DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Fiddledeedee And The Bumblebee
by Madison Julius Cawein

'T was Fiddledeedee who put to sea
With a rollicking buccaneer Bumblebee:
An acorn-cup was their hollow boat
A rakish craft was their acorn-boat
And their sail a butterfly's wing;
Their mast, a bit o' the stem of an oat,
A jaunty jib was this bit of an oat,
And their rudder a hornet's sting,
By jing!
Their rudder a hornet's sting.
In an acorn-cup they put to sea,
Did Fiddledeedee and the Bumblebee.
"We'll sail to the Isles of Tweedledumdee,"
Quoth Fiddledeedee to the Bumblebee:
So they steered past the Isles of Cream and Ice
Oh, cold were the Isles of Cream and Ice
And came to the Sea of Ginger Beer;
And there, by the City of Sugar and Spice
The sweet, sweet City of Sugar and Spice
Their acorn-boat upset, my dear,
I hear
Their acorn boat upset, my dear.
"Good-by to the Isles of Tweedledumdee,"
Said Fiddledeedee to the Bumblebee.
Sunday.
by H. P. Nichols

'T is Sunday morning, dear mamma!
I do not wish to play;
Last night I put my dolls and toys
Safe in my box away.
I'll come and sit down by your side,
While you the story tell
Of the good little Joseph, whom
His father loved so well.
And of the time when waters dark
Covered the world around;
And all but Noah in his ark,
Beneath the waves were drowned.
And of the gentle dove, that forth
O'er those wide waters flew,
And twice, with weary wing, returned,
No resting-place in view.
And how the infant Moses, too,
Floated the Nile along;
And how his mother made for him
The basket cradle strong.
Please tell these Bible-stories then,
And take me on your knee,
And I'll sit still, my dear mamma,
And listen quietly.
My True Love Is A Sailor
by John Clare

'T was somewhere in the April time,
Not long before the May,
A-sitting on a bank o' thyme
I heard a maiden say,
"My true love is a sailor,
And ere he went away
We spent a year together,
And here my lover lay.
The gold furze was in blossom,
So was the daisy too;
The dew-drops on the little flowers
Were emeralds in hue.
On this same Summer morning,
Though then the Sabbath day,
He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses,
Beneath the whitethorn may.
He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses,
And said if they would keep
They'd tell me of love's fantasies,
For dews on them did weep.
And I did weep at parting,
Which lasted all the week;
And when he turned for starting
My full heart could not speak.
The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers
Beneath the same haw-tree;
I crop't them in morn's dewy hours,
And here love's offerings be.
O come to me my sailor beau
And ease my aching breast;
The storms shall cease to rave and blow,
And here thy life find rest."
Unreturning.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

'T was such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
'T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
'T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!
Autumn.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Tainted with death? Ah then, the taint is sweet!
As if God took the essences of life
And burned them in a brazier at his feet,
The smoke of them ascending rich and rife
To please his nostrils! What if man be loath
To your deep bosom, and would have the Spring
His bride forever! He who made you both
Knoweth your beauty for as fair a thing;
Like that of one who long hath been a wife.
And mothered men! As piercing as a knife,
And rich beyond all mortal imaging!
Odes From Horace. - To Nea[=E]ra. Book The Fifth, Epode The Fifteenth.
by Anna Seward

'T was night - the moon, upon her sapphire throne,
High o'er the waning stars serenely shone,
When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane
Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main,
As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd,
Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind,
Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea,
And red Orion vex the wintry sea,
While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks,
That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks,
So long thy breast should burn with purest fires,
With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.
Perjur'd Nea[=e]ra! thou shalt one day prove
The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love;
For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms,
Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms;
Seek some bright Maid, whose soul for him shall glow,
Nor art, nor pride, nor wandering wishes know.
Then should'st thou languish, sigh, and weep once more,
And with new vows his injur'd heart implore,
Nor sighs, nor vows, nor tears shall he regard
Cold as the snow and as the marble hard.
And THOU, triumphant Youth, so gay, so vain,
Proud of my fate, exulting in my pain,
Tho' on thy hills the plenteous Herd should feed,
And rich Pactolus roll along thy mead;
For thee tho' Science ope the varied store,
And Beauty on thy form its graces pour,
Ere long shalt thou, while wrongs like these degrade,
Droop with my woes, and with my rage upbraid;
See on a Rival's brow thy garlands worn,
And, with her falsehood, bear my jocund scorn.
The Sonnets XL - Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all
by William Shakespeare

