DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
San Miniato
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace, -
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ!    O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
A Storm Simile.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Oh, regardez le ciel!")
[June, 1828.]
See, where on high the moving masses, piled
By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild,
Present strange shapes to view;
Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds,
As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds
Sudden his falchion drew.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXX. Games.
by Unknown

See-saw sacradown,
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, and the other down,
And that is the way to London town.
To An Autograph-Hunter
by George MacDonald

Seek not my name--it doth no virtue bear;
Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find--
The name God called when thy ideal fair
Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.
When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord
Of time and space--art heir of all things grown;
And not my name, poor, earthly label-word,
But I myself thenceforward am thine own.
Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man
Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell?
My very shadow would feel strange and wan
In thy abode:--I say No, and Farewell.
Thou understandest? Then it is enough;
No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend;
We walk the same path, over smooth and rough,
To meet ere long at the unending end.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXCV. Games.
by Unknown

See, Saw, Margery Daw,
Sold her bed and lay upon straw;
Was not she a dirty slut,
To sell her bed and lie in the dirt!
Hound And Huntsman.
by John Gay

Seeing yourselves are wise, ye smile
On fools and folly for a while;
But water wears the rocks, and sense
Is wearied by impertinence.
The wind was southerly, the sky
Proclaimed that a good scent would lie - 
Forth from the kennel burst the hounds,
As schoolboys sally out of bounds.
They hailed the huntsman; he by name
Greeted each dog, who thought it fame.
See them obey command: when bade,
They scattered thro' the copse and glade;
They snuffed the scent upon the gale,
And sought the remnant of a trail.
Ringwood, a pup, on the alert,
Was very young and very pert;
He opened - from exuberant spirit - 
But old dogs heard the puppy in it;
But when his note of "Full-cry" rose,
The huntsman to the puppy goes, - 
Down falls the lash, - up rose the yelp,
And murmured thus the puppy whelp:
"Why lash me? Are you malcontent
That I possess superior scent?"
The huntsman answered: "Puppy slips
Must be restrained by lash of whips;
Puppies our scorn, not envy, raise - 
For envy is akin to praise.
Had not that forward noisy tongue
The patience of your elders wrung,
You might have hunted with the pack;
But now the whip assails your back:
You must be taught to know your ground,
And from a puppy grow a hound."
Little-Oh Dear
by Eugene Field

See, what a wonderful garden is here,
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown -
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
And never ye'll meet with a garden so queer
As this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
Roses and pansies and violets - all
Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.
And up at the top of that lavender-tree
A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
For, ever and only, she singeth the song
"I love you - I love you!" the happy day long; -
Then the echo - the echo that smiteth me here!
"I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!
The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly -
But what careth my little precious, or I?
From her pathway of flowers that in spring time upstart
She walketh the tenderer way in my heart
And, oh, it is always the summer-time here
With that song of "I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!
Nadowessian Death-Lament.
by Friedrich Schiller

See, he sitteth on his mat
Sitteth there upright,
With the grace with which he sat
While he saw the light.
Where is now the sturdy gripe, 
Where the breath sedate,
That so lately whiffed the pipe
Toward the Spirit great?
Where the bright and falcon eye,
That the reindeer's tread
On the waving grass could spy,
Thick with dewdrops spread?
Where the limbs that used to dart
Swifter through the snow
Than the twenty-membered hart,
Than the mountain roe?
Where the arm that sturdily
Bent the deadly bow?
See, its life hath fleeted by, 
See, it hangeth low!
Happy he! He now has gone
Where no snow is found:
Where with maize the fields are sown,
Self-sprung from the ground;
Where with birds each bush is filled,
Where with game the wood;
Where the fish, with joy unstilled,
Wanton in the flood.
With the spirits blest he feeds, 
Leaves us here in gloom;
We can only praise his deeds,
And his corpse entomb.
Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,
Sound the death-note sad!
Bury with him everything
That can make him glad!
'Neath his head the hatchet hide
That he boldly swung;
And the bear's fat haunch beside,
For the road is long;
And the knife, well sharpened,
That, with slashes three,
Scalp and skin from foeman's head
Tore off skilfully.
And to paint his body, place
Dyes within his hand;
Let him shine with ruddy grace
In the Spirit-land!
The Housewife
by Fay Inchfawn

