DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Old Stockman's Lament
by Henry Lawson

Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where this piffle and sham won't disgust me,
In the land where the coolibahs grow;
For I've stayed with some well-to-do people,
And I've dined with some middle-class folk;
And I've sorrowed by clock-tower and steeple
Till my heart for the Commonwealth's broke.
They have flown in another direction,
Who used to clack-clack by the hour
Of 'this awful Freetrade and Protection,'
Of our dear darling member 'in power,'
And the Higher Religion for Dossers,
And the Need of an Object for Drunks,
Now they're all of them Red or Blue Crossers,
With their tails sticking out of their trunks.
There are citified Martins in dozens,
The Darling Point Martins the pick,
Who used to be horrified cousins
Of a Martin we knew as 'Mad Mick.'
He is hanging out somewhere where French is;
But they heard he'd enlisted, somehow,
And 'twould paralyse Mick in the trenches
To know how he's glorified now.
You remember the George Henry Crosses?
They've packed up twelve trunks in despair.
He's the boss of the back-station bosses,
And Ernie's the son and the heir.
He has never put hands on a wether,
Nor heard a pithed store-bullock grunt;
So they're taking the mailboat to England
To see Ernie safe to the Front.
And each of the war-going parsons
Costs many a heart-breaking tear,
Like that caddish young cub of old Carson's,
All found and four hundred a year.
He feels not a word that he preaches,
But he will not be criticised there,
Where, out where the flying shell screeches,
Poor Tommy must fight, sweat and swear.
'Our relatives, too' (hang the Censor!)
Each girl has a tear on her cheek.
Cousin Roger has gone as dispenser
(Expenses and three pounds a week.
More risky than list'ning to sermons,
As some of our fellows will find,
Is a fierce fortnight's fight with the Germans
In front, and with Roger behind.)
And the Girls, they are writing like blazes,
And Auntie is moaning like hell;
And I wish I was under the daisies,
Or the bluegum would do just as well.
So I want to be wropped in me blanket,
And buried down, deep down, below;
Where this cant and this cackle won't reach me,
In the land where the coolibahs grow.
Translations. - The Sixty-Seventh Psalm. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Would that the Lord would grant us grace,
And in his volume write us!
With its clear shining let his face
To life eternal light us;
That we may know his work at length,
And what men him have faith in;
And Jesus Christ our health and strength
Be known to all the heathen,
And unto God convert them.
God then will thank, and thee will praise
The heathen with glad voices;
Let all the world for joy upraise
A song with mighty noises,
Because thou art earth's judge, O Lord,
Nor leav'st the righteous quailing;
Thy word it is both bed and board,
And for all folk availing
In the right path to keep them.
Let them thank God, and thee adore,
Thy folk of deeds of grace full.
The land grows fruitful more and more;
Thy word it is successful.
Bless us the Father and the Son,
And bless us, God, the Holy Ghost,
To whom by all be honour done!
Before him fear the human host!
Now heartily say Amen.
The Cuckoo-Clock
by William Wordsworth

Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,
How far off yet a glimpse of morning light,
And if to lure the truant back be well,
Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke,
That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour;
Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock
For service hung behind thy chamber-door;
And in due time the soft spontaneous shock,
The double note, as if with living power,
Will to composure lead, or make thee blithe as bird in bower.
List, Cuckoo, Cuckoo! oft tho' tempests howl,
Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare,
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl,
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air:
I speak with knowledge, by that Voice beguiled,
Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild
Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among,
Will make thee happy, happy as a child:
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song,
And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.
And know that, even for him who shuns the day
And nightly tosses on a bed of pain;
Whose joys, from all but memory swept away,
Must come unhoped for, if they come again;
Know that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe
As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme,
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear
In sleep, and intermingling with his dream,
Could from sad regions send him to a dear
Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam,
To mock the 'wandering' Voice beside some haunted stream.
O bounty without measure! while the grace
Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs,
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace
A mazy course along familiar things,
Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come,
Streaming from founts above the starry sky,
With angels when their own untroubled home
They leave, and speed on nightly embassy
To visit earthly chambers, and for whom?
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance try,
And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh.
Upon Wrinkles
by Robert Herrick

