DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A New Year's Gift.
by John Hartley

A little lad, - bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet, - 
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet, - 
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.
Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat, - 
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm; - 
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!
A carriage stops at th' varry haase, - 
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.
Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.
Probatur Aliter
by Jonathan Swift

A long-ear'd beast, and a field-house for cattle,
Among the coals doth often rattle.[1]
A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates,
The bridegrooms' first gift to their mates,
Is by all pious Christians thought,
In clergymen the greatest fault.[2]
A long-ear'd beast, and woman of Endor,
If your wife be a scold, that will mend her.[3]
With a long-ear'd beast, and medicine's use,
Cooks make their fowl look tight and spruce.[4]
A long-ear'd beast, and holy fable,
Strengthens the shoes of half the rabble.[5]
A long-ear'd beast, and Rhenish wine,
Lies in the lap of ladies fine.[6]
A long-ear'd beast, and Flanders College,
Is Dr. T -    - l, to my knowledge.[7]
A long-ear'd beast, and building knight,
Censorious people do in spite.[8]
A long-ear'd beast, and bird of night,
We sinners art too apt to slight.[9]
A long-ear'd beast, and shameful vermin,
A judge will eat, though clad in ermine.[10]
A long-ear'd beast, and Irish cart,
Can leave a mark, and give a smart.[11]
A long-ear'd beast, in mud to lie,
No bird in air so swift can fly.[12]
A long-ear'd beast, and a sputt'ring old Whig,
I wish he were in it, and dancing a jig.[13]
A long-ear'd beast, and liquor to write,
Is a damnable smell both morning and night.[14]
A long-ear'd beast, and the child of a sheep,
At Whist they will make a desperate sweep.[15]
A beast long-ear'd, and till midnight you stay,
Will cover a house much better than clay.[16]
A long-ear'd beast, and the drink you love best,
You call him a sloven in earnest for jest.[17]
A long-ear'd beast, and the sixteenth letter,
I'd not look at all unless I look'd better.[18]
A long-ear'd beast give me, and eggs unsound,
Or else I will not ride one inch of ground.[19]
A long-ear'd beast, another name for jeer,
To ladies' skins there nothing comes so near.[20]
A long-ear'd beast, and kind noise of a cat,
Is useful in journeys, take notice of that.[21]
A long-ear'd beast, and what seasons your beef,
On such an occasion the law gives relief.[22]
A long-ear'd beast, a thing that force must drive in,
Bears up his house, that's of his own contriving.[23]
The Water Lily
by Henry Lawson

A lonely young wife
In her dreaming discerns
A lily-decked pool
With a border of ferns,
And a beautiful child,
With butterfly wings,
Trips down to the edge of the water and sings:
'Come, mamma! come!
'Quick! follow me, 
'Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!'
And the lonely young wife,
Her heart beating wild,
Cries, 'Wait till I come,
'Till I reach you, my child!'
But the beautiful child
With butterfly wings
Steps out on the leaves of the lily and sings:
'Come, mamma! come!
'Quick! follow me!
'And step on the leaves of the water-lily!
And the wife in her dreaming
Steps out on the stream,
But the lily leaves sink
And she wakes from her dream.
Ah, the waking is sad,
For the tears that it brings,
And she knows 'tis her dead baby's spirit that sings:
'Come, mamma! come!
'Quick! follow me!
'Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!'
Fard
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

A love-sick heart dies when the heart is whole,
For all the heart's health is to be sick with love.
From the Hindustani of Miyan Jagnu (eighteenth century).
Sonnets - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
by Henry Kendall

A lofty Type of all her sex, I ween,
My English brothers, though your wayward race
Now slight the Soul that never wore a screen,
And loved too well to keep her noble place!
Ah, bravest Woman that our World hath seen
(A light in spaces wild and tempest-tost),
In every verse of thine, behold, we trace
The full reflection of an earnest face
And hear the scrawling of an eager pen!
O sisters! knowing what you've loved and lost,
I ask where shall we find its like, and when?
That dear heart with its passion sorrow-crost,
And pathos rippling, like a brook in June
Amongst the roses of a windless noon.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXV. Gaffers And Gammers.
by Unknown

A little old man of Derby,
How do you think he served me?
He took away my bread and cheese,
And that is how he served me.
The Little Peach
by Eugene Field

A little peach in the orchard grew,--
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
It grew.
One day, passing that orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue--
Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw--
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell that peach of emerald hue.
Mon Dieu!
John took a bite and Sue a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,--
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.
Too true!
Under the turf where the daisies grew
They planted John and his sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew,--
Boo hoo!
What of that peach of the emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
Adieu!
The Jonquil Maid
by Arthur Macy

