DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Memory
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I
I nursed it in my bosom while it lived,
I hid it in my heart when it was dead;
In joy I sat alone, even so I grieved
Alone and nothing said.
I shut the door to face the naked truth,
I stood alone - I faced the truth alone,
Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruth
Till first and last were shown.
I took the perfect balances and weighed;
No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise;
Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said,
But silent made my choice.
None know the choice I made; I make it still.
None know the choice I made and broke my heart,
Breaking mine idol: I have braced my will
Once, chosen for once my part.
I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,
Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.
My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,
Grows old in which I grieve.
II
I have a room whereinto no one enters
Save I myself alone:
There sits a blessed memory on a throne,
There my life centres.
While winter comes and goes - oh tedious comer! - 
And while its nip-wind blows;
While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose
Of lavish summer.
If any should force entrance he might see there
One buried yet not dead,
Before whose face I no more bow my head
Or bend my knee there;
But often in my worn life's autumn weather
I watch there with clear eyes,
And think how it will be in Paradise
When we're together.
Fragment. Canzone XII. 5.
by Emma Lazarus

I never see, after nocturnal rain,
The wandering stars move through the air serene,
And flame forth 'twixt the dew-fall and the rime,
But I behold her radiant eyes wherein
My weary spirit findeth rest from pain;
As dimmed by her rich veil, I saw her the first time;
The very heaven beamed with the light sublime
Of their celestial beauty; dewy-wet
Still do they shine, and I am burning yet.
Now if the rising sun I see,
I feel the light that hath enamored me.
Or if he sets, I follow him, when he
Bears elsewhere his eternal light,
Leaving behind the shadowy waves of night.
I Never Saw A Moor,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
To Autumn.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I oft have net thee, Autumn, wandering
Beside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild;
Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring,
As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled.
Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath,
Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,
Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leaves
Thou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breath
Of Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swim
Far out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.
Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen,
Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faint
Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between
With Indian faces from thy airy paint.
Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hills
Within a dingled valley nigh a fall,
Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower,
And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rills
Went babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall,
Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.
Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill,
Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine;
Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill,
And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine.
While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains - 
More sad than erst - did raise a dreamy speech
And call thee to his youthful, amorous arms,
Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains;
And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach,
Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.
Once saw thee in a hollow girt with trees,
A-dream amid the harvest's tawny grain;
Thy plushy cheek faint flushing in the breeze,
In thy deep eyes a drowsy sky's blue stain.
And where within the woodland's twilight path
The cloud-winged skies did peep all speechless down,
And stirred the gaudy leaves with fragrant breath,
I've seen thee walk, nor fear the Winter's wrath;
There drop asleep clad in thy gipsy gown,
While Echo bending o'er dropp'd tears upon thy wreath.
Ace" Shaw
by Edgar Lee Masters

I never saw any difference
Between playing cards for money
And selling real estate,
Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
For everything is chance.
Nevertheless
Seest thou a man diligent in business?
He shall stand before Kings!
October
by Madison Julius Cawein

I Oft have met her slowly wandering
Beside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild,
Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring,
As if on her the sumach copse had smiled.
Or I have seen her sitting, tall and brown,
Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,
Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leaves
She wound great drowsy wreaths and east them down;
The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim
Far out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves.
Or in the hill-lands I have often seen
The marvel of her passage; glimpses faint
Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,
Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.
Or I have met her 'twixt two beechen hills,
Within a dingled valley near a fall,
Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;
Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rills
Went babbling through the wildwood's arrased hall,
Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.
Or I have met her by some ruined mill,
Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,
On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled chill,
And watched her swinging in the wild-grape vine.
While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,
More sad than death, or all that death can teach,
Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,
Where splashed the murmur of the forest's fountains;
With all her loveliness did she beseech,
And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms.
Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,
A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,
I glimpsed her cheeks red-berried by the breeze,
In her dark eyes the night's sidereal stain.
And once upon an orchard's tangled path,
Where all the golden-rod had turned to brown,
Where russets rolled and leaves were sweet of breath,
I have beheld her 'mid her aftermath
Of blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,
Within her gaze the deeps of life and death.
Free Verse
by Robert von Ranke Graves

I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I've said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn 'ee, twist 'ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!
Sonnets From The Portuguese XVIII
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length and say
'Take it.' My day of youth went yesterday;
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,
Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more: it only may
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears
Would take this first, but Love is justified,
Take it thou, finding pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left here when she died.
The Inlander
by Theodosia Garrison