See, I am cumbered, Lord,
With serving, and with small vexatious things.
Upstairs, and down, my feet
Must hasten, sure and fleet.
So weary that I cannot heed Thy word;
So tired, I cannot now mount up with wings.
I wrestle -- how I wrestle! -- through the hours.
Nay, not with principalities, nor powers --
Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's --
But with antagonistic pots and pans:
With footmarks in the hall,
With smears upon the wall,
With doubtful ears, and small unwashen hands,
And with a babe's innumerable demands.
I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops glisten,
(O, child of mine, be still. And listen -- listen!)
At last, I laid aside
Important work, no other hands could do
So well (I thought), no skill contrive so true.
And with my heart's door open -- open wide --
With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat.
I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat,
Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo,
My thousand tasks were done the better so.
Verses On Blenheim[1]
by Jonathan Swift

Atria longa patent. Sed nec cenantibus usquam
Nec somno locus est. Quam bene non habitas!
MART., lib. xii, Ep. 50.
See, here's the grand approach,
That way is for his grace's coach;
There lies the bridge, and there the clock,
Observe the lion and the cock;[2]
The spacious court, the colonnade,
And mind how wide the hall is made;
The chimneys are so well design'd,
They never smoke in any wind:
The galleries contrived for walking,
The windows to retire and talk in;
The council-chamber to debate,
And all the rest are rooms of state.
Thanks, sir, cried I, 'tis very fine,
But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine?
I find, by all you have been telling,
That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.
To Leucono'. I-11 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

Seek not to learn - Leucono', - a mortal may not know - 
What term of life on you or me our deities bestow.
The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear
Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare,
Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea
On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee.
Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span.
Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.
Sonnet V
by Alan Seeger

Seeing you have not come with me, nor spent
This day's suggestive beauty as we ought,
I have gone forth alone and been content
To make you mistress only of my thought.
And I have blessed the fate that was so kind
In my life's agitations to include
This moment's refuge where my sense can find
Refreshment, and my soul beatitude.
Oh, be my gentle love a little while!
Walk with me sometimes. Let me see you smile.
Watching some night under a wintry sky,
Before the charge, or on the bed of pain,
These blessed memories shall revive again
And be a power to cheer and fortify.
A Roman Winter-Piece I
by Eugene Field

See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow,
Soracte mocks the sullen sky;
How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed,
And chained with frost the rivers lie.
Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth;
We'll melt away the envious cold:
And, better yet, sweet friend, we'll wet
Our whistles with some four-year-old.
Commit all else unto the gods,
Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring
To fretful deeps and wooded steeps
The mild, persuasive grace of Spring.
Let not To-morrow, but To-day,
Your ever active thoughts engage;
Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling,
Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age.
Let's steal content from Winter's wrath,
And glory in the artful theft,
That years from now folks shall allow
'T was cold indeed when we got left.
So where the whisperings and the mirth
Of girls invite a sportive chap,
Let's fare awhile,--aha, you smile;
You guess my meaning,--verbum sap.
The Westmoreland Girl - To My Grandchildren
by William Wordsworth

I
Seek who will delight in fable
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb
Leapt from this steep bank to follow
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.
Far and wide on hill and valley
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain,
And the bleating mother's Young-one
Struggled with the flood in vain:
But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden
(Ten years scarcely had she told)
Seeing, plunged into the torrent,
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold.
Whirled adown the rocky channel,
Sinking, rising, on they go,
Peace and rest, as seems, before them
Only in the lake below.
Oh! it was a frightful current
Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;
Clap your hands with joy my Hearers,
Shout in triumph, both are saved;
Saved by courage that with danger
Grew, by strength the gift of love,
And belike a guardian angel
Came with succour from above.
II
Now, to a maturer Audience,
Let me speak of this brave Child
Left among her native mountains
With wild Nature to run wild.
So, unwatched by love maternal,
Mother's care no more her guide,
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan
Even while at her father's side.
Spare your blame, remembrance makes him
Loth to rule by strict command;
Still upon his cheek are living
Touches of her infant hand,
Dear caresses given in pity,
Sympathy that soothed his grief,
As the dying mother witnessed
To her thankful mind's relief.
Time passed on; the Child was happy,
Like a Spirit of air she moved,
Wayward, yet by all who knew her
For her tender heart beloved.
Scarcely less than sacred passions,
Bred in house, in grove, and field,
Link her with the inferior creatures,
Urge her powers their rights to shield.
Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,
Learn how she can feel alike
Both for tiny harmless minnow
And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.
Merciful protectress, kindling
Into anger or disdain;
Many a captive hath she rescued,
Others saved from lingering pain.
Listen yet awhile; with patience
Hear the homely truths I tell,
She in Grasmere's old church-steeple
Tolled this day the passing-bell.
Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains
To their echoes gave the sound,
Notice punctual as the minute,
Warning solemn and profound.
She, fulfilling her sire's office,
Rang alone the far-heard knell,
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,
Paid to One who loved her well.
When his spirit was departed
On that service she went forth;
Nor will fail the like to render
When his corpse is laid in earth.
What then wants the Child to temper,
In her breast, unruly fire,
To control the froward impulse
And restrain the vague desire?
Easily a pious training
And a steadfast outward power
Would supplant the weeds and cherish,
In their stead, each opening flower.
Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer,
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,
May become a blest example
For her sex, of every age.
Watchful as a wheeling eagle,
Constant as a soaring lark,
Should the country need a heroine,
She might prove our Maid of Arc.
Leave that thought; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise
Her humane courageous spirit
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways.
The Carver
by Conrad Potter Aiken

