DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Griefs.
by Robert Herrick

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs,
Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.
1920's Flicker
by Paul Cameron Brown

John Dillinger and Baby-Faced Nelson
in a dream together
- one shooting holes thru
theories of his untimely death,
the other frying in an old-time
(e) Electric Chair
with balloons waving, bonbons
going off, the crowd in a joyous,
boisterous mood.
The marquee reads:
"Public Enemy Number One
laid to rest in a
shallow grave as
gravelly as the heart
that beat in his stoney chest."
An adjacent sign noted,
crime does pay the undertaker
but other, good-hearted folks
need look no further than
the Dempsey-Tunney fight
to see which has the
bigger box office draw.
Loving John.
by Edwin C. Ranck

John went into the garden one day
And found his baby sister at play;
John hit baby with a brick
And laughed because it made her sick.
John is only two and six
And loves to do these funny tricks.
Song of the Reapers.
by George Pope Morris

Joyous the carol that rings in the mountains,
While the cleared vales are refreshed by the fountains--
After the harvest the cheerful notes fall,
And all the glad reapers re-echo the call!
La ra la la, &c.
Oh, how the heart bounds at that simple refrain!
Dear haunts of my childhood, I'm with you again!
Green be your valleys, enriched by the rills,
And long may that carol be sung on your hills!
La ra la la, &c.
To Fausta
by Matthew Arnold

Joy comes and goes: hope ebbs and flows,
Like the wave.
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
Love lends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles: and then.
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave.
Dreams dawn and fly: friends smile and die,
Like spring flowers.
Our vaunted life is one long funeral.
Men dig graves, with bitter tears,
For their dead hopes; and all,
Maz'd with doubts, and sick with fears,
Count the hours.
We count the hours: these dreams of ours,
False and hollow,
Shall we go hence and find they are not dead?
Joys we dimly apprehend,
Faces that smil'd and fled,
Hopes born here, and born to end,
Shall we follow?
John McKeen
by James Whitcomb Riley

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past! Ah John,
To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone
Out on election days!
John ah, John! Did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close recluse;
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose!
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And the old-time fiddle-tunes!
Departed Statesmen.
by James McIntyre

With a glance at Sir John A. Macdonald and Blake, the two living leaders, 1884.
Joseph Howe, none higher stood than thou,
Thou wert a man with lofty brow;
D'Arcy McGee, so brilliant and free,
From green isle you came o'er the sea.
George Cartier to the French ever dear,
So high you stood without a peer;
John Sandfield for long you did build
Power under economy's shield.
George Brown, thou man of renown,
Confederation you did crown;
You now are all free from the strife
The wrangle and jangle of political life.
But if a glance at this world you take
You will there see John A. and Blake,
But Sir John the greatest power doth wield,
Our Canadian Beaconsfield.
London Types - II. Life-Guardsman
by William Ernest Henley

Joy of the Milliner, Envy of the Line,
Star of the Parks, jack-booted, sworded, helmed,
He sits between his holsters, solid of spine;
Nor, as it seems, though WESTMINSTER were whelmed,
With the great globe, in earthquake and eclipse,
Would he and his charger cease from mounting guard,
This Private in the Blues, nor would his lips
Move, though his gorge with throttled oaths were charred!
He wears his inches weightily, as he wears
His old-world armours; and with his port and pride,
His sturdy graces and enormous airs,
He towers, in speech his Colonel countrified,
A triumph, waxing statelier year by year,
Of British blood, and bone, and beef, and beer.
Ballad Of Low-Lie-Down
by Madison Julius Cawein

John-a-dreams and Harum-Scarum
Came a-riding into town:
At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
There they met with Low-lie-down.
Brave in shoes of Romany leather,
Bodice blue and gypsy gown,
And a cap of fur and feather,
In the inn sat Low-lie-down.
Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly;
Smiled into her eyes of brown:
Clasped her waist and held her tightly,
Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"
Then with many an oath and swagger,
As a man of great renown,
On the board he clapped his dagger,
Called for sack and sat him down.
So a while they laughed together;
Then he rose and with a frown
Sighed, "While still 'tis pleasant weather,
I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."
So away rode Harum-Scarum;
With a song rode out of town;
At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.
Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters,
In his pocket ne'er a crown,
Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters!
Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.
"Here's my hand: we'll roam together,
Far away from thorp and town.
Here's my heart, for any weather,
And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.
"Some men call me dreamer, poet:
Some men call me fool and clown
What I am but you shall know it,
Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."
For a little while she pondered:
Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!"
Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered,
John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.
Child Saved By Dog.
by James McIntyre