I never climb a high hill
Or gaze across the lea,
But, Oh, beyond the two of them,
Beyond the height and blue of them,
I'm looking for the sea.
A blue sea--a crooning sea--
A grey sea lashed with foam--
But, Oh, to take the drift of it,
To know the surge and lift of it,
And 'tis I am longing for it as the homeless long for home.
I never dream at night-time
Or close my eyes by day,
But there I have the might of it,
The wind-whipped, sun-drenched sight of it,
That calls my soul away.
Oh, deep dreams and happy dreams,
Its dreaming still I'd be,
For still the land I'm waking in,
'Tis that my heart is breaking in,
And 'tis far where I'd be sleeping with the blue waves over me.
Tema Con Variazioni
by Lewis Carroll

Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison, whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!", yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also,
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle,
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY,
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
I Noticed People Disappeared,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I noticed people disappeared,
When but a little child, --
Supposed they visited remote,
Or settled regions wild.
Now know I they both visited
And settled regions wild,
But did because they died, -- a fact
Withheld the little child!
My Picture Left In Scotland
by Ben Jonson

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me
And cast my love behind;
I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence, of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest he,
That sits in Shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscience fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundreds of grey hairs,
Told seven and forty years,
Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly, and my rocky face,
And all these through her eyes, have stopped her ears.
To The Daughter Of The Author Of "Violet Keith."
by Kate Seymour Maclean

I never looked upon thy face;
I never saw thy dwelling-place;
My home is by Lake Erie's shore,
Beyond Niagara's distant roar;
And thine where ships at anchor ride,
By fair St. Lawrence's rolling tide,
With half a continent between
Its seas of blue, and isles of green,
And many a mountain's nodding crest,
And many a valley's jewelled breast.
Thou in the east, I in the west;
Yet in this book thou hast to me
An individuality;
Something more tangible and fair
Than any dream or shape of air,
With more than an ideal grace,
And sweeter than a pictured face:
For in this book my thought recalls
The garden quaint, the convent walls.
And thou beneath their shadow set,
A blue-eyed fragrant violet.
So for the maiden of the tale,
Whose brave true heart might break, not fail,
Thyself, my Violet I make,
And love thee for thy mother's sake.
The Two Lamplighters
by Frederic William Moorman

I niver thowt when I grew owd
I'd tak to leetin' lamps;
I sud have said, I'd rayther pad
My hoof on t' road wi' tramps.
But sin I gate that skelp(1) i' t' mine,
I'm wankle(2) i' my heead;
So gaffer said, I'd give ower wark
An' leet town lamps atsteead.
At first, when I were liggin' snug
I' bed, warm as a bee,
'T were hard to rise and get agate
As sooin as t' clock strake three.
An' I were flaid to hear my steps
Echoin' on ivery wall;
An' flaider yet when down by t' church
Ullets would skreek and call.
But now I'm flaid o' nowt; I love
All unkerd(3) sounds o' t' neet,
Frae childer talkin' i' their dreams
To t' tramp o' p'licemen' feet.
But most of all I love to hark
To t' song o' t' birds at dawn;
They wakken up afore it gloams,
When t' dew ligs thick on t' lawn.
If I feel lonesome, up I look
To t' sky aboon my heead;
An' theer's yon stars all glestrin' breet,
Like daisies in a mead.
But sometimes, when I'm glowerin' up,
I see the Lord hissen;
He's doutin' all yon lamps o' Heaven
That shines on mortal men.
He lowps alang frae star to star,
As cobby(4) as can be;
Mebbe He reckons fowk's asleep,
Wi' niver an eye to see.
But I hae catched Him at his wark,
For all He maks no din;
He leaves a track o' powder'd gowd(5)
To show where He has bin.
He's got big lamps an' laatle lamps,
An' lamps that twinkles red;
Im capped to see Him dout 'em all
Afore I'm back i' bed.
But He don't laik about His wark,
Or stop to hark to t' birds;
He minds His business, does the Lord,
An' wastes no gaumless words.
I grow more like Him ivery day,
For all I walk so lame;
An', happen, there will coom a time
I'll beat Him at His game.
Thrang as Throp's wife, I'll dout my lamps
Afore He's gotten so far;
An' then I'll shout--"I've won my race,
I've bet Him by a star."
I Love Thee Still.
by George Pope Morris