A little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
And the wind swept by with a wistful moan;
For he longed to stay
With the Maid all day;
But he knew
As he blew
It was true
That the dew
Would never, never dry
If the wind should die;
So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew.
And while to the Land of the Rose went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue,
And her sunset hair
Was woven with care
In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear;
And she pressed her lips
With her finger tips,
Threw a sly
Kiss to try
If he'd sigh
In reply,
And said with a laugh,
"Oh, it's not one half
As sweet as I give when there's Some One nigh."
And while to the Rosebud Land went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The wind swept back to the Jonquil Tree
At the close of day,
In the twilight gray;
But the sweet Little Maid had stolen away;
And whither she's flown
Will never be known
Till the Rose
As it blows
Shall disclose
All it knows
Of the Maid so fair
With the sunset hair.
And the sad wind comes and sighs and goes,
And dreams of the day when he blew so free,
When singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The Rendezvous
by Madison Julius Cawein

A lonely barn, lost in a field of weeds;
A fallen fence, where partly hangs a gate:
The skies are darkening and the hour is late;
The Indian dusk comes, red in rainy beads.
Along a path, which from a woodland leads,
Horsemen come riding who dismount and wait:
Here Anarchy conspires with Crime and Hate,
And Madness masks and on its business speeds.
Another Kuklux in another war
Of blacker outrage down the night they ride,
Brandishing a torch and gun before each farm.
Is Law asleep then? Does she fear? Where are
The servants of her strength, the Commonweath's pride?
And where the steel of her restraining arm?
To Dora
by William Wordsworth

"'A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on!'"
What trick of memory to 'my' voice hath brought
This mournful iteration? For though Time,
The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on this brow
Planting his favourite silver diadem,
Nor he, nor minister of his intent
To run before him hath enrolled me yet,
Though not unmenaced, among those who lean
Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight.
O my own Dora, my beloved child!
Should that day come but hark! the birds salute
The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east;
For me, thy natural leader, once again
Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst
A tottering infant, with compliant stoop
From flower to flower supported; but to curb
Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn,
Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge
Of foaming torrents. From thy orisons
Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet
Transparent as the soul of innocent youth,
Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy way,
And now precede thee, winding to and fro,
Till we by perseverance gain the top
Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous
Kindles intense desire for powers withheld
From this corporeal frame; whereon who stands,
Is seized with strong incitement to push forth
His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge dread thought,
For pastime plunge into the "abrupt abyss,"
Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease!
And yet more gladly thee would I conduct
Through woods and spacious forests, to behold
There, how the Original of human art,
Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects
Her temples, fearless for the stately work,
Though waves, to every breeze, its high-arched roof,
And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools
Of reverential awe will chiefly seek
In the still summer noon, while beams of light,
Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond
Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall
To mind the living presences of nuns;
A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood,
Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom
Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve,
To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, espoused.
Now also shall the page of classic lore,
To these glad eyes from bondage freed, again
Lie open; and the book of Holy Writ,
Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield
To heights more glorious still, and into shades
More awful, where, advancing hand in hand,
We may be taught, O Darling of my care!
To calm the affections, elevate the soul,
And consecrate our lives to truth and love.
The Old Song
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

(On the Embankment in stormy weather.)
A livid sky on London
And like iron steeds that rear
A shock of engines halted,
And I knew the end was near:
And something said that far away, over the hills and far away,
There came a crawling thunder and the end of all things here.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down,
As digging lets the daylight on the sunken streets of yore,
The lightning looked on London town, the broken bridge of London town,
The ending of a broken road where men shall go no more.
I saw the kings of London town,
The kings that buy and sell,
That built it up with penny loaves
And penny lies as well:
And where the streets were paved with gold, the shrivelled paper shone for gold,
The scorching light of promises that pave the streets of hell.
For penny loaves will melt away, melt away, melt away,
Mock the mean that haggled in the grain they did not grow;
With hungry faces in the gate, a hundred thousand in the gate,
A thunder-flash on London and the finding of the foe.
I heard the hundred pin-makers
Slow down their racking din,
Till in the stillness men could hear
The dropping of the pin:
And somewhere men without the wall, beneath the wood, without the wall,
Had found the place where London ends and England can begin.
For pins and needles bend and break, bend and break, bend and break,
Faster than the breaking spears or the bending of the bow
Of pageants pale in thunder-light, 'twixt thunder-load and thunder-light,
The Hundreds marching on the hills in the wars of long ago.
I saw great Cobbett riding,
The horseman of the shires;
And his face was red with judgment
And a light of Luddite fires:
And south to Sussex and the sea the lights leapt up for liberty,
The trumpet of the yeomanry, the hammer of the squires;
For bars of iron rust away, rust away, rust away,
Rend before the hammer and the horseman riding in,
Crying that all men at the last, and at the worst and at the last,
Have found the place where England ends and England can begin.
His horse-hoofs go before you,
Far beyond your bursting tyres;
And time is bridged behind him
And our sons are with our sires.
A trailing meteor on the Downs he rides above the rotting towns,
The Horseman of Apocalypse, the Rider of the Shires.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down;
Blow the horn of Huntingdon from Scotland to the sea--
... Only a flash of thunder-light, a flying dream of thunder-light,
Had shown under the shattered sky a people that were free.
Cinderella
by Henry Lawson