Johnston he is an engineer,
He always looks if track is clear,
For he hath a keen eagle eye,
Danger afar he doth espy.
And he hath too a warm true heart,
Of others woes he shares a part;
One day he gazed far down the line,
And a large dog he could define.
So eager busy on the track,
In mouth it seemed to lift a pack,
But it oftentimes did fail
For to raise it o'er the rail.
The engineer put on his steam
And he loud made his whistle scream,
So that the dog would take alarm
And thus preserve his life from harm.
This noble dog, it feared not danger,
Fear to him it was a stranger,
His mistress child he wished to save,
And all the danger he would brave.
His last great effort did prevail,
He raised it safe beyond the rail,
Into a snug and hollow spot,
A place seem'd formed for a child's cot.
This dog of noble mastiff breed,
For his own safety took no heed,
But at approaching train did bark,
To make them to his troubles hark.
The engineer did sad bewail,
To see the dog still on the rail,
A moment more the beast is slain,
Cut in two by the cruel train.
The engineer now shuts off steam
For to investigate the theme,
That caused the dog to die at post,
Finds to save child its life it lost.
Faithful in the cause of duty,
Saving life of little beauty,
A little darling three year old,
More precious than her weight in gold.
On track she wandered for to play,
But soon she in quiet slumber lay,
And all the efforts of old Towser,
Were not able to arouse her.
The mother now in agony wild,
Rushed down to train to find her child,
There she found it sweetly sleeping,
While some for faithful dog were weeping.
And a brave man was engineer,
For he himself knew not of fear,
But his heart was filled with pain,
Because the noble dog was slain.
Albert Schirding
by Edgar Lee Masters

Jonas Keene thought his lot a hard one
Because his children were all failures.
But I know of a fate more trying than that:
It is to be a failure while your children are successes.
For I raised a brood of eagles
Who flew away at last, leaving me
A crow on the abandoned bough.
Then, with the ambition to prefix
Honorable to my name,
And thus to win my children's admiration,
I ran for County Superintendent of Schools,
Spending my accumulations to win - and lost.
That fall my daughter received first prize in
Paris For her picture, entitled, "The Old Mill" - 
(It was of the water mill before Henry Wilkin put in steam.)
The feeling that I was not worthy of her finished me.
Seeking Joy
by William Henry Davies

