DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Erle Robert's Mice. In Chaucer's Style
by Matthew Prior

Tway Mice, full Blythe and Amicable,
Batten beside Erle Robert's Table.
Lies there ne Trap their Necks to catch,
Ne old black Cat their Steps to watch.
Their Fill they eat of Fowl and Fish;
Feast-lyche as Heart of Mouse mote wish.
As Guests sat Jovial at the Board,
Forth leap'd our Mice: Eftsoons the Lord
Of Boling, whilome John the Saint,
Who maketh oft Propos full queint,
Laugh'd jocund, and aloud He cry'd,
To Matthew seated on t'oth' side;
To Thee, lean Bard, it doth partain
To understand these Creatures Tweine.
Come frame Us now some clean Device,
Or playsant Rhime on yonder Mice:
They seem, God shield Me, Mat. and Charles.
Bad as Sir Topaz, or 'Squire Quarles
(Matthew did for the nonce reply)
At Emblem, or Device am I:
But could I Chaunt, or Rhyme, pardie,
Clear as Dan Chaucer, or as Thee;
Ne Verse from Me (so God me shrive)
On Mouse, or other Beast alive.
Certes, I have these many Days
Sent myne Poetic Herd to graze.
Ne Armed Knight ydrad in War
With Lyon fierce will I compare:
Ne Judge unjust, with furred Fox,
Harming in Secret Guise the Flocks:
Ne Priest unworth of Goddess Coat,
To Swine ydrunk, or filthy Stoat.
Elk Simil' farwell for aye,
From Elephant, I trow, to Flea.
Reply'd the friendlike Peer, I weene,
Matthew is angred on the Spleen.
Ne so, quoth Mat. ne shall be e'er,
With Wit that falleth all so fair:
Eftsoons, well weet Ye, mine Intent
Boweth to your Commaundement.
If by these Creatures Ye have seen,
Pourtrayed Charles and Matthew been;
Behoveth neet to wreck my Brain,
The rest in Order to explain.
That Cup-board, where the Mice disport,
I liken to St. Stephen's Court:
Therein is Space enough, I trow,
For elke Comrade to come and goe:
And therein eke may Both be fed
With Shiver of the Wheaten Bread.
And when, as these mine Eyen survey,
They cease to skip, and squeak, and play;
Return they may to different Cells,
Auditing One, whilst t'other Tells.
Dear Robert, quoth the Saint, whose Mind
In Bounteous Deed no Mean can bind;
Now as I hope to grow devout,
I deem this Matter well made out.
Laugh I, whilst thus I serious Pray?
Let that be wrought which Mat. doth say:
Yea, quoth the Erle; but not to-day.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXXVI. Games.
by Unknown

[This game begins thus: Take this - What's this? - A gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog, & c.]
Twelve huntsmen with horns and hounds,
Hunting over other men's grounds!
Eleven ships sailing o'er the main,
Some bound for France and some for Spain:
I wish them all safe home again:
Ten comets in the sky,
Some low and some high;
Nine peacocks in the air,
I wonder how they all came there,
I do not know and I do not care;
Eight joiners in joiner's hall,
Working with the tools and all;
Seven lobsters in a dish,
As fresh as any heart could wish;
Six beetles against the wall,
Close by an old woman's apple stall;
Five puppies of our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call;
Four horses stuck in a bog,
Three monkeys tied to a clog;
Two pudding-ends would choke a dog.
With a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
Twenty Years Hence
by Walter Savage Landor

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow
If not quite dim, yet rather so,
Still yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.
Twenty years hence though it may hap
That I be called to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunderclap
Was never heard,
There breathe but o'er my arch of grass
A not too sadly sighed Alas,
And I shall catch, ere you can pass,
That winged word.
A Late Spring.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Twelve weeks had passed - how slowly! - day by day,
Since formal, dull Sir Calendar had bowed
Old Winter from the scene, and cried, "Make way!
The Spring, the Spring!" and still a sullen cloud
Obscured the sky, and the north wind blew chill;
When lo, one morn the miracle began;
A Presence brooded over vale and hill,
And through all life a quickening impulse ran.
Long-hushed, forgotten melodies awoke
Within my soul; the rapture of the boy
Refilled me; o'er my arid being broke
A brimming tide of elemental joy
From primal deeps; and all my happy springs
Came back to me - I was the peer of kings!
Sonnet CLXXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Dodici donne onestamente lasse.
HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.
Twelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,
Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,
I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,
Whose like the waters never cleaved before:
Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,
Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won,
Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undone
Troy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er.
I saw them next on a triumphal car,
Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, aside
My Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.
Things not of earth to man such visions are!
Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guide
The bark, or car of band so bright and young.
MACGREGOR.
With The Wind
by Madison Julius Cawein