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
London Types - X. News-Boy
by William Ernest Henley

Take any station, pavement, circus, corner,
Where men their styles of print may call or choose,
And there - ten times more on it than JACK HORNER - 
There shall you find him swathed in sheets of news.
Nothing can stay the placing of his wares - 
Not bus, nor cab, nor dray!    The very Slop,
That imp of power, is powerless!    Ever he dares,
And, daring, lands his public neck and crop.
Even the many-tortured London ear,
The much-enduring, loathes his Speeshul yell,
His shriek of Winnur!    But his dart and leer
And poise are irresistible.    PALL MALL
Joys in him, and MILE END; for his vocation
Is to purvey the stuff of conversation.
Pleurs.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

The town of Pleurs, situated among the Alps and containing about two thousand five hundred inhabitants, was overwhelmed in 1618 by the falling of Mount Conto. The avalanche occurred in the night, and no trace of the village or any of its inhabitants could ever after be discovered.
'T was eve; and Mount Conto
Reflected in night
The sunbeams that fled
With the monarch of light;
As great souls and noble
Reflect evermore
The sunshine that gleams
From Eternity's shore.
A slight crimson veil
Robed the snow-wreath on high,
The shadow an angel
In passing threw by;
And city and valley,
In mantle of gray,
Seemed bowed like a mourner
In silence to pray.
And the sweet vesper bell,
With a clear, measured chime,
Like the falling of minutes
In the hour-glass of Time,
From mountain to mountain
Was echoed afar,
Till it died in the distance
As light in a star.
The young peasant mother
Had cradled to rest
The infant that carolled
In peace on her breast;
The laborer, ere seeking
His couch of repose,
Told his beads in the shade of
A fortress of snows.
Up the cloudless serene
Moved the silver-sphered Night;
The reveller's palace
Was flooded with light;
And the cadence of music,
The dancer's gay song,
In harmony wondrous,
Went up, 'mid the throng.
The criminal counted,
With visage of woe,
The chiming of hours
That were left him below;
And the watcher so pale,
In the chamber of Death,
Bent over the dying
With quick, stifled breath.
The watchman the midnight
Had told with shrill cry,
When through the deep silence
What sounded on high,
With a terrible roar,
Like the thunders sublime,
Whose voices shall herald
The passing of Time?
On came the destroyer;--
One crash and one thrill--
Each pulse in that city
For ever stood still.
The blue arch with glory
Was mantled by day,
When the traveller passed
On his perilous way;--
Lake, valley, and forest
In sunshine were clear,
But when of that village,
In wonder and fear,
He questioned the landscape
With terror-struck eye,
The mountains in majesty
Pointed on high!
The strong arm of Love
Struggled down through the mould;
The miner dug deep
For the jewels and gold;
And workmen delved ages
That sepulchre o'er,
But found of the city
A trace never more.
And now, on the height
Of that fathomless tomb,
The fair Alpine flowers
In loveliness bloom;
And the water-falls chant,
Through their minster of snow,
A mass for the spirits
That slumber below.
Away Down Home
by John Charles McNeill