A lonely child, with toil o'ertaxed,
Sits Cinderella by the fire;
Her limbs in weariness relaxed,
And in her eyes a sad desire.
But soon a wreath is on her brow;
A bonny prince has claimed her hand;
And she's as proud and happy now
As any lady in the land.
Ah, then to see a fairy bright,
And to have granted what you would,
You only needed to do right,
You only needed to be good.
But this was in the days of old,
When man to wiser folk would bow;
And though you were as good as gold
You'd never see a fairy now.
And yet they must have managed well
If only half the tales are true,
The wondrous tales the writers tell
Of what the fairies used to do.
But now the world has grown so wise
It does without the fairies' aid;
And who can find a prince that tries
The shoe upon a beggar maid?
It must have been a better time
When virtue always met its due,
And 'wicked men who dealt in crime'
Were punished by the fairies, too.
But never more they'll come again
To give the good what they desire;
And Cinderellas wait in vain,
And weep beside the kitchen fire.
A Little While
by Sara Teasdale

A little while when I am gone
My life will live in music after me,
As spun foam lifted and borne on
After the wave is lost in the full sea.
A while these nights and days will burn
In song with the bright frailty of foam,
Living in light before they turn
Back to the nothingness that is their home.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLVII. Gaffers And Gammers.
by Unknown

A little old man and I fell out;
How shall we bring this matter about?
Bring it about as well as you can,
Get you gone, you little old man!
The Cradle Tomb In Westminster Abbey.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

A little, rudely sculptured bed,
With shadowing folds of marble lace,
And quilt of marble, primly spread
And folded round a baby's face.
Smoothly the mimic coverlet,
With royal blazonries bedight,
Hangs, as by tender fingers set
And straightened for the last good-night.
And traced upon the pillowing stone
A dent is seen, as if to bless
The quiet sleep some grieving one
Had leaned, and left a soft impress.
It seems no more than yesterday
Since the sad mother down the stair
And down the long aisle stole away,
And left her darling sleeping there.
But dust upon the cradle lies,
And those who prized the baby so,
And laid her down to rest with sighs,
Were turned to dust long years ago.
Above the peaceful pillowed head
Three centuries brood, and strangers peep
And wonder at the carven bed,--
But not unwept the baby's sleep,
For wistful mother-eyes are blurred
With sudden mists, as lingerers stay,
And the old dusts are roused and stirred
By the warm tear-drops of to-day.
Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,
And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,
Melt into memories, and own
A thrill of common parentage.
Men die, but sorrow never dies;
The crowding years divide in vain,
And the wide world is knit with ties
Of common brotherhood in pain;
Of common share in grief and loss,
And heritage in the immortal bloom
Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,
Made beautiful a baby's tomb.
Sleeping.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep
That makes no show for dawn
By stretch of limb or stir of lid, --
An independent one.
Was ever idleness like this?
Within a hut of stone
To bask the centuries away
Nor once look up for noon?
To-Morrow.
by Madison Julius Cawein

A Lorelei full fair she sits
Throned on the stream that dimly rolls;
Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knits
To her from year to year men's souls.
They hear her harp, they hear her song,
Led by the wizard beauty high,
Like blind brutes maddened rush along,
Sink at her cold feet, gasp and die.
The Heron Who Was Hard To Please.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A long-legged Heron, with long neck and beak,
Set out for a stroll by the bank of a creek.
So clear was the water that if you looked sharp
You could see the pike caper around with the carp.
The Heron might quickly have speared enough fish
To make for his dinner a capital dish.
But he was a very particular bird:
His food fixed "just so," at the hours he preferred.
And hence he decided 'twas better to wait,
Since his appetite grew when he supped rather late.
Pretty soon he was hungry, and stalked to the bank.
Where some pondfish were leaping - a fish of low rank.
"Bah, Bah!" said the Bird. "Sup on these? No - not I.
I'm known as a Heron: as such I live high."
Then some gudgeon swam past that were tempting to see,
But the Heron said hautily: "No - not for me.
For those I'd not bother to open my beak,
If I had to hang 'round come next Friday a week."
Thus bragged the big Bird. But he's bound to confess
That he opened his elegant beak for much less.
Not another fish came. When he found all else fail,
He was happy to happen upon a fat snail.
A Man's Ideal
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A lovely little keeper of the home,
Absorbed in menu books, yet erudite
When I need counsel; quick at repartee
And slow to anger.    Modest as a flower,
Yet scintillant and radiant as a star.
Unmercenary in her mould of mind,
While opulent and dainty in her tastes.
A nature generous and free, albeit
The incarnation of economy.
She must be chaste as proud Diana was,
Yet warm as Venus.    To all others cold
As some white glacier glittering in the sun;
To me as ardent as the sensuous rose
That yields its sweetness to the burrowing bee
All ignorant of evil in the world,
And innocent as any cloistered nun,
Yet wise as Phryne in the arts of love
When I come thirsting to her nectared lips.
Good as the best, and tempting as the worst,
A saint, a siren, and a paradox.
Nursery Rhyme. DXXXI. Natural History.
by Unknown