'Twas when the wind was blowing from the billow-breaking sea,
The grey and stormy sea, I heard her calling me,
And in the woods and on the ways where leaves were whirling down,
And weeds were rustling brown,
I caught a glimpse of face and feet, a glimmer of her gown.
And there between the forest and a strip of wandering sea,
Of dark and dreaming sea, I heard her laugh at me;
And, oh! her voice was bugle-wild as are the wind and rain,
And drew my heart again
With all the lures of all the past and joy more keen than pain.
Upon a fir-dark hilltop by the sunset-jewelled sea,
The old and wrinkled sea, she shook her hair at me,
And I caught a misty shimmer of her frosty gown and veil,
And her hand waved rosy pale,
And my heart was fain to follow her upon the old-time trail.
Within a ferny hollow by the mermaid-calling sea,
The far and foaming sea, she turned her face to me:
Again I saw her beauty; and again she held me fast,
As she'd held me in the past,
And let her wild heart beat to mine as beats the autumn blast.
Beside a rib of wreckage by the tempest-haunted sea,
The sad and severing sea, she bade good-bye to me:
Oh, paler than the foam her face, and wilder than the night,
When not a star gives light,
And rain and wind and winter sweep like harpies from the height.
Oh, she who joined her gipsy joy to sorrow of the sea,
The gaunt and ghostly sea, will come again to me:
When Autumn leads the wild-fowl home and lights, like wandering gleams,
The camp-fires of her dreams,
Again my heart shall hear her call upon the gale that streams.
The Old Neighbour And The New
by Thomas Hardy

'Twas to greet the new rector I called I here,
But in the arm-chair I see
My old friend, for long years installed here,
Who palely nods to me.
The new man explains what he's planning
In a smart and cheerful tone,
And I listen, the while that I'm scanning
The figure behind his own.
The newcomer urges things on me;
I return a vague smile thereto,
The olden face gazing upon me
Just as it used to do!
And on leaving I scarcely remember
Which neighbour to-day I have seen,
The one carried out in September,
Or him who but entered yestreen.
The Supper Superstition. - A Pathetic Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!" - MERCUTIO
I.
'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,
Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.
II.
Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup" - 
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A GHOST came rising up!
III.
"O father dear, O mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim - 
You know when some one went to sea - 
Don't cry - but I am him!"
IV.
"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!"
V.
"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!"
VI.
"The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops;
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops."
VII.
"Just give a look in Norey's chart,
The very place it tells;
I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells."
VIII.
"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'
We have at last a call;
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot too, and all."
IX.
"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
In Davy Joneses sod,
Till I've appeared to you and said - 
Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"
X.
"You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,
That Cod was picking me!"
XI.
"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one."
XII.
"Oh, do not eat those oysters then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave,
They sucked my blood like imps!"
XIII.
"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat,
They'll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat!"
XIV.
The spirit fled - they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack!
At last up started brother Jim,
"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"
XV.
They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
And little Kitten too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce,
To see what brutes would do.
XVI.
Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munched the Cod - and little Kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps!
XVII.
The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!
Toast For The Men Of Eidsvold
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(MAY 17, 1864)
(See Note 26)
'Twas then this land of ours we drew
From centuries of ice and sorrow,
And let it of the sun's warmth borrow,
And law and plow brought order new;
We dug the wealth in mountain treasured,
Our stately ships the oceans measured,
And springtime thoughts were free to run
As round the Pole the midnight sun.
And still with God we'll conquer, hold:
Each plot reclaimed for harvest-reaping,
Each ship our sea takes to its keeping,
Each child-soul we to manhood mold,
Each spark of thought our life illuming,
Each deed to fruit of increase blooming, - 
A province adds unto our land
And o'er our freedom guard shall stand.
The Firetail's Nest
by John Clare