'T will not be long before they hear
The bullbat on the hill,
And in the valley through the dusk
The pastoral whippoorwill.
A few more friendly suns will call
The bluets through the loam
And star the lanes with buttercups
Away down home.
"Knee-deep!" from reedy places
Will sing the river frogs.
The terrapins will sun themselves
On all the jutting logs.
The angler's cautious oar will leave
A trail of drifting foam
Along the shady currents
Away down home.
The mocking-bird will feel again
The glory of his wings,
And wanton through the balmy air
And sunshine while he sings,
With a new cadence in his call,
The glint-wing'd crow will roam
From field to newly-furrowed field
Away down home.
When dogwood blossoms mingle
With the maple's modest red,
And sweet arbutus wakes at last
From out her winter's bed,
'T would not seem strange at all to meet
A dryad or a gnome,
Or Pan or Psyche in the woods
Away down home.
Then come with me, thou weary heart!
Forget thy brooding ills,
Since God has come to walk among
His valleys and his hills!
The mart will never miss thee,
Nor the scholar's dusty tome,
And the Mother waits to bless thee,
Away down home.
Little Messages Of Joy And Hope
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Take Heart
Take heart again. Joy may be lost awhile.
It is not always Spring.
And even now from some far Summer Isle
Hither the birds may wing.
II.
Touchstones
Hearts, that have cheered us ever, night and day,
With words that helped us on the rugged way,
The hard, long road of life to whom is due
More than the heart can ever hope to pay
Are they not touchstones, soul-transmuting true
All thoughts to gold, refining thus the clay?
III.
Fortune
Fortune may pass us by:
Follow her flying feet.
Love, all we ask, deny:
Never admit defeat.
Take heart again and try.
Never say die.
IV
Be Glad
Be glad, just for to-day!
O heart, be glad!
Cast all your cares away!
Doff all that 's sad!
Put of your garments gray
Be glad to-day!
Be merry while you-can;
For life is short
It seemeth but a span
Before we part.
Let each maid take her man,
And dance while dance she can:
Life's but a little span
Be merry while you can.
V.
Carpe Diem
Blow high, blow low!
No longer borrow
Care of tomorrow:
Take joy of life, and let care go!
VI.
Joy Speaks
One with the Heaven above
Am I its bliss:
Part of its truth and love,
And what God is.
I heal the soul and mind:
I work their cures:
Not Grief, that rends Mankind,
But Joy endures.
VII.
For The Old
These are the things I pray Heaven send us still,
To blow the ashes of the years away,
Or keep aglow forever 'neath their gray
The fire that warms when Life's old house grows chill:
First Faith, that gazed into our youth's bright eyes;
Courage, that helped us onward, rain or sun;
Then Hope, who captained all our deeds well done;
And, last, the dream of Love that never dies.
The Pilgrims' Fast.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

The historical incident related in this poem is recorded in Cheever's "JOURNAL OF THE PILGRIMS."
'T was early morn, the low night-wind
Had fled the sun's fierce ray,
And sluggishly the leaden waves
Rolled over Plymouth Bay.
No mist was on the mountain-top,
No dew-drop in the vale;
The thirsting Summer flowers had died
Ere chilled by Autumn's wail.
The giant woods with yellow leaves
The blighted turf had paved,
And o'er the brown and arid fields
No golden harvest waved;
But calm and blue the cloudless sky
Arched over earth and sea,
As in their humble house of prayer,
The Pilgrims bowed the knee.
There gray-haired ministers of God
In supplication bent,
And artless words from childhood's lips
Sought the Omnipotent.
There woman's lip and cheek grew pale
As on the broad day stole;
And manhood's polished brow was damp
With fervency of soul.
The sultry noon-tide came and went
With steady, fervid glare;
"O God, our God, be merciful!"
Was still the Pilgrims' prayer.
They prayed as erst Elijah prayed
Before the sons of Baal,
When on the waiting sacrifice
He called the fiery hail:
They prayed as once the prophet prayed
On Carmel's summit high,
When the little cloud rose from the sea
And blackened all the sky.
And when around that spireless church
The shades of evening fell,
The customary song went up
With clear and rapturous swell:
And while each heart was thrilling with
The chant of Faith sublime,
The rude, brown rafters of the roof
Rang with a joyous chime.
The rain! the rain! the blessed rain!
It watered field and height,
And filled the fevered atmosphere,
With vapor soft and white.
Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth
And pressed the humid sod,
Shone not each face as Moses' shone
When "face to face" with God?
Kissing Time
by Eugene Field

'T is when the lark goes soaring
And the bee is at the bud,
When lightly dancing zephyrs
Sing over field and flood;
When all sweet things in nature
Seem joyfully achime -
'T is then I wake my darling,
For it is kissing time!
Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,
And suck your sweets, 0 bee;
Sing, 0 ye winds of summer,
Your songs to mine and me;
For with your song and rapture
Cometh the moment when
It's half-past kissing time
And time to kiss again!
So - so the days go fleeting
Like golden fancies free,
And every day that cometh
Is full of sweets for me;
And sweetest are those moments
My darling comes to climb
Into my lap to mind me
That it is kissing time.
Sometimes, maybe, he wanders
A heedless, aimless way -
Sometimes, maybe, he loiters
In pretty, prattling play;
But presently bethinks him
And hastens to me then,
For it's half-past kissing time
And time to kiss again!
The Prize Fight
by Fay Inchfawn