See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden, rose, toad, wing?
A frog's hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb? no such thing!
A girl's head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see
The world she turned to stone and ash.
Only herself she saw, a tree
That flowered beneath a lightning-flash.
Thus dreamed her face, a lovely thing
To worship, weep for, or to break . . .
Better to carve a claw, a wing,
Or, if the heart provide, a snake.
To Chloe Weeping
by Matthew Prior

See, whilst Thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see
The World in Sympathy with Thee.
The chearful Birds no longer sing,
Each drops his Head, and hangs his Wing.
The Clouds have bent their Bosom lower,
And shed their Sorrows in a Show'r.
The Brooks beyond their Limits flow;
And louder Murmurs speak their Woe.
The Nymphs and Swains adopt Thy Cares:
They heave Thy Sighs, and weep Thy Tears.
Fantastic Nymph! that Grief should move
Thy Heart, obdurate against Love.
Strange Tears! whose Pow'r can soften All,
But That dear Breast on which they fall.
Amour 35
by Michael Drayton

See, chaste Diana, where my harmles hart,
Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre,
Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,
Yet see how right he comes vnto my fayre.
See how my Deere comes to thy Beauties stand,
And there stands gazing on those darting eyes,
Whilst from theyr rayes, by Cupids skilfull hand,
Into his hart the piercing Arrow flyes.
See how he lookes vpon his bleeding wound,
Whilst thus he panteth for his latest breath,
And, looking on thee, falls vpon the ground,
Smyling, as though he gloried in his death.
And wallowing in his blood, some lyfe yet laft;
His stone-cold lips doth kisse the blessed shaft.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

See, saw, Margery Daw,
The old hen flew over the malt house,
She counted her chickens one by one,
Still she missed the little white one,
And this is it, this is it, this is it.
The Wind Over The Chimney
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

See, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,
While above them still I cower,
While a moment more I linger,
Though the clock, with lifted finger,
Points beyond the midnight hour.
Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June
From a school-boy at his play,
When they both were young together,
Heart of youth and summer weather
Making all their holiday.
And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,
In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,
All the noisy chimneys blow!
Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,
Into darkness sinks your fire!"
Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,
Throb the harp-strings of the heart.
And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim:
"These are prophets, bards, and seers;
In the horoscope of nations,
Like ascendant constellations,
They control the coming years."
But the night-wind cries: "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air
Leave no long-enduring marks;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,
These are but the flying sparks.
"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."
Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumors of renown;
And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,--
"'T is the brand of Meleager
Dying on the hearth-stone here!"
And I answer,--"Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain."
Seeking For Happiness
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Seeking for happiness we must go slowly;
The road leads not down avenues of haste;
But often gently winds through by ways lowly,
Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste
Seeking for happiness we must take heed
Of simple joys that are not found in speed.
Eager for noon-time's large effulgent splendour,
Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,
Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,
Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.
Seeking for happiness we needs must care
For all the little things that make life fair.
Dreaming of future pleasures and achievements
We must not let to-day starve at our door;
Nor wait till after losses and bereavements
Before we count the riches in our store.
Seeking for happiness we must prize this -
Not what will be, or was, but that which IS.
In simple pathways hand in hand with duty
(With faith and love, too, ever at her side),
May happiness be met in all her beauty
The while we search for her both far and wide.
Seeking for happiness we find the way
Doing the things we ought to do each day.
Earth's Immortalities
by Robert Browning

Fame
See, as the prettiest graves will do in time,
Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime;
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods
Have struggled thro' its binding osier-rods;
Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry,
Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by;
How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate,
Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date!
Love
So, the year's done with
(Love me for ever!)
All March begun with,
April's endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me,
Quenching June's fever,
(Love me for ever!)
A Mother's Lament For An Only One
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