"Tweet" pipes the robin as the cat creeps by
Her nestling young that in the elderns lie,
And then the bluecap tootles in its glee,
Picking the flies from orchard apple tree,
And "pink" the chaffinch cries its well-known strain,
Urging its kind to utter "pink" again,
While in a quiet mood hedgesparrows try
An inward stir of shadowed melody.
Around the rotten tree the firetail mourns
As the old hedger to his toil returns,
Chopping the grain to stop the gap close by
The hole where her blue eggs in safety lie.
Of everything that stirs she dreameth wrong
And pipes her "tweet tut" fears the whole day long.
Nursery Rhyme. DX. Natural History.
by Unknown

[A Dorsetshire version.]
'Twas the twenty-ninth of May, 'twas a holiday,
Four and twenty tailors set out to hunt a snail;
The snail put forth his horns, and roared like a bull,
Away ran the tailors, and catch the snail who wull.
Twas The Night Before Christmas
by Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
Nursery Rhyme. CC. Riddles.
by Unknown

Twelve pears hanging high,
Twelve knights riding by;
Each knight took a pear,
And yet left eleven there!
The Haughty Snail-king
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
(What Uncle William told the Children)
Twelve snails went walking after night.
They'd creep an inch or so,
Then stop and bug their eyes
And blow.
Some folks... are... deadly... slow.
Twelve snails went walking yestereve,
Led by their fat old king.
They were so dull their princeling had
No sceptre, robe or ring - 
Only a paper cap to wear
When nightly journeying.
This king-snail said:    "I feel a thought
Within....    It blossoms soon....
O little courtiers of mine,...
I crave a pretty boon....
Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come
And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.)
"I wish I had a yellow crown
As glistering... as... the moon."
The Unlucky Apple
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Twas the apple that in Eden
Caused our father's primal fall;
And the Trojan War, remember--
'Twas an apple caused it all.
So for weeks I've hesitated,
You can guess the reason why,
For I want to tell my darling
She's the apple of my eye.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua.
HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM.
'Twas time at last from so long war to find
Some peace or truce, and, haply, both were nigh,
But Death their welcome feet has turn'd behind,
Who levels all distinctions, low as high;
And as a cloud dissolves before the wind,
So she, who led me with her lustrous eye,
Whom ever I pursue with faithful mind,
Her fair life briefly ending, sought the sky.
Had she but stay'd, as I grew changed and old
Her tone had changed, and no distrust had been
To parley with me on my cherish'd ill:
With what frank sighs and fond I then had told
My lifelong toils, which now from heaven, I ween,
She sees, and with me sympathises still.
MACGREGOR.
My life's long warfare seem'd about to cease,
Peace had my spirit's contest well nigh freed;
But levelling Death, who doth to all concede
An equal doom, clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace:
As zephyrs chase the clouds of gathering fleece,
So did her life from this world's breath recede,
Their vision'd light could once my footsteps lead,
But now my all, save thought, she doth release.
Oh! would that she her flight awhile had stay'd,
For Time had stamp'd on me his warning hand,
And calmer I had told my storied love:
To her in virtue's tone I had convey'd
My heart's long grief--now, she doth understand,
And sympathises with that grief above.
WOLLASTON.
Twenty Bold Mariners.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Twenty bold mariners went to the wave,
Twenty sweet breezes blew over the main;
All were so hearty, so free, and so brave, - 
But they never came back again!
Half the wild ocean rose up to the clouds,
Half the broad sky scowled in thunder and rain;
Twenty white crests rose around them like shrouds,
And they stayed in the dancing main!
This is easy to sing, and often to mourn,
And the breaking of dawn is no newer to-day;
But those who die young, or are left forlorn,
Think grief is no older than they!
Twenty-First. Night. Monday
by Anna Akhmatova

