
Within, starvation; out, reproof:
Elsewhere we had been honest mousers,
And slept, by, fireside carousers.
Here we are imps who serve a hag,
And yonder broom-stick's thought your nag;
Boys hunt us with a doom condign,
To take one life out of our nine."
Baby Charley.
by Sidney Lanier

He's fast asleep. See how, O Wife,
Night's finger on the lip of life
Bids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife,
Of busy Baby Charley.
One arm stretched backward round his head,
Five little toes from out the bed
Just showing, like five rosebuds red,
- So slumbers Baby Charley.
Heaven-lights, I know, are beaming through
Those lucent eyelids, veined with blue,
That shut away from mortal view
Large eyes of Baby Charley.
O sweet Sleep-Angel, throned now
On the round glory of his brow,
Wave thy wing and waft my vow
Breathed over Baby Charley.
I vow that my heart, when death is nigh,
Shall never shiver with a sigh
For act of hand or tongue or eye
That wronged my Baby Charley!
Macon, Georgia, December, 1869.
Bateese The Lucky Man
by William Henry Drummond

He's alway ketchin' dor', an'he 's alway ketchin' trout
On de place w'ere no wan else can ketch at all
He 's alway ketchin' barbotte, dat 's w'at you call bull-pout,
An' he never miss de wil' duck on de fall.
O! de pa'tridge do some    skippin' w'en    she see heem on de swamp
For she know Bateese don't go for not'ing dere,
An' de rabbit if he 's comin' , wall! you ought to see heem jomp.
W'y he want to climb de tree he feel so scare.
Affer two hour by de reever I hear hees leetle song
Den I meet heem all hees pocket full of snipe,
An' me, I go de sam' place, an' I tramp de w'ole day long
An' I'm only shootin' two or t'ree, Ba Cripe!
I start about de sun-rise, an' I put out ma decoy,
An' before it 's comin' breakfas' , he 's holler on hees boy
For carry home two dozen duck or more.
An' I'm freezin' on de blin'-me- from four o'clock to nine
An' ev'ry duck she 's passin' up so high.
Dere 's blue-bill an' butter-ball, an' red-head, de fines' kin
An' I might as well go shootin' on de sky.
Don't see de noder feller lak Bateese was lucky man,
He can ketch de smartes' feesh is never sweem,
An' de bird he seldom miss dem, let dem try de hard dey can
W'y de eagle on de mountain can't fly away from heem.
But all de bird, an' fish too,    is geev'up feelin' scare,
An' de rabbit he can stay at home in bed,
For he feesh an' shoot no longer, ole Jean Bateese Belair,
'Cos he 's dead.
He Who With Life
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

He who with life makes sport,
Can prosper never;
Who rules himself in nought,
Is a slave ever.
MAY each honest effort be
Crown'd with lasting constancy.
The Shepherd
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'She Wore a Wreath of Roses.')
He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home.
Chorus
I saw him but a moment'yet methinks I see him now'
While his sheep were gently feeding 'neath the rugged mountain brow.
When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were gone;
A brand new suit of tweed and 'Doctor Dod' he had put on;
Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his face.
When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known track
From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop in his eye.
He's Gone To England For A Wife
by Henry Lawson

He's gone to England for a wife
Among the ladies there;
And yet I know a lass he deemed
The rarest of the rare.
He's gone to England for a wife;
And rich and proud is he.
But he was poor and toiled for bread
When first he courted me.
He said I was the best on earth;
He said I was 'his life';
And now he thinks of noble birth,
And seeks a lady wife!
He said for me alone he'd toil
To win an honest fame;
But now no lass on southern soil
Is worthy of his name!
I think I see his lady bride,
A fair and faultless face,
And nothing in her heart beside
The empty pride of race.
And she will grace his gilded home,
The wife his gold shall buy;
But will she ever dream of him,
Or love as well as I?
Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same
by Robert Lee Frost

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the day long voice of Eve
Had added to their own an over sound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.
He Who Hath Glory Lost, Nor Hath
by James Joyce

