DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Mountain and the Lake
by Robert William Service

I know a mountain thrilling to the stars,
Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;
Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars,
Flaunting the vanisht sunset's garnet glow;
Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;
Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break;
Virgin and vestal - Oh, a very Queen!
And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.
My lake adores my mountain - well I know,
For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start,
Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow,
Framing her image in its trembling heart;
Glassing her graciousness of greening wood,
Kissing her throne, melodiously mad,
Thrilling responsive to her every mood,
Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.
My lake has dreamed and loved since time was born;
Will love and dream till time shall cease to be;
Gazing to Her in worship half forlorn,
Who looks towards the stars and will not see -
My peerless mountain, splendid in her scorn. . . .
Alas! poor little lake! Alas! poor me!
But Most Thy Light
by John Frederick Freeman

I know how fire burns,
How from the wrangling fumes
Rose and amber blooms,
And slowly dies.
Nothing's so swift as fire,
There's nothing alive so fierce.
The lifted lances pierce,
Sink, and upspring.
Like an Indian sword it leaps
Out of the smoking sheath.
Even the winged feet of death
Learn speed from fire;
And pain its cunning learns;
Languor its sweet
From the decaying heat
That never dies.
I know how fire burns
Unguessed, save for tears,
When the thousand-fanged flame spears
The body's guard;
Or when the mind, the mind
Is ever-glowing wood,
And fire runs in the blood
Lunatic, blind;
When remorse burns and burns
And burns always, always--
The fire that surest slays
Or surest numbs.
I know how fire burns
But how I cannot tell.
And Heaven burns like Hell
Yet the Heart endures.
'Tis the immortal Flame
In mortal life that's bitter,
Or than all sweet sweeter
Though life burns down.
Teach me, fire, but this,
Nor alone destroying burn:--
Of thy warmth let me learn,
But most thy light.
Mystery.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

I know not if in others' eyes
She seem'd almost divine;
But far beyond a doubt it lies
That she did not in mine.
Each common stone on which she trod
I did not deem a pearl:
Nay it is not a little odd
How I abhorr'd that girl.
We met at balls and picnics oft,
Or on a drawingroom stair;
My aunt invariably cough'd
To warn me she was there:
At croquet I was bid remark
How queenly was her pose,
As with stern glee she drew the dark
Blue ball beneath her toes,
And made the Red fly many a foot:
Then calmly she would stoop,
Smiling an angel smile, to put
A partner through his hoop.
At archery I was made observe
That others aim'd more near.
But none so tenderly could curve
The elbow round the ear:
Or if we rode, perhaps she DID
Pull sharply at the curb;
But then the way in which she slid
From horseback was superb!
She'd throw off odes, again, whose flow
And fire were more than Sapphic;
Her voice was sweet, and very low;
Her singing quite seraphic:
She WAS a seraph, lacking wings.
That much I freely own.
But, it is one of those queer things
Whose cause is all unknown -
(Such are the wasp, the household fly,
The shapes that crawl and curl
By men called centipedes) - that I
Simply abhorred that girl.
* * *
No doubt some mystery underlies
All things which are and which are not:
And 'tis the function of the Wise
Not to expound to us what is what,
But let his consciousness play round
The matter, and at ease evolve
The problem, shallow or profound,
Which our poor wits have fail'd to solve,
Then tell us blandly we are fools;
Whereof we were aware before:
That truth they taught us at the schools,
And p'raps (who knows?) a little more.
- But why did we two disagree?
Our tastes, it may be, did not dovetail:
All I know is, we ne'er shall be
Hero and heroine of a love-tale.
Flossie.
by Wilfred S. Skeats

I know a maiden, scarce thirteen,
A sweet and gentle maid,
With dignified and graceful mien,
And manner calm and staid.
But I've seen her, when none but her parents are nigh,
When her spirits are flowing exuberantly,
With her feet tossing high, while her arms in accordance,
Are wildly upraised in the Fling or the Sword-dance.
I know a maid whose hazel eye
Outshines the light gazelle's,
And hid beneath its brilliancy,
A pensive shadow dwells.
But I've seen it illumed with a mischievous light,
Which the sparkles displayed in the meteor's flight
Cannot meet, as her laughter reverberates round,
And merrily echo responds to the sound.
I know a maid whose accents mild,
And words of sober sense,
Declare her woman more than child,
Yet mark her innocence.
But I've heard her repeating the quip or the joke,
While merriment shone in her eyes as she spoke,
As, with skill that is seldom excelled on the stage,
She worthily mimicked the actor or sage.
I know a maid, a loving maid,
Whose quiet, gentle ways,
In look, in voice, in act displayed,
Must bring her love and praise.
But I know that when nimbly she's tripping the dance,
When her eyes sparkle bright with a mischievous glance,
When her sallies of innocent wit shall outpour,
She will capture the hearts that were callous before.
I Know A Man
by Yehuda Amichai