A long-tail'd pig, or a short-tail'd pig,
Or a pig without e'er a tail,
A sow-pig, or a boar-pig,
Or a pig with a curly tail.
A Ternary Of Littles, Upon A Pipkin Of Jelly Sent To A Lady.
by Robert Herrick

A little saint best fits a little shrine,
A little prop best fits a little vine:
As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
A little seed best fits a little soil,
A little trade best fits a little toil:
As my small jar best fits my little oil.
A little bin best fits a little bread,
A little garland fits a little head:
As my small stuff best fits my little shed.
A little hearth best fits a little fire,
A little chapel fits a little choir:
As my small bell best fits my little spire.
A little stream best fits a little boat,
A little lead best fits a little float:
As my small pipe best fits my little note.
A little meat best fits a little belly,
As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little pipkin fits this little jelly.
The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XXII - Tradition
by William Wordsworth

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time,
Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass
In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass;
And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime
Derives its name, reflected, as the chime
Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound:
The starry treasure from the blue profound
She longed to ravish; shall she plunge, or climb
The humid precipice, and seize the guest
Of April, smiling high in upper air?
Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare
To prompt the thought? Upon the steep rock's breast
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom,
Untouched memento of her hapless doom!
Song - The Dolly's Mother
by James Whitcomb Riley

[W.W.]
A little maid, of summers four - 
Did you compute her years, - 
And yet how infinitely more
To me her age appears:
I mark the sweet child's serious air,
At her unplayful play, - 
The tiny doll she mothers there
And lulls to sleep away,
Grows - 'neath the grave similitude - 
An infant real, to me,
And she a saint of motherhood
In hale maturity.
So, pausing in my lonely round,
And all unseen of her,
I stand uncovered - her profound
And abject worshipper.
Growing Gray.
by Henry Austin Dobson

"On a l''ge de son coeur."--A. d'Houdetot.
A little more toward the light;--
Me miserable! Here's one that's white;
And one that's turning;
Adieu to song and "salad days;"
My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.
We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,--
Renounce the gay for the severe,--
Be grave, not witty;
We have, no more, the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,--
That Chloe's pretty.
Young Love's for us a farce that's played;
Light canzonet and serenade
No more may tempt us;
Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.
Indeed! you really fancy so?
You think for one white streak we grow
At once satiric?
A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string
To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.
The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"
Grow rare to youth because we rail
At schoolboy dishes?
Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant
When neither Time nor Tide can grant
Belief with wishes.
The Mystery Of A Year
by Archibald Lampman

A little while, a year agone,
I knew her for a romping child,
A dimple and a glance that shone
With idle mischief when she smiled.
To-day she passed me in the press,
And turning with a quick surprise
I wondered at her stateliness,
I wondered at her altered eyes.
To me the street was just the same,
The people and the city's stir;
But life had kindled into flame,
And all the world was changed for her.
I watched her in the crowded ways,
A noble form, a queenly head,
With all the woman in her gaze,
The conscious woman in her tread.
Quiet
by Madison Julius Cawein

A Log-Hut in the solitude,
A clapboard roof to rest beneath!
This side, the shadow-haunted wood;
That side, the sunlight-haunted heath.
At daybreak Morn shall come to me
In raiment of the white winds spun;
Slim in her rosy hand the key
That opes the gateway of the sun.
Her smile shall help my heart enough
With love to labour all the day,
And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough,
With her smooth footprints, each a ray.
At dusk a voice shall call afar,
A lone voice like the whippoorwill's;
And, on her shimmering brow one star,
Night shall descend the western hills.
She at my door till dawn shall stand,
With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep,
Are mirrors of a mystic land,
Fantastic with the towns of sleep.