Wrinkles no more are, or no less,
Than beauty turn'd to sourness.
John Brown.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Writ in between the lines of his life-deed
We trace the sacred service of a heart
Answering the Divine command, in every part
Bearing on human weal: His love did feed
The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead
The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart
Of other wounds than rankled at the dart
In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.
He served the lowliest first - nay, them alone - 
The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath
In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat
Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne. - 
For these doomed there it was he went to death.
God! how the merest man loves one like that!
A Song of Sighing
by James Thomson -  (Bysshe Vanolis)

Would some little joy to-day
Visit us, heart!
Could it but a moment stay,
Then depart,
With the flutter of its wings
Stirring sense of brighter things.
Like a butterfly astray
In a dark room;
Telling: Outside there is day,
Sweet flowers bloom,
Birds are singing, trees are green
Runnels ripple silver sheen.
Heart! we now have been so long
Sad without change,
Shut in deep from shine and song
Nor can range;
It would do us good to know
That the world is not all woe.
Would some little joy to-day
Visit us, heart!
Could it but a moment stay,
Then depart,
With the luster of its wings
Lighting dreams of happy things,
O sad my heart!
The City Of Golf
by Robert Fuller Murray

Would you like to see a city given over,
Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.
It is surely quite superfluous to mention,
To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what engrosses the attention
Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.
Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.
All the natives and the residents are patrons
Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport;
All the old men, all the young men, maids and matrons--
The universal populace, in short.
In the morning, when the feeble light grows stronger,
You may see the players going out in shoals;
And when night forbids their playing any longer,
They tell you how they did the different holes
Golf, golf, golf--is all the story!
In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, struggling ray of consolation
Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
My friend M'Foozle's one, the other's me.
As I write the words, M'Foozle enters blushing,
With a brassy and an iron in his hand . . .
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
Stay!    There is another course I may pursue--
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser--
I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVII.
by Thomas Moore

Would that I were a tuneful lyre,
Of burnished ivory fair,
Which, in the Dionysian choir,
Some blooming boy should bear!
Would that I were a golden vase.
That some bright nymph might hold
My spotless frame, with blushing grace,
Herself as pure as gold!
Dr. Delany's Villa[1]
by Jonathan Swift

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, Sir, I will not gibe:
For who would be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows and doors, and rooms and stairs,
And hills and dales, and woods and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields:
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, though to say't I'm loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Though small's the farm, yet here's a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek:
And this you call your sweet meander,
Which might be suck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill.
For sure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city gutter.
Next come I to your kitchen garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk
No longer than a tailor's chalk;
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A snail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat,
There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT.
Sakontala.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Wouldst thou the blossoms of spring, as well as the fruits of the autumn,
Wouldst thou what charms and delights, wouldst thou what plenteously, feeds,
Would thou include both Heaven and earth in one designation,
All that is needed is done, when I Sakontala name.
King and No King
by William Butler Yeats

'Would it were anything but merely voice!'
The No King cried who after that was King,
Because he had not heard of anything
That balanced with a word is more than noise;
Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevail
Somewhere or somehow that I have forgot,
Though he'd but cannon, Whereas we that had thought
To have lit upon as clean and sweet a tale
Have been defeated by that pledge you gave
In momentary anger long ago;
And I that have not your faith, how shall I know
That in the blinding light beyond the grave
We'll find so good a thing as that we have lost?
The hourly kindness, the day's common speech,
The habitual content of each with each
When neither soul nor body has been crossed.
Wisdom And Prudence.
by Friedrich Schiller

