DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Improvisations: Light And Snow: 08
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXIX. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Margaret wrote a letter,
Seal'd it with her finger,
Threw it in the dam
For the dusty miller.
Dusty was his coat,
Dusty was the siller,
Dusty was the kiss
I'd from the dusty miller.
If I had my pockets
Full of gold and siller,
I would give it all
To my dusty miller.
Chorus. O the little, little,
Rusty, dusty, miller.
To Mrs. Throckmorton, On Her Beautiful Transcript Of Horace's Ode, 'Ad Librum Suum.'
by William Cowper

Maria, could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd;
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer
Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
And sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise,
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
Epigram On The March Of Intellect
by Thomas Oldham

'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,
Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!
March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,
That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
*        *        *        *        *
One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,
Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.
'What shall we play for?' Edwin quickly cried;
"Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.
'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'
He wins the game, and straight demands his pay.
"No" 'Yes' "I wont" 'You shall' "I wont be kiss'd:
I'll pay you with a check if you persist."
The Assignation (Pons Asinorum)
by Paul Cameron Brown

Many devils are in woods, in waters, in wilderness and in dark,
pooly places ready to hurt. . . people, some are also in thick,
black clouds. ? Martin Luther
. . .Masaccio to the Florentine Renaissance but a naught-
every man the same, St. Francis the same as a Jack the Ripper.
their rosy surfaces filled.
Like an Old Testament curse
he is loosed upon the earth.
Ecking out his pound of flesh
delivering misery in sordidness, he parboils the land.
A modern day Tantalus up to his throat
in burning lies,
his death is to live, in the contemporary sense,
the thousand cuts-
to bury the skies as a dread Caiaphas
into the contradiction, the snares of his being.
Measure for measure
his blond mane, pale scarf
are hallmarks of the doomed Dutchman searching out the
Coromandel;
like Cain stumbling upon existence,
he hearkens back to the original Murderer,
has sold his inheritance for a pittance
and by doing so has ridiculed the human condition
with his life charged obscenity;
his blond beast scowl curdled about respectability's neck,
his fang tussled face a menacing white cigarette,
the soul imprisoned jailer to his teeth, breath and brain.
Hidden Agenda
by Paul Cameron Brown

Mariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,
- a screen peppered to black,
pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.
Winged bats, moist velvet foot-pads
that spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvas
where Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hills
find the wind a gypsy bandit
sage, red flower of the cacti,
ballad to rakish cloud.
A ship shamelessly at sea - 
the scorpion cloth of open wounds,
dark implants, sturdy oak
constellations, English yew
spouts tremulous shafts
across weather-burnt sky.
A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.
Piers along deep, inner space.
Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.
Accordion of white light.
Up green ache of mountain
the muffled sound
Goya's Colossus,
the head of the giant
voyaging thru
embroidery and stellar, black space;
tombstone lock on a pulsating world.
"Birds Of Prey" March
by Rudyard Kipling

March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
Front!, eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses
Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.
Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
Time!, mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er,
Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.
March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
'Alt, an' 'and 'er out, a woman's gone and fainted!
Cheer! Get on!, Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!
Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)
You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow,
No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!
'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us!
'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!
Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin',
Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,
'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.
'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!
Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!)
The jackal an' the kite
'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
The eagle an' the crow
They are waitin' ever so,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
Marguerite
by Kate Seymour Maclean

Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,
Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,
Thy face is like an angel's fair,
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Tender curves of cheek and lips--
Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse--
Pale robes flowing to thy feet--
Folded hands that lightly meet,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Sleep'st thou still?--the world awakes,--
Still the echo swells and breaks,--
Over field, and wood, and street
Easter anthems throb and beat,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Christ the Lord is risen again,--
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,--
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
In the grave from whence He rose,
Lay thee to thy long repose,--
Sweet with myrrh and spices,--sweet
With the footprints of His feet,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Where His sacred head hath lain,
Thine may rest, secure from pain.
While the circling years go round,
Without motion,--without sound,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
The Fool's Epilogue.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Many good works I've done and ended,
Ye take the praise I'm not offended;
For in the world, I've always thought
Each thing its true position hath sought.
When praised for foolish deeds am I,
I set off laughing heartily;
When blamed for doing something good,
I take it in an easy mood.
If some one stronger gives me hard blows,
That it's a jest, I feign to suppose:
But if 'tis one that's but my own like,
I know the way such folks to strike.
When Fortune smiles, I merry grow,
And sing in dulci jubilo;
When sinks her wheel, and tumbles me o'er,
I think 'tis sure to rise once more.
In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament,
Because the winter it cannot prevent;
And when the white snow-flakes fall around,
I don my skates, and am off with a bound.
Though I dissemble as I will,
The sun for me will ne'er stand still;
The old and wonted course is run,
Until the whole of life is done;
Each day the servant like the lord,
In turns comes home, and goes abroad;
If proud or humble the line they take,
They all must eat, drink, sleep, and wake.
So nothing ever vexes me;
Act like the fool, and wise ye'll be!
March, March, Ettrick And Teviotdale
by Walter Scott (Sir)