(CLARISSA HARLOW)
Seek not to calm my grief,
To stay the falling tear;
Have pity on me, ye my friends,
The hand of God is here.
She was my only one,
Oh, then my love how great!
Now she is gone, my heart and home
Are empty desolate
I thought not, in my love
That we were doomed to part,
Now I am childless, and my fate
Falls heavy on my heart
O Thou who gave the gift,
Who took the gift away,
Who only can heal up the wound,
Give answer while I pray!
Do Thou send comfort down,
All goodness as Thou art,
Even in Thy last passion, Thou
Didst soothe a mother's heart.
I would not take her back,
From Thee, from Heaven and bliss,
Though yearning for her twining arms,
And happy loving kiss
I miss her bounding step,
Her voice of bird like glee,
Yet thank Thee I had such a child
To give her back to Thee
Father, my child! my child,
Is laid beneath the sod!
and, oh! with quivering lips I try
To kiss the chastening rod
Father, Thy will be done
Oh make my will the same!
And teach me in this trying hour,
To glorify Thy name.
A Seal.
by Oliver Herford

SEE, chil-dren, the Fur-bear-ing Seal;
Ob-serve his mis-di-rect-ed zeal:
He dines with most ab-ste-mi-ous care
On Fish, Ice Water and Fresh Air
A-void-ing cond-i-ments or spice,
For fear his fur should not be nice
And fine and smooth and soft and meet
For Broad-way or for Re-gent Street
And yet some-how I of-ten feel
(Though for the kind Fur-bear-ing Seal
I har-bor a Re-spect Pro-found)
A Mole.
by Oliver Herford

SEE, chil-dren, the mis-guid-ed Mole.
He lives down in a deep, dark hole;
Sweet-ness, and Light, and good Fresh Air
Are things for which he does not care.
He has not e-ven that make-shift
Of fee-ble minds - the so-cial gift.
But say not that he has no soul,
Lest hap-ly we misjudge the Mole;
Nay, if we mea-sure him by Men,
No doubt he sits in his dark den
In-struct-ing oth-ers blind as he
Ex-act-ly how the world should be.
To His Kinsman, Sir Thos. Soame.
by Robert Herrick

Seeing thee, Soame, I see a goodly man,
And in that good a great patrician.
Next to which two, among the city powers
And thrones, thyself one of those senators;
Not wearing purple only for the show,
As many conscripts of the city do,
But for true service, worthy of that gown,
The golden chain, too, and the civic crown.
The Workbox
by Thomas Hardy

"See, here's the workbox, little wife,
That I made of polished oak."
He was a joiner, of village life;
She came of borough folk.
He holds the present up to her
As with a smile she nears
And answers to the profferer,
"'Twill last all my sewing years!"
"I warrant it will. And longer too.
'Tis a scantling that I got
Off poor John Wayward's coffin, who
Died of they knew not what.
"The shingled pattern that seems to cease
Against your box's rim
Continues right on in the piece
That's underground with him.
"And while I worked it made me think
Of timber's varied doom;
One inch where people eat and drink,
The next inch in a tomb.
"But why do you look so white, my dear,
And turn aside your face?
You knew not that good lad, I fear,
Though he came from your native place?"
"How could I know that good young man,
Though he came from my native town,
When he must have left there earlier than
I was a woman grown?"
"Ah no. I should have understood!
It shocked you that I gave
To you one end of a piece of wood
Whose other is in a grave?"
"Don't, dear, despise my intellect,
Mere accidental things
Of that sort never have effect
On my imaginings."
Yet still her lips were limp and wan,
Her face still held aside,
As if she had known not only John,
But known of what he died.
Odysseus.
by Friedrich Schiller

Seeking to find his home, Odysseus crosses each water;
Through Charybdis so dread; ay, and through Scylla's wild yells,
Through the alarms of the raging sea, the alarms of the land too, 
E'en to the kingdom of hell leads him his wandering course.
And at length, as he sleeps, to Ithaca's coast fate conducts him;
There he awakes, and, with grief, knows not his fatherland now.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXI. Riddles.
by Unknown

See, see! what shall I see?
A horse's head where his tail should be.
Hen And Chickens. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

See, sister, where the chickens trip,
All busy in the morn!
Look how their heads they dip and dip,
To peck the scattered corn!
Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,
And to the sight be blind,
Nor think of HIM who food supplies
To us and all mankind?
Whether our wants be much or few,
Or fine or coarse our fare,
To Heaven's protecting care is due
The voice of praise and prayer.
A Man To A Sunflower
by Peter Courtney Quennell, Sir

See, I have bent thee by thy saffron hair
O most strange masker, 
Towards my face, thy face so full of eyes
O almost legendary monster, 
Thee of the saffron, circling hair I bend,
Bend by my fingers knotted in thy hair
Hair like broad flames.
So, shall I swear by beech-husk, spindleberry,
To break thee, saffron hair and peering eye,
To have the mastery?
Poem: San Miniato
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace,
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.