I know a man
who photographed the view he saw
from the window of the room where he made love
and not the face of the woman he loved there.
On A Certain Lady At Court
by Alexander Pope

I know a thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy, be silent and attend!)
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour;
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;
An equal mixture of good-humour
And sensible soft melancholy.
'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?'
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the world conspires to praise her,
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
The Goose
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason:
'Here, take the goose, and keep you warm
It is a stormy season.'
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose''twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbors,
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labors;
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied,
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder;
But ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there,
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle;
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
'A quinsy choke thy cursed note!'
Then wax'd her anger stronger.
'Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not hear it longer.'
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat,
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamor.
As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder'd all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning:
'So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning.'
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, 'The devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger!'
A Garden By The Sea.
by William Morris

I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair-streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face,
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
A Veteran Poet.
by Eric Mackay

I knew thee first as one may know the fame
Of some apostle, as a man may know
The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow.
I hail'd thee prince of poets! I became
Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame
Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow
With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show,
And all the splendours, Master! of thy name.
But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men,
I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand;
And though the Muses in thy presence stand,
There's room for me to loiter in thy ken.
O lordly soul! O wizard of the pen!
What news from God? What word from Fairyland?
Platonic.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I knew it the first of the Summer - 
I knew it the same at the end - 
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn't you be my friend?
Couldn't we sit in the twilight,
Couldn't we walk on the shore,
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was never a word of nonsense
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects - 
The moon and the stars above;
But our talk was tinctured with science,
With never a hint of love.
"A wholly platonic friendship,"
You said I had proved to you,
"Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of folly,
Though both are in their youth."
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth?
Had I done what my mad heart prompted - 
Gone down on my knees to you,
And told you my passionate story
There in the dusk and dew;
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long,
My story of hopeless loving - 
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered:
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning
And I said a calm good-night.
But now, when I sit in the twilight
Or when I walk by the sea,
That friendship quite "platonic"
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk and the dew, - 
For the beautiful Summer vanished - 
For the moonlit talks - and you.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XL.
by Thomas Moore

I know that Heaven hath sent me here,
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journeyed o'er,
Return no more--alas! no more!
And all the path I've yet to go,
I neither know nor ask to know.
Away, then, wizard Care, nor think
Thy fetters round this soul to link;
Never can heart that feels with me
Descend to be a slave to thee!
And oh! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart is still,
I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb!
Two Women
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know two women, and one is chaste
And cold as the snows on a winter waste,
Stainless ever in act and thought
(As a man, born dumb, in speech errs not).
But she has malice toward her kind,
A cruel tongue and a jealous mind.
Void of pity and full of greed,
She judges the world by her narrow creed;
A brewer of quarrels, a breeder of hate,
Yet she holds the key to "Society's" Gate.
The other woman, with heart of flame,
Went mad for a love that marred her name:
And out of the grave of her murdered faith
She rose like a soul that has passed through death.
Her aims are noble, her pity so broad,
It covers the world like the mercy of God.
A soother of discord, a healer of woes,
Peace follows her footsteps wherever she goes.
The worthier life of the two, no doubt,
And yet "Society" locks her out.
My Little Ghost.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

I know where it lurks and hides,
In the midst of the busy house,
In the midst of the children's glee,
All clay its shadow bides:
Nobody knows but me.
On a closet-shelf it dwells,
In the darkest corner of all,
Mid rolls of woollen and fur,
And faint, forgotten smells
Of last year's lavender.
That a ghost has its dwelling there
Nobody else would guess,--
"Only a baby's shoe,
A curl of golden hair,"
You would say, "a toy or two,--
"A broken doll, whose lips
And cheeks of waxen bloom
Show dents of fingers small,--
Little, fair finger-tips,--
A worn sash,--that is all."
Little to see or to guess;
But whenever I open the door,
There, faithful to its post,
With its eyes' sad tenderness,
I see my little ghost.
And I hasten to shut the door,
I shut it tight and fast,
Lest the sweet, sad thing get free,
Lest it flit beside on the floor,
And sadden the day for me,
Lest between me and the sun,
And between me and the heavens,
And the laugh in the children's eyes,
The shadowy feet should run,
The faint gold curls arise
Like a gleam of moonlight pale,
And all the warmth and the light
Should die from the summer day,
And the laughter turn to wail,
And I should forget to pray.
So I keep the door shut fast,
And my little ghost shut in,
And whenever I cross the hall
I shiver and hurry past;
But I love it best of all.
Even In The Grave
by Walter De La Mare