I.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.
II.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order;
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
Few Fortunate.
by Robert Herrick

Many we are, and yet but few possess
Those fields of everlasting happiness.
Spring and Fall: to a young child
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

M'rgar't, 're you gr'eving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Le'ves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
'h! 's the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you w'll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
S'rrow's spr'ngs 're the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXCII. Games.
by Unknown

Margery Mutton-pie, and Johnny Bopeep,
They met together in Grace-church Street;
In and out, in and out, over the way,
Oh! says Johnny, 'tis chop-nose day.
The Garden
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Many things the garden shows,
And pleased I stray
From tree to tree
Watching the white pear-bloom,
Bee-infested quince or plum.
I could walk days, years, away
Till the slow ripening, secular tree
Had reached its fruiting-time,
Nor think it long.
Solar insect on the wing
In the garden murmuring,
Soothing with thy summer horn
Swains by winter pinched and worn.
An Old Saying
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Many waters cannot quench love,
Neither can the floods drown it.
Who shall snare or slay the white dove
Faith, whose very dreams crown it,
Gird it round with grace and peace, deep,
Warm, and pure, and soft as sweet sleep?
Many waters cannot quench love,
Neither can the floods drown it.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart,
As a seal upon thine arm.
How should we behold the days depart
And the nights resign their charm?
Love is as the soul: though hate and fear
Waste and overthrow, they strike not here.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart,
As a seal upon thine arm.
Billy Khaki
by Edward Dyson

Marching somewhat out of order when the band is cock-a-hoop,
There's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger of the troop,
Swinging all aboard the steamer with her nose toward the sea.
What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you're footing it so free?
Though his lines are none too level,
And he lacks a bit of style.
And he's swanking like the devil
Where the women wave and smile,
He will answer with a rifle
Trim and true from stock to bore,
Where the comrades crouch and stifle
In the reeking pit of war.
What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is thunder down the sky,
And the merry magpie bugle splits the morning with its cry,
While your feet are beating rhythms up the dusty hills and down,
And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow of the town.
Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song the kiddies sing,
Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets your heart a-swing?
Is't the cheering like a paean of the tossing, teeming crowds,
Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping on the clouds ?
What's calling, calling, Billy? 'Tis the rattle far away
Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play;
'Tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the smell of seven hells
When the long ranks go to pieces in the sneezing of the shells.
But your eyes are laughing, Billy, and a ribald song you sing,
While the old men sit and tell us war it is a ghastly thing,
When the swift machines are busy and the grim, squat fortress nocks
At your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks.
When the horses sweep upon you to complete a sudden rout,
Or in fire and smoke and fury some brave regiment goes out,
War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full well you know the rest,
Yet your heart is for the battle, and your face is to the west.
For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picture something worse,
There's the wrecking of an empire, and its broken people's curse;
There are nations reft of freedom, and of hope and kindly mirth,
And the shadow of an evil black upon the bitter earth.
So we know what's calling, Billy. 'Tis the spirit of our race,
And its stir is in your pulses, and its light is on your face
As you march with clipping boot-heels through the piping, howling town
To uphold the land we live in, and to pull a tyrant down.
Thou his lines are none too level,
And he's not a whale for style,
And he's swanking like the devil
When the women wave and smile
He will answer with a rifle,
Trim and true from stuck to bore,
When the comrades sit and stifle
In the smoking pit of war.
The Snowdrop
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!
Epitaphs
by Unknown

Maria Brown,
Wife of Timothy Brown,
aged 80 years.
She lived with her husband fifty years, and died
in the confident hope of a better life.
Boldness In Love
by Thomas Carew

Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Courts the amorous marigold,
With sighing blasts and weeping rain,
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the planet of the day
Approacheth with his powerful ray,
The she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.
So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy;
If thy tears and sighs discover
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover.
But when with moving accents thou
Shalt constant faith and service vow,
Thy Celia shall receive those charms
With open ears, and with unfolded arms.
At Last.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Many have sung of love a root of bane:
While to my mind a root of balm it is,
For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss
For life and death and rising up again.
Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain,
Love will grow plain with all its mysteries;
Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas
Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain.
Love in our borders, love within our heart,
Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest,
Ended for ever life's unending quest,
Ended for ever effort, change and fear:
Love all in all; - no more that better part
Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.
To Marion. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

MARION! why that pensive brow? 
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding 'frown'.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff'rence thrills us.
Would'st thou wand'ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips - but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns, - in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate'er 
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt'ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother's,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing, 
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman's soft Dominion:
Howe'er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would'st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis Animation.
For A Copy Of Herrick.
by Henry Austin Dobson

Many days have come and gone,
Many suns have set and shone,
HERRICK, since thou sang'st of Wake,
Morris-dance and Barley-break;--
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang'st of JULIA'S eyes,
JULIA'S lawns and tiffanies;--
Many things are past: but thou,
GOLDEN-MOUTH, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold!
Rejoinder To The Foregoing Reply.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Many, many thanks my friend,
For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;
And now I will confess to thee,
Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.
Boston, "with all thy faults I love
Thee still," though much I disapprove - 
See much in thee to blame;
Yet to be candid, I'll allow
Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.
It is my boast, perhaps my pride,
To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it's flowing;
And when I see the homage given
To foreign men and foreign women,[1]
That blood with shame is glowing.
I hope when Kossuth fever's cool
And we have put our wits to school,
And sober senses found;
When the Hungarian's out of sight
And shattered brains collected quite,
We may be safe and sound.
But what simpletons, should we choose,
With nought to gain and much to loose,
'Gainst Austria to war;
What greater folly, when we know
By doing this, we'll get a blow
From the ambitious Czar.
But you may not with me agree,
And I am getting warm I see,
So here I bid adieu
To Kossuth and to Hungary,
To Russia and to Germany,
And the great Emperor too.
And now my friend a word I'd say
Before I throw my pen away,
On subject most important;
In doing this I need not fear
I shall offend the nicest ear,
Or strike a note discordant.
Oh! had I true poetic fire,
With boldness would I strike the lyre
So loud that all might hear;
But ah! my harp is tuned so low,
Its feeble strains I full well know
Can reach no distant ear.
Yet I rejoice that harps on high,
And voices of sweet harmony,
Are raised to bless the name
Of Him who sits upon the throne,
Rejoicing over souls new born,
Who soon will join with them,
Eternally His name to adore
Who died, yet lives forevermore.
Weston, May 8, 1852.
Metrical Letter, Written from London.
by Robert Southey

Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;
I love the homely and familiar phrase;
And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,
However quaint amid the measured line
The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,
Sirring and Madaming as civilly
As if the road between the heart and lips
Were such a weary and Laplandish way
That the poor travellers came to the red gates
Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,
For many a day my Memory has played
The creditor with me on your account,
And made me shame to think that I should owe
So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,
Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear
So heavy a pack of business, that albeit
I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race
Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I
That for a moment you should lay to me
Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart
That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some
Who know how warm it beats. I am not one
Who can play off my smiles and courtesies
To every Lady of her lap dog tired
Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend
Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;
Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up
At once without a seed and take no root,
Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere
The little circle of domestic life
I would be known and loved; the world beyond
Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think
That you should know me well, for you and I
Grew up together, and when we look back
Upon old times our recollections paint
The same familiar faces. Did I wield
The wand of Merlin's magic I would make
Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,
Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood
That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,
The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle
Like that where whilome old Apollidon
Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid
The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,
That we might stand upon the beach, and mark
The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,
And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound
Told us that never mariner should reach
Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle
We might renew the days of infancy,
And Life like a long childhood pass away,
Without one care. It may be, Margaret,
That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,
For I am not of those who live estranged
Of choice, till at the last they join their race
In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,
Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack
So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine
Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.
If not, if I should never get beyond
This Vanity town, there is another world
Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,
I gaze at night into the boundless sky,
And think that I shall there be born again,
The exalted native of some better star;
And like the rude American I hope
To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.
Border Ballad
by Walter Scott (Sir)

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order;
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.