Wouldst thou, my friend, mount up to the highest summit of wisdom,
Be not deterred by the fear, prudence thy course may deride
That shortsighted one sees but the bank that from thee is flying,
Not the one which ere long thou wilt attain with bold flight.
On Elizabeth L. H.
by Ben Jonson

Epitaphs I
Wouldst thou hear what Man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much Beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more Virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
The other, let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it died, to tell
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
The Lawn.
by Robert Herrick

Would I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin?
It should be only in my Julia's skin,
Which so betrays her blood as we discover
The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.
A Song-Sermon:
by George MacDonald

Job xiv. 13-15.
RONDEL.
Would that thou hid me in the grave
And kept me with death's gaoler-care;
Until thy wrath away should wear
A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave!
I would endure with patience brave
So thou remembered I was there!
Would that thou hid me in the grave,
And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
To see thy creature thou wouldst crave--
Desire thy handiwork so fair;
Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air
And I would answer from the cave!
Would that thou hid me in the grave,
And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
Would I, To Save My Dear Child? (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself."
Would I, to save my dear child dutiful,
Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore?
Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful,
Truly I would, - then truly Thou would'st more.
Would I for my poor son, who desolate
After long sinning, sued without my door
For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate
To hear such prayer, I would, - Lord, Thou would'st more.
Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness
And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store?
Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless,
Dying, I would attend, - O, Lord, Thou more.
In dust and ashes my long infamy
Of unbelief I rue. My love before
Thy love I set: my heart's discovery,
Is sweet, - whate'er I would, Thou wouldest more.
I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy,
And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore
I have fear'd; now learn I love's supremacy, - 
Whate'er is known of love, Thou lovest more.
To Bianca, To Bless Him.
by Robert Herrick

Would I woo, and would I win?
Would I well my work begin?
Would I evermore be crowned
With the end that I propound?
Would I frustrate or prevent
All aspects malevolent?
Thwart all wizards, and with these
Dead all black contingencies:
Place my words and all works else
In most happy parallels?
All will prosper, if so be
I be kiss'd or bless'd by thee.
To Dr. Blacklock, In Answer To A Letter.
by Robert Burns

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter:
I lippen'd to the chief in trouth,
And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron,
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,
And holy study;
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
E'en tried the body.
But what dy'e think, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a gauger, Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
Ye'll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
'Mang sons o' men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
I need na vaunt,
But I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share
Than mony ithers:
But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?
Come, firm Resolve, take then the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan
A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,
As e'er tread clay!
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay,
ROBERT BURNS.
Fresh Cheese And Cream.
by Robert Herrick

Would ye have fresh cheese and cream?
Julia's breast can give you them:
And, if more, each nipple cries:
To your cream here's strawberries.
When Trees Are Green.
by Jean Blewett

Would you be glad of heart and good?
Would you forget life's toil and care?
Come, lose yourself in this old wood
When May's soft touch is everywhere.
The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
The willows kiss the stream below
And listen to its flatteries:
"O willows supple, yellow, green,
Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
I say with truth I have not seen
A rarer beauty than your own!"
The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
Oak, maple, through the heart of each
There runs a glorious tide of life.
Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
On trunk and limb a hint of red,
The gleam of poplars tall that stand
With God's own sunshine on their head.
The mandrake's silken parasol
Is fluttering in the breezes bold,
And yonder where the waters brawl
The buttercups show green and gold.
The slender grape-vine sways and weaves,
From sun-kissed sward and nook of gloom
There comes the smell of earth and leaves,
The breath of wild-flowers all abloom.
Spring's gleam is on the robin's breast,
Spring's joy is in the robin's song:
"My mate is in yon sheltered nest;
Ho! love is sweet and summer long!"
While full and jubilant and clear,
All the long day, from dawn till dark,
The trill of bobolink we hear,
Of hermit thrush and meadowlark.
Sit here among the grass and fern
Unmindful of the cares of life,
The lessons we have had to learn,
The hurts we've gotten in the strife.
There's youth in every breath we take,
Forgetfulness of loss and tears,
Within the heart there seems to wake
The gladness of the long past years.
Peace keeps us company to-day
In this old fragrant, shadowy wood;
We lift our eyes to heaven and say:
The world is fair and God is good.
False Prophets.
by George MacDonald