Joy, how I sought thee!
Silver I spent and gold,
On the pleasures of this world,
In splendid garments clad;
The wine I drank was sweet,
Rich morsels I did eat, 
Oh, but my life was sad!
Joy, how I sought thee!
Joy, I have found thee!
Far from the halls of Mirth,
Back to the soft green earth,
Where people are not many;
I find thee, Joy, in hours
With clouds, and birds, and flowers, 
Thou dost not charge one penny.
Joy, I have found thee!
The Cat, The Weasel, And The Young Rabbit.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
John Rabbit's palace under ground
Was once by Goody Weasel found.
She, sly of heart, resolved to seize
The place, and did so at her ease.
She took possession while its lord
Was absent on the dewy sward,
Intent upon his usual sport,
A courtier at Aurora's court.
When he had browsed his fill of clover
And cut his pranks all nicely over,
Home Johnny came to take his drowse,
All snug within his cellar-house.
The weasel's nose he came to see,
Outsticking through the open door.
'Ye gods of hospitality!'
Exclaim'd the creature, vex'd sore,
'Must I give up my father's lodge?
Ho! Madam Weasel, please to budge,
Or, quicker than a weasel's dodge,
I'll call the rats to pay their grudge!'
The sharp-nosed lady made reply,
That she was first to occupy.
The cause of war was surely small - 
A house where one could only crawl!
And though it were a vast domain,
Said she, 'I'd like to know what will
Could grant to John perpetual reign, - 
The son of Peter or of Bill, - 
More than to Paul, or even me.'
John Rabbit spoke - great lawyer he - 
Of custom, usage, as the law,
Whereby the house, from sire to son,
As well as all its store of straw,
From Peter came at length to John.
Who could present a claim, so good
As he, the first possessor, could?
'Now,' said the dame, 'let's drop dispute,
And go before Raminagrobis, [2]
Who'll judge, not only in this suit,
But tell us truly whose the globe is.'
This person was a hermit cat,
A cat that play'd the hypocrite,
A saintly mouser, sleek and fat,
An arbiter of keenest wit.
John Rabbit in the judge concurr'd,
And off went both their case to broach
Before his majesty, the furr'd.
Said Clapperclaw, 'My kits, approach,
And put your noses to my ears:
I'm deaf, almost, by weight of years.'
And so they did, not fearing aught.
The good apostle, Clapperclaw,
Then laid on each a well-arm'd paw,
And both to an agreement brought,
By virtue of his tusk'd jaw.
This brings to mind the fate
Of little kings before the great.
The Eagle And The Beetle.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
John Rabbit, by Dame Eagle chased,
Was making for his hole in haste,
When, on his way, he met a beetle's burrow.
I leave you all to think
If such a little chink
Could to a rabbit give protection thorough.
But, since no better could be got,
John Rabbit there was fain to squat.
Of course, in an asylum so absurd,
John felt ere long the talons of the bird.
But first, the beetle, interceding, cried,
'Great queen of birds, it cannot be denied,
That, maugre my protection, you can bear
My trembling guest, John Rabbit, through the air.
But do not give me such affront, I pray;
And since he craves your grace,
In pity of his case,
Grant him his life, or take us both away;
For he's my gossip, friend, and neighbour.'
In vain the beetle's friendly labour;
The eagle clutch'd her prey without reply,
And as she flapp'd her vasty wings to fly,
Struck down our orator and still'd him;
The wonder is she hadn't kill'd him.
The beetle soon, of sweet revenge in quest,
Flew to the old, gnarl'd mountain oak,
Which proudly bore that haughty eagle's nest.
And while the bird was gone,
Her eggs, her cherish'd eggs, he broke,
Not sparing one.
Returning from her flight, the eagle's cry,
Of rage and bitter anguish, fill'd the sky.
But, by excess of passion blind,
Her enemy she fail'd to find.
Her wrath in vain, that year it was her fate
To live a mourning mother, desolate.
The next, she built a loftier nest; 'twas vain;
The beetle found and dash'd her eggs again.
John Rabbit's death was thus revenged anew.
The second mourning for her murder'd brood
Was such, that through the giant mountain wood,
For six long months, the sleepless echo flew.
The bird, once Ganymede, now made
Her prayer to Jupiter for aid;
And, laying them within his godship's lap,
She thought her eggs now safe from all mishap;
The god his own could not but make them - 
No wretch, would venture there to break them.
And no one did. Their enemy, this time,
Upsoaring to a place sublime,
Let fall upon his royal robes some dirt,
Which Jove just shaking, with a sudden flirt,
Threw out the eggs, no one knows whither.
When Jupiter inform'd her how th' event
Occurr'd by purest accident,
The eagle raved; there was no reasoning with her;
She gave out threats of leaving court,
To make the desert her resort,
And other brav'ries of this sort.
Poor Jupiter in silence heard
The uproar of his favourite bird.
Before his throne the beetle now appear'd,
And by a clear complaint the mystery clear'd.
The god pronounced the eagle in the wrong.
But still, their hatred was so old and strong,
These enemies could not be reconciled;
And, that the general peace might not be spoil'd, - 
The best that he could do, - the god arranged,
That thence the eagle's pairing should be changed,
To come when beetle folks are only found
Conceal'd and dormant under ground.
Joy, Shipmate, Joy!
by Walt Whitman

Joy! shipmate - joy!
(Pleas'd to my Soul at death I cry;)
Our life is closed - our life begins;
The long, long anchorage we leave,
The ship is clear at last - she leaps!
She swiftly courses from the shore;
Joy! shipmate - joy!
Song.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Joy came in youth as a humming-bird,
(Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!)
And it made a home in my summer bower
With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower.
(Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)
Joy came as a lark when the years had gone,
(Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!)
And I gazed far up to the melting blue
Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew.
(Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)
Joy hovers now in a far-off mist,
(The night draws on and the air breathes snow!)
And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling hand
To the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land.
(Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)
John Day. - A Pathetic Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