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why--
made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down...
I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.
The Vowels. - A Tale.
by Robert Burns

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd,
The noisy domicile of pedant pride;
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on the way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name! that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art;
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.
Brithers.
by David Rorie M.D.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen
I keppit a tinkler chiel,
The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,
He was waesomely doon at the heel;
But he made me free o' his company,
For he kent that I wished him weel.
He lookit me fairly 'tween the een,
He cam' o' an auncient clan;
He gae me gude-day in a freendly way,
While he spak me man to man,
Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame
An' his for kettle an' pan.
"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae,
Ye're free o' the road, like me,
I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot,
Wi' an orra-like weird to dree;
An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men',
Wi' luck to fix oor fee!
Brithers baith o' the auld high road-
Yet the Deil hae General Wade
For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step
Wi' the weary wark o' his spade,
Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo
Owre the hills whaur the heroes gaed!"
"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast,
Or whither awa' gang ye?
Will ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides,
For a tastin' o' barley bree?
Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again
As lang as there's kebbuck to pree.
Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth?
Ye needna be langer in doot;
Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on,
An' I'll get ye a pan to cloot.
I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in,
An' as freely lat ye oot."
A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow,
An' a rag on't fluttered free,
While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there,
That I'm bathered if I could see,
Though I kent my soul was sib to his
In a queer free-masonry.
"The wife's a mile on the road afore's,
An' the bairnies farther still;
I canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk,
But I'll borrow the price o' a gill,
An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack
O' a' that's gude an' ill."
He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne,
An' quately winked an e'e;
"The road's a bond that we canna deny,
An' its linkit you an' me
In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk,
Whauriver they chance to be!"
On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk,
An' he leggit it doon the wind;
Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock,
Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind!
An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's
For a' that I can find.
Upon A Lady Fair But Fruitless.
by Robert Herrick

Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led
By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed.
Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years;
Yet not a lily from the bed appears:
Nor will; for why, Pudica this may know,
Trees never bear unless they first do blow.
A Hope
by Charles Kingsley

Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
Around each other roll alway,
Within one common atmosphere
Of their own mutual light and day.
And myriad happy eyes are bent
Upon their changeless love alway;
As, strengthened by their one intent,
They pour the flood of life and day.
So we through this world's waning night
May, hand in hand, pursue our way;
Shed round us order, love, and light,
And shine unto the perfect day.
A Paumanok Picture
by Walt Whitman

Two boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
Ten fishermen waiting--they discover a thick school of mossbonkers--
they drop the join'd seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the
beach, enclosing the mossbonkers,
The net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep
in the water, pois'd on strong legs,
The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them,
Strew'd on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water,
the green-back'd spotted mossbonkers.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXVI. Games.
by Unknown

[Another game, played exclusively by boys. Two, who are fixed upon for the purpose, leave the group, and privately arrange that the pass-word shall be some implement of a particular trade. The trade is announced in the dialogue, and then the    fun is, that the unfortunate wight who guesses the "tool" is    beaten with the caps of his fellows till he reaches a fixed goal, after which he goes out in turn.]
"Two broken tradesmen,
Newly come over,
The one from France and Scotland,
The other from Dover."
"What's your trade?"
[Carpenters, nailors, smiths, tinkers, or any other is answered, and on guessing the instrument "plane him, hammer him, rasp him, or solder him," is called out respectively during the period of punishment.]
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Bat
by Lewis Carroll

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you're at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle
In Hospital - XII - Etching
by William Ernest Henley

Two and thirty is the ploughman.
He's a man of gallant inches,
And his hair is close and curly,
And his beard;
But his face is wan and sunken,
And his eyes are large and brilliant,
And his shoulder-blades are sharp,
And his knees.
He is weak of wits, religious,
Full of sentiment and yearning,
Gentle, faded - with a cough
And a snore.
When his wife (who was a widow,
And is many years his elder)
Fails to write, and that is always,
He desponds.
Let his melancholy wander,
And he'll tell you pretty stories
Of the women that have wooed him
Long ago;
Or he'll sing of bonnie lasses
Keeping sheep among the heather,
With a crackling, hackling click
In his voice.