Would-be prophets tell us
We shall not re-know
Them that walked our fellows
In the ways below!
Smoking, smouldering Tophets
Steaming hopeless plaints!
Dreary, mole-eyed prophets!
Mean, skin-pledging saints!
Knowing not the Father
What their prophecies!
Grapes of such none gather,
Only thorns and lies.
Loving thus the brother,
How the Father tell?
Go without each other
To your heavenly hell!
Becalmed
by James Whitcomb Riley

1
Would that the winds might only blow
As they blew in the golden long ago!
Laden with odors of Orient isles
Where ever and ever the sunshine smiles,
And the bright sands blend with the shady trees,
And the lotus blooms in the midst of these.
2
Warm winds won from the midland vales
To where the tress of the Siren trails
O'er the flossy tip of the mountain phlox
And the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks,
High above as the seagulls flap
Their lopping wings at the thunder-clap.
3
Ah! That the winds might rise and blow
The great surge up from the port below,
Bloating the sad, lank, silken sails
Of the Argo out with the swift, sweet gales
That blew from Colchis when Jason had
His love's full will and his heart was glad -
When Medea's voice was soft and low.
Ah! That the winds might rise and blow!
The Unknown
by Edgar Lee Masters

Ye aspiring ones, listen to the story of the unknown
Who lies here with no stone to mark the place.
As a boy reckless and wanton,
Wandering with gun in hand through the forest
Near the mansion of Aaron Hatfield,
I shot a hawk perched on the top
Of a dead tree. He fell with guttural cry
At my feet, his wing broken.
Then I put him in a cage
Where he lived many days cawing angrily at me
When I offered him food.
Daily I search the realms of Hades
For the soul of the hawk,
That I may offer him the friendship
Of one whom life wounded and caged.
Alexander Throckmorton
In youth my wings were strong and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision - 
Genius is wisdom and youth.
'Y' Are The Maiden Posies
by Louisa May Alcott

"'Y' are the maiden posies,
And so graced,
To be placed
Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By and by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.'
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To The Swiss.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Se voi pi' innalza.
Ye Alpine rocks! If less your peaks elate
To heaven exalt you than that gift divine,
Freedom; why do your children still combine
To keep the despots in their stolen state?
Lo, for a piece of bread from windows wide
You fling your blood, taking no thought what cause,
Righteous or wrong, your strength to battle draws;
So is your valour spurned and vilified.
All things belong to free men; but the slave
Clothes and feeds poorly. Even so from you
Broad lands and Malta's knighthood men withhold.
Up, free yourselves, and act as heroes do!
Go, take your own from tyrants, which you gave
So recklessly, and they so dear have sold!
Beware O' Bonnie Ann.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Ye gallants bright."
I.
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right,
Beware o' bonnie Ann;
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.
II.
Youth, grace, and love attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van:
In a' their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonnie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enclaves the man;
Ye Gallants braw, I red you a',
Beware of bonnie Ann!
Highland Mary.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Katherine Ogie."
I.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
II.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary!
III.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
IV.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!
Sorrows For A Friend.
by John Clare

Ye brown old oaks that spread the silent wood,
How soothing sweet your stillness used to be;
And still could bless, when wrapt in musing mood,
But now confusion suits the best to me.
"Is it for love," the breezes seem to say,
"That you forsake our woodland silence here?
Is it for love, you roam so far away
From these still shades you valu'd once so dear?"
"No, breezes, no!"--I answer with a sigh,
"Love never could so much my bosom grieve;
Turnhill, my friend!--alas! so soon to die--
That is the grief which presses me to leave:
Though noise can't heal, it may some balm bestow;
But silence rankles in the wounds of woe."