"A Day after the Fair." - Old Proverb.
John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.
The very horses knew his weight,
When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas box,
To come but once a year.
Alas! against the shafts of love,
What armor can avail?
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.
The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
From whom he never ranged,
For though he changed his horses there,
His love he never changed.
He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers!
One day, as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump - 
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.
Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.
But still he stoutly urged his suit
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'
He drove the Dart for years.
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued,
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town,
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.
At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin,
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
O Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho' I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half.
Alas, in vain he still assail'd,
He heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.
Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link;
For he was so reduced in size,
At nothing he could shrink.
Now some will talk in water's praise,
And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho' he drank nothing else,
He drank himself to death!
The cruel maid that caused his love
Found out the fatal close,
For looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.
Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk - 
For after riding all his life,
His ghost objects to walk!
John Mckeen.
by James Whitcomb Riley

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat;
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And old-time fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound
Old book of the Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past!    Ah, John,
To have grown ambitious in worldly ways! - 
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone
Out on election days!
John, ah, John! did it prove your worth
To yield you the office you still maintain?
To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth
Of all the happier things on earth
To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees,
Edging the drives where your blooded span
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease, - 
Where are the children about your knees,
And the mirth, and the happy man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to;
Your faded wife is a close recluse;
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do
Dutifully all that is willed of you,
And marry as you shall choose! - 
But O for the old-home voices, blent
With the watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And the motherly chirrup of glad content
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
And the old-time fiddle-tunes!
Upon Jolly And Jilly. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Jolly and Jilly bite and scratch all day,
But yet get children (as the neighbours say).
The reason is: though all the day they fight,
They cling and close some minutes of the night.
Low-Lie-Down
by Madison Julius Cawein

John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum
Came a-riding into town:
At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
There they met with Low-lie-down.
Brave in shoes of Romany leather,
Bodice blue and gipsy gown,
And a cap of fur and feather,
In the inn sat Low-lie-down.
Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly,
Smiled into her eyes of brown,
Clasped her waist and held her tightly,
Saying, "Love me, Low-lie-down."
Then with many an oath and swagger,
As a man of great renown,
On the board he clapped his dagger,
Called for sack and sat him down.
So a while they laughed together:
Then he rose and with a frown
Sighed, "While still 't is pleasant weather
I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."
So away rode Harum-Scarum,
With a song rode out of town;
At the sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.
Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters,
In his pocket ne'er a crown,
Touched her saying, "Wench, what matters!
Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.
"Here's my hand: let's roam together,
Far away from thorp and town.
Here's my heart for any weather,
And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.
"Some men call me dreamer, poet;
Some men call me fool and clown
What I am but you shall know it!
Come with me, sweet Low-lie-down.
For a little while she pondered.
Smiled and said, "Let care go drown!"
Rose and kissed him. Forth they wandered,
John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.
Two Pastorals
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Made by Sir Philip Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville.
Join mates in mirth to me,
Grant pleasure to our meeting;
Let Pan, our good god, see
How grateful is our greeting.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Ye hymns and singing skill
Of god Apollo's giving,
Be pressed our reeds to fill
With sound of music living.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Sweet Orpheus' harp, whose sound
The stedfast mountains moved,
Let there thy skill abound,
To join sweet friends beloved.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
My two and I be met,
A happy blessed trinity,
As three more jointly set
In firmest band of unity.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Welcome my two to me,
The number best beloved,
Within my heart you be
In friendship unremoved.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Give leave your flocks to range,
Let us the while be playing;
Within the elmy grange,
Your flocks will not be straying.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Cause all the mirth you can,
Since I am now come hither,
Who never joy, but when
I am with you together.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Like lovers do their love,
So joy I in you seeing:
Let nothing me remove
From always with you being.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
And as the turtle dove
To mate with whom he liveth,
Such comfort fervent love
Of you to my heart giveth.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Now joined be our hands,
Let them be ne'er asunder,
But link'd in binding bands
By metamorphosed wonder.
So should our severed bodies three
As one for ever joined be.