He who hath glory lost, nor hath
Found any soul to fellow his,
Among his foes in scorn and wrath
Holding to ancient nobleness,
That high unconsortable one,
His love is his companion.
Tom Grit.
by John Hartley

He'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e,
An his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be;
For each one he met he'd a sally o' wit,
For a jovjal soul wor this same Tom Grit.
He climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride,
For he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried;
But he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive
As weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive.
Soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand,
An prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned;
But some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave,
For they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave.
It set off wi' a jerk when Tom touched it wi' th' whip,
But his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip,
An he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait,
But it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight.
Two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on,
An ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none;
Soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin, - 
Then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in.
It had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed,
An it plunged an reared madly, - an then as if crazed
It dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse,
Woll Tom tried his utmost to steady his course.
Wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight
He strained ivvery muscle, - but saw wi' affright
'At the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd,
Wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd,
"Let it goa! Let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd,
An Tom felt his strength givin way varry fast;
His hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check,
But he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck.
That jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit,
An new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to Tom Grit,
An tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt,
Th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt.
Then chaps went to hold it, an help poor Tom daan,
For Tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan;
"Tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght,
Thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!"
But Tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled,
"I'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child,
An aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan,
For he's all th' lad we have. Have yo nooan o' yer own?"
Mary Hume. A Ballad.
by Susanna Moodie

"He will come to night," young Mary said,
And checked the rising sigh;
And gazed on the stars that o'er her head
Shone out in the deep blue sky.
"Heaven speed his voyage!--though absent long,
The painful vigil's o'er--
The skies are clear--the breeze is strong--
We meet to part no more!"
While yet she spoke a sudden chill
O'er her ardent spirit crept;
A sad presentiment of ill--
She turned away and wept.
Far off the sigh of ocean stole--
The sweeping of the sounding surge--
In plaintive murmurs o'er her soul,
Like wailing of a funeral dirge.
And in the wind there is a tone
Which whispers to her sinking heart--
"Mary we meet in death alone;
In realms of bliss no more to part."
The moon has sunk in her ocean cave,
Fled are the shades of night,
And morning bursts on the purple wave
In floods of golden-light.
The sudden stroke of the village bell
Checks the fisher's blithesome song;
He pauses to hear how rock and fell
Its sullen tones prolong.
"Some soul to its last account has sped:
Dost thou hear that solemn sound?"
"'Tis Mary Hume!"--his comrade said--
"Last night her love was drowned!"
Mister Merryman.
by Richard Hunter

He's always standing on his toes,
And never on his heels;
He's always holding up his arms--
I wonder how it feels.
Two balls are always in his hands,
He never lets them drop;
He's always smiling just like this,
And never seems to stop.
Somewhere Up In Queensland
by Henry Lawson

He's somewhere up in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He's somewhere up in Queensland,
The people say to-day.
But Somewhere (up in Queensland)
That uncle used to know,
That filled our hearts with wonder,
Seems vanished long ago.
He's gone to Queensland, droving,
The old folks used to say;
He's gone to Queensland, droving,
The people say to-day.
But 'gone to Queensland, droving,'
Might mean, in language plain,
He follows stock in buggies,
And gets supplies by train.
He's knocking round in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He's gone to Queensland, roving,
His sweetheart says to-day.
But 'gone to Queensland, roving'
By mighty plain and scrub,
Might mean he drives a motor-car
For Missus Moneygrub.
He's looking for new country,
The old folks used to say;
Our boy has gone exploring,
Fond parents say to-day.
'Exploring' out in Queensland
Might only mean to some
He's salesman in 'the drapery'
Of a bush emporium.
To somewhere up in Queensland
Went Tom and Ted and Jack;
From somewhere up in Queensland
The dusty cheques come back:
From somewhere up in Queensland
Brown drovers used to come,
And someone up in Queensland
Kept many a southern home.
Somewhere up in Queensland,
How many black sheep roam,
Who never write a letter,
And never think of home.
For someone up in Queensland
How many a mother spoke;
For someone up in Queensland
How many a girl's heart broke.