I laid my inventory at the hand
Of Death, who in his gloomy arbour sate;
And while he conned it, sweet and desolate
I heard Love singing in that quiet land.
He read the record even to the end - 
The heedless, livelong injuries of Fate,
The burden of foe, the burden of love and hate;
The wounds of foe, the bitter wounds of friend:
All, all, he read, ay, even the indifference,
The vain talk, vainer silence, hope and dream.
He questioned me: "What seek'st thou then instead?"
I bowed my face in the pale evening gleam.
Then gazed he on me with strange innocence:
"Even in the grave thou wilt have thyself," he said.
Epistle To A Young Friend. - May, 1786.
by Robert Burns

I.
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
II.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attain'd;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
III.
I'll no say men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked;
But, och! mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!
IV.
Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
V.
Ay free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
VI.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But, och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
VII.
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
VIII.
The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that ay be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause,
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
IX.
The great Creator to revere
Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev'n the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!
X.
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n,
A conscience but a canker,
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n
Is sure a noble anchor!
XI.
Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,'
Still daily to grow wiser:
And may you better reck the rede
Than ever did th' adviser!
Dreams Of The Sea
by William Henry Davies

I know not why I yearn for thee again,
To sail once more upon thy fickle flood;
I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,
Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.
Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel's sides
In fury, with thy many tailed whip;
And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee,
When Jesus walked in peace to Simon's ship
And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft
As summer's, when it makes the cornfields run;
And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale
Make ships show half their bellies to the sun.
Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life,
Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud:
I think of that Armada whose puffed sails,
Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud.
But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned,
Lying on shore and by thy cruel hand,
A seaweed beard was on his tender chin,
His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand.
And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again,
To sail once more upon thy fickle flood:
I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,
Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.
Changed.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

I know not why my soul is rack'd
Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.
I used to roam o'er glen and glade
Buoyant and blithe as other folk:
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.
A minstrel's fire within me burn'd,
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd
To shake.
All day I sang; of love, of fame,
Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
Until the thing almost became
A bore.
I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.
I could not range the hills till high
Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly
As soon.
The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhile, attract no more;
Although I am but sixty-three
Or four.
Nay, worse than that, I've seem'd of late
To shrink from happy boyhood - boys
Have grown so noisy, and I hate
A noise.
They fright me, when the beech is green,
By swarming up its stem for eggs:
They drive their horrid hoops between
My legs:-
It's idle to repine, I know;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
To bed.
Speaking Of Operations
by Ellis Parker Butler

I know something wonderful, wonderful;
So strange it will quite startle you;
So strange and absurd and unusual
It seems it can hardly be true!
I know something wonderful, wonderful;
You'll hardly believe it can be
You know my appendix? Well, honest,
I've still got it inside of me!
Upon Playing At Ombre With Two Ladies
by Matthew Prior

I know that Fortune long has wanted sight,
And therefore pardon'd when she did not right;
But yet till then it never did appear
That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear.
I begg'd that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse.
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in three suits it does remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain;
Yet she still contradicting gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit, but Hearts.
Ebb
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.
Worth Living
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know not what the future may hold,
Or how to others it seems,
But I know my skies have held more gold
Than I used to find in my dreams.
Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled,
In grateful truth I say,
That my best hopes have been fulfilled,
And more than fulfilled to-day.
Though oft my arrow I aim at the sun
To see it fall into the sand,
Yet just as often some work I have done
Is better than I have planned.
I do not always grasp the pleasure
For which I reach, maybe;
But quite as frequently over-measure
Is given by joy to me.
To-morrow may bring a grief behind it
That will thoroughly change my mood;
But we only can speak of a thing as we find it -
And I have found life good.
Mrs. Benjamin Pantier
by Edgar Lee Masters

I know that he told that I snared his soul
With a snare which bled him to death.
And all the men loved him,
And most of the women pitied him.
But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes,
And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions,
And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears,
While he goes about from morning till night
Repeating bits of that common thing;
"Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"
And then, suppose;
You are a woman well endowed,
And the only man with whom the law and morality
Permit you to have the marital relation
Is the very man that fills you with disgust
Every time you think of it    while you think of it
Every time you see him?
That's why I drove him away from home
To live with his dog in a dingy room
Back of his office.
I Am
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know not whence I came,
I know not whither I go;
But the fact stands clear that I am here
In this world of pleasure and woe.
And out of the mist and murk
Another truth shines plain - 
It is my power each day and hour
To add to its joy or its pain.
I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why;
I cannot find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space,
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place.
The trouble, I think, with us all
Is the lack of a high conceit.
If each man thought he was sent to this spot
To make it a bit more sweet,
How soon we could gladden the world,
How easily right all wrong,
If nobody shirked, and each one worked
To help his fellows along!
Cease wondering why you came - 
Stop looking for faults and flaws;
Rise up to-day in your pride and say,
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world,
There is room for an earnest man.
It had need of me, or I would not be - 
I am here to strengthen the plan."