I never have been false to thee!--
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I've loved, as woman ever loves,
With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou'st proved as man too often proves,
A rover--but I love thee still!
Yet think not that my spirit stoops
To bind thee captive in my train!--
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Love a golden chain and burning vow
Are broken--but I love thee still!
Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
When love dispelled the clouds of care,
And time went by with birds and flowers,
While song and incense filled the air!
The past is mine--the present thine--
Should thoughts of me thy future fill,
Think what a destiny is mine,
To lose--but love thee, false one, still!
My Valentine.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
I passed her on the crowded street--
This winsome maid, demure and sweet--
And envious saw the silken tresses
That seemed to give her cheeks caresses,
And rapture felt that thrilled me through
When on me glanced those eyes of blue
From underneath the drooping lashes
That could not hide their azure flashes!
And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine
If she would be--my Valentine!
II.
And visions of as fair a face
As painter's pencil e'er did trace
Would haunt the mind each waking hour,
And slumber owned its magic power--
Until I found by merest chance
That belladonna made the glance,
And borrowed hair had lent its aid
For silken tresses of this maid--
And padding--paint--did all combine
To make for me--my Valentine!
The Vesture Of The Soul
by George William Russell

I pitied one whose tattered dress
Was patched, and stained with dust and rain;
He smiled on me; I could not guess
The viewless spirit's wide domain.
He said, 'The royal robe I wear
Trails all along the fields of light:
Its silent blue and silver bear
For gems the starry dust of night.'
'The breath of joy unceasingly
Waves to and fro its folds starlit,
And far beyond earth's misery
I live and breathe the joy of it.'
Different Threats.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I ONCE into a forest far
My maiden went to seek,
And fell upon her neck, when: "Ah!"
She threaten'd, "I will shriek!"
Then cried I haughtily: "I'll crush
The man that dares come near thee!"
"Hush!" whisper'd she: "My loved one, hush!
Or else they'll overhear thee!"
My Little Doll
by Charles Kingsley

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
Pity For Poor Africans.
by William Cowper

Video meliora proboque,
Deteriora sequor.
I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans,
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.
I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see?
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea!
Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains;
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will,
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.
If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?
Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd,
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.
A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.
He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, 'Oh no!
What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you, don't go;
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread,
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.'
'You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.'
They spoke, and Tom ponder'd''I see they will go;
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,
But staying behind will do him no good.
'If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree;
But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too,
He will lose none by me, though I get a few.'
His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize;
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan:
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.
Music.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
I pant for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
2.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, oh more, - I am thirsting yet;
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.
3.
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake,
When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,
And mist there was none its thirst to slake -
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew
On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue -
4.
As one who drinks from a charmed cup
Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine,
Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,
Invites to love with her kiss divine...
A Wet Night
by Thomas Hardy

I pace along, the rain-shafts riddling me,
Mile after mile out by the moorland way,
And up the hill, and through the ewe-leaze gray
Into the lane, and round the corner tree;
Where, as my clothing clams me, mire-bestarred,
And the enfeebled light dies out of day,
Leaving the liquid shades to reign, I say,
"This is a hardship to be calendared!"
Yet sires of mine now perished and forgot,
When worse beset, ere roads were shapen here,
And night and storm were foes indeed to fear,
Times numberless have trudged across this spot
In sturdy muteness on their strenuous lot,
And taking all such toils as trifles mere.
The Indian Upon God
by William Butler Yeats

I passed along the water's edge below the humid trees,
My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees,
My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-fowl pace
All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to chase
Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or weak
Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.
The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from His eye.
I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk:
Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,
For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide
Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.
A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
Brimful of starlight, and he said: The Stamper of the Skies,
He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He
Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?
I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:
Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay,
He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night
His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.
A Caged Mocking-Bird
by John Charles McNeill

I pass a cobbler's shop along the street
And pause a moment at the door-step, where,
In nature's medley, piping cool and sweet,
The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near,
Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year,
And twitter where the autumn hedges run,
Join all the months of music into one.
I shut my eyes:    the shy wood-thrush is there,
And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell;
Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhere
A bluebird's tweedle passes o'er the fell;
From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell;
And when the oriole sets his full heart free
Barefooted boyhood comes again to me.
The vision-bringer hangs upon a nail
Before a dusty window, looking dim
On marts where trade goes hot with box and bale;
The sad-eyed passers have no time for him.
His captor sits, with beaded face and grim,
Plying a listless awl, as in a dream
Of pastures winding by a shady stream.
Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?
For now, when every songster finds his love
And makes his nest where woods are deep and green,
Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.
If I were thou, my grief in moans should move
At thinking--otherwhere, by others' art
Charmed and forgetful--of mine own sweetheart.
But I, who weep when fortune seems unkind
To prison me within a space of walls,
When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrined
And every love is cruel when it calls;
Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged waterfalls,--
I blush to offer sorrow unto thee,
Master of fate, scorner of destiny!