"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor. ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).
'T'was breakfast time, and outside in the street
The factory men went by with hurrying feet.
And on the bridge, in dim December light,
The newsboys shouted of the great prize fight.
Then, as I dished the bacon, and served out
The porridge, all our youngsters gave a shout.
The letter-box had clicked, and through the din
The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.
John showed the lads the pictures, and explained
Just how the fight took place, and what was gained
By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:
"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
She hits the air sometimes, though," and John smiled.
"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with widened eyes
Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a prize?"
We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, how
I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
Munched at our early cabbages, and ate
The lettuce up, and tramped my mignonette!
And many a time I kicked against the pricks
Because the little dog at number six
Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross I got
When Jane seemed discontented with her lot.
Until poor John in desperation said
He wearied of the theme -- and went to bed!
And how I vexed myself that day, when he
Brought people unexpectedly for tea,
Because the table-cloth was old and stained,
And not a single piece of cake remained.
And how my poor head ached! Because, well there!
It uses lots of strength to beat the air!
"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray
For grace to hit the self-life every day.
And when the old annoyance comes once more
And the old temper rises sharp and sore,
I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender-Wise,
And read approval in Thy loving eyes.
Nursery Rhyme. LXXIV. Tales.
by Unknown

[A tale for the 1st of March.]
Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef:
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone.
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not in;
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin:
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed,
I took up a poker and flung it at his head.
Them Flowers.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf,
All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore - 
Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself
With a stiff upper-lip any more;
Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room
As dark as the tomb, and as grim,
And then take and send him some roses in bloom,
And you can have fun out o' him!
You've ketched him 'fore now - when his liver was sound
And his appetite notched like a saw - 
A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round
With a big posy-bunch in yer paw;
But you ketch him, say, when his health is away,
And he's flat on his back in distress,
And then you kin trot out yer little bokay
And not be insulted, I guess!
You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is, - 
Them flowers makes him think of the days
Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his,
And the roses that she us't to raise: - 
So here, all alone with the roses you send - 
Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint, - 
My eyes is - my eyes is - my eyes is - old friend - 
Is a-leakin' - I'm blamed ef they ain't!
'Tis Spring, My Love, 'Tis Spring
by John Clare

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring,
And the birds begin to sing:
If 'twas Winter, left alone with you,
Your bonny form and face
Would make a Summer place,
And be the finest flower that ever grew.
'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring,
And the hazel catkins hing,
While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew;
But that's not so white within
As your bosom's hidden skin--
That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew.
The sun arose from bed,
All strewn with roses red,
But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place
Is not so fresh and fair,
Or so sweet beyond compare,
As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face.
I love Spring's early flowers,
And their bloom in its first hours,
But they never half so bright or lovely seem
As the blithe and happy grace
Of my darling's blushing face,
And the happiness of love's young dream.
The Children Of The Poor.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Prenez garde ' ce petit 'tre.")
[LAUS PUER: POEM V.]
Take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great: in him is God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights in the blue sky.
In our brief bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And His forgiveness in their smile.
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes:
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry, Paradise
Weeps, and if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on Sin's ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs.
When God seeks out these tender things,
Whom in the shadow where we keep,
He sends them clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that weep!
Dublin University Magazine.
Moral Positions. A Dream.
by Thomas Moore

"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage had been so long," etc.--Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial Slavery, March 8.
T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration
(A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),
I dreamt that I saw--what a strange operation!
A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.
The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,
Packing the article tidy and neat;--
As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes
"Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.
There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass;
And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,
There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass,"
Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.
The freight was however stowed safe in the hold;
The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic,
While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled,
With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.
Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made;
For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer,
By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed,
And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.
At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret,"
Delivered my goods in the primest condition.
And next morning read in the Bridge-town Gazette,
"Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.
"The Captain"--here, startled to find myself named
As "the Captain"--(a thing which, I own it with pain,
I thro' life have avoided,) I woke--lookt ashamed,
Found I wasn't a captain and dozed off again.
Take Back The Virgin Page.
by Thomas Moore

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.
Take back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light
Pure as even you require:
But, oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam.
Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as, o'er ocean, far,
Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star
Thro' the cold deep;
So may the words I write
Tell thro' what storms I stray--
You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way.
A Dedication
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
The White Man's Burden
by Rudyard Kipling

Take up the White man's burden
Send forth the best ye breed
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the White Man's burden
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times mad plain.
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.
Take up the White Man's burden
The savage wars of peace
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hope to nought.
Take up the White Man's burden
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead!
Take up the White man's burden
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
"Our loved Egyptian night?"
Take up the White Man's burden
Ye dare not stoop to less
Nor call too loud on freedom
To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you.
Take up the White Man's burden
Have done with childish days
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!