DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Chore Time.
by Jean Blewett

When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm,
I hear along 'bout six o'clock,
Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm,
"Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."
I jump an' get into my clothes;
It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run
All up my back. Now, I suppose
Not many boys would think this fun.
But when we get out to the barn
The greedy pigs begin to squeal,
An' I throw in the yellow corn,
A bushel basket to the meal.
Then I begin to warm right up,
I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through,
An' wrastle with the collie pup - 
And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.
The cow-shed door, it makes a din
Each time we swing it open wide;
I run an' flash the lantern in,
There stand the shorthorns side by side.
Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud
Above their heads - there's no frost here.
"My beauties," gran'dad says out loud,
"You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."
When up I climb into the loft
To fill their racks with clover hay,
Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft,
A heap of nice things seem to say.
The red ox shakes his curly head,
An' turns on me a solemn face;
I know he's awful glad his shed
Is such a warm and smelly place.
An' last of all the stable big,
With harness hanging on each door,
I always want to dance a jig
On that old musty, dusty floor.
It seems so good to be alive,
An' tendin' to the sturdy grays,
The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five - 
An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.
My gran'dad tells me she is mine,
An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane,
An' smooth her sides until they shine,
An' do my best to make her vain.
When we have measured oats for all,
Have slapped the grays upon the flanks,
An' tried to pat the sorrels tall,
An' heard them whinny out their thanks,
We know it's breakfast time, and go
Out past the yellow stacks of straw,
Across the creek that used to flow,
But won't flow now until a thaw.
Behind the trees the sky is pink,
The snow drifts by in fat white flakes,
My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think
There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."
Blow Me Eyes!
by Wallace Irwin

When I was young and full o' pride,
A-standin' on the grass
And gazin' o'er the water-side,
I seen a fisher lass.
"O, fisher lass, be kind awhile,"
I asks 'er quite unbid.
"Please look into me face and smile"
And, blow me eyes, she did!
O, blow me light and blow me blow,
I didn't think she'd charm me so,
But, blow me eyes, she did!
She seemed so young and beautiful
I had to speak perlite,
(The afternoon was long and dull,
But she was short and bright).
"This ain't no place," I says, "to stand,
Let's take a walk instid,
Each holdin' of the other's hand"
And, blow me eyes, she did!
O, blow me light and blow me blow,
I sort o' thunk she wouldn't go,
But, blow me eyes, she did!
And as we walked along a lane
With no one else to see,
Me heart was filled with sudden pain,
And so I says to she:
"If you would have me actions speak
The words what can't be hid,
You'd sort o' let me kiss yer cheek"
And, blow me eyes, she did!
O, blow me light and blow me blow,
How sweet she was I didn't know,
But, blow me eyes, she did!
But pretty soon me shipmate Jim
Came strollin' down the beach,
And she began a-oglin' him
As pretty as a peach.
"O, fickle maid o' false intent,"
Impulsively I chid,
"Why don't you go and wed that gent?"
And, blow me eyes, she did!
O, blow me light and blow me blow,
I didn't think she'd treat me so,
But, blow me eyes, she did!
A Reformer.
by Hattie Howard

When I was young, my heart elate
With ardent notions warm,
I thirsted to inaugurate
A spirit of reform;
The universe was all awry,
Philosophy despite,
And mundane things disjointed I
Was bound to set aright.
My mind conceived a million plans,
For Hope was brave and strong,
But dared not with unaided hands
Combat a giant wrong;
So with caress I sought to coax
Those who had humored me
In infancy - the dear old folks - 
And gain their sympathy.
But quarreling with extant laws
They would have deemed a shame
Who clung to error, just because
Their fathers did the same.
I sought in Pleasure's gilded halls,
Where grace and beauty stirred
At revelry's impetuous calls,
To make my projects heard.
Then turned to stately palaces
Of luxury and ease,
Where wealth's absorbing object was
The master's whim to please;
And spoke of evils unredressed,
Of danger yet to be - 
They only answered, like the rest:
"But what is that to me?"
And even pious devot'es
Whom sacred walls immure
Condemned me (as by feeble praise) - 
What more could I endure?
Down by the stream, so pure and clear
That sunbeams paused to drink,
In loneliness and grief sincere
I pressed its grassy brink.
Thick darkness seemed to veil the day;
Beyond a realm of tears
Utopia's land of promise lay;
And not till later years
I learned this lesson - that to win
Results from labor sure,
"Reformers" always must begin
Among the lowly poor.
For they whose lot privation is
And whose delights are few,
Whose aggregate of miseries
Is want of something new,
The measure of whose happiness
Is but an empty cup,
For every novelty will press
Alert to fill it up.
To A Friend On His Nuptials
by Matthew Prior

When Jove lay bless'd in his Alcm'na's charms,
Three nights in one he press'd her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her god, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came;
What less could rise from Jove and such a dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir,
He strong as Jove, she like Alcm'na fair.
When June Is Here.
by James Whitcomb Riley

When June is here - what art have we to sing
The whiteness of the lilies midst the green
Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen
Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening
Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling
Round winey juices oozing down between
The peckings of the robin, while we lean
In under-grasses, lost in marveling.
Or the cool term of morning, and the stir
Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks,
The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir
Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks
Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks
The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.
Hell's Pavement
by John Masefield

"When I'm discharged at Liverpool 'n' draws my bit o' pay,
I won't come to sea no more;
I'll court a pretty little lass 'n' have a weddin' day,
'N' settle somewhere down shore;
I'll never fare to sea again a-temptin' Davy Jones,
A-hearkening to the cruel sharks a-hungerin' for my bones;
I'll run a blushin' dairy-farm or go a-crackin' stones,
Or buy 'n' keep a little liquor-store"
So he said.
They towed her in to Liverpool, we made the hooker fast,
And the copper-bound official paid the crew,
And Billy drew his money, but the money didn't last,
For he painted the alongshore blue,
It was rum for Poll, and rum for Nan, and gin for Jolly Jack;
He shipped a week later in the clothes upon his back;
He had to pinch a little straw, he had to beg a sack
To sleep on, when his watch was through,
So he did.
Inscriptions In The Gardens Of Bremhill Rectory.
by William Lisle Bowles

ON A TREE COMMANDING A VIEW OF THE WHOLE EXTENT OF BOWOOD.
When in thy sight another's vast domain
Spreads its long line of woods, dost thou complain?
Nay, rather thank the God that placed thy state
Above the lowly, but beneath the great!
And still His name with gratitude revere,
Who blessed the Sabbath of thy leisure here.
ON A RURAL SEAT.
Rest, stranger, in this decorated scene,
That hangs its beds of flowers, its slopes so green;
So from the walks of life the weeds remove,
But fix thy better hopes on scenes above.
ON THE FRONT OF A HERMITAGE, NEAR A DIAL.
To mark life's few and fleeting hours
I placed the dial 'midst the flowers,
Which one by one came forth and died,
Still withering by its ancient side.
Mortals, let the sight impart
Its pensive moral to thy heart!
QUIETI ET MUSIS.
Be thine Retirement's peaceful joys,
And a life that makes no noise;
Save when Fancy, musing long,
Wakes her desultory song;
Sounding to the vacant ear,
Like the rill that murmurs near.
Jessie
by Thomas Edward Brown

When Jessie comes with her soft breast,
And yields the golden keys,
Then is it as if God caress'd
Twin babes upon His knees,
Twin babes that, each to other press'd,
Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.
But when I think if we must part,
And all this personal dream be fled,
O then my heart! O then my useless heart!
Would God that thou wert dead,
A clod insensible to joys and ills,
A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
When Klopstock England Defied
by William Blake

When Klopstock England defied,
Uprose William Blake in his pride;
For old Nobodaddy aloft
. . . and belch'd and cough'd;
Then swore a great oath that made Heaven quake,
And call'd aloud to English Blake.
Blake was giving his body ease,
At Lambeth beneath the poplar trees.
From his seat then started he
And turn'd him round three times three.
The moon at that sight blush'd scarlet red,
The stars threw down their cups and fled,
And all the devils that were in hell,
Answer'd with a ninefold yell.
Klopstock felt the intripled turn,
And all his bowels began to churn,
And his bowels turn'd round three times three,
And lock'd in his soul with a ninefold key;
Then again old Nobodaddy swore
He ne'er had seen such a thing before,
Since Noah was shut in the ark,
Since Eve first chose her hellfire spark,
Since 'twas the fashion to go naked,
Since the old Anything was created
When Lide Married Him
by James Whitcomb Riley

When Lide married him - w'y, she had to jes dee-fy
The whole poppilation! - But she never bat' an eye!
Her parents begged, and threatened - she must give him up - that he
Wuz jes "a common drunkard!" - And he wuz, appearantly. -
Swore they'd chase him off the place
Ef he ever showed his face -
Long after she'd eloped with him and married him fer shore! -
When Lide married him, it wuz "Katy, bar the door!"
When Lide married him - Well! she had to go and be
A hired girl in town somewheres - while he tromped round to see
What he could git that he could do, - you might say, jes sawed wood
From door to door! - that's what he done - 'cause that wuz best he could!
And the strangest thing, i jing!
Wuz, he didn't drink a thing, -
But jes got down to bizness, like he someway wanted to,
When Lide married him, like they warned her not to do!
When Lide married him - er, ruther, had ben married
A little up'ards of a year - some feller come and carried
That hired girl away with him - a ruther stylish feller
In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:
And he whispered, as they driv
Tords the country, "Now we'll live!" -
And somepin' else she laughed to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,
'Bout "trustin' Love and Heav'n above, sence Lide married him!"
Rex Arthurus.
by Jacob Bigelow

When King Arthur ruled the land,
He ruled it like a king:
He bought four pecks of barley-meal
To make a brave pudding.
A pudding brave the king did make
And stuffed it well with plums;
Great lumps of suet he put into it,
As big as both his thumbs.
The king and queen partook thereof,
And all the court beside;
And what they did not eat that night,
The queen next morning fried.
Angli' rex imperio potitus,
Hordei nactus modium farin',
Ordinat c'n' proper' institut'
Sternere mensam.
Mira farrago exoritur culin',
Turgidis uvis maculata passis
Intus et frustis adipis referta
Pollicis instar.
Rex et affines epulantur omnes
Principes magni domin'que lect':
Alma regina exoriente luce
Fragmina frixit.
A Bush Lawyer
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony's lagoon
The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain,
The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune
And wild companions waltzed among the grass as tall as grain.
But Ironbark the turtle cared no whit for all of these;
The ripple of the rivulets, the rustle of the trees
Were only apple sauce to him, or just a piece of cheese.
Now, Dan-di-dan the water rat was exquisitely dressed,
For not a seal in Bass's Straits had half as fine a coat,
And every day he combed and brushed his golden-yellow vest,
A contrast with the white cravat he wore beneath his throat.
And Dan-di-dan the water rat could move with ease and grace,
So Ironbark appeared to him a creature out of place,
With iron-plated overcoat and dirty little face.
A crawfish at the point of death came drifting down the drains.
Said he, "I'm scalded to the heart with bathing near the bore."
The turtle and the water rat disputed his remains,
For crawfish meat all day they'd eat, and then they'd ask for more.
Said Dan-di-dan, "The prize is mine, for I was fishing here
Before you tumbled down the bank and landed on your ear."
"I wouldn't care," the turtle said, "if you'd have fished a year."
So Baggy-beak the Pelican was asked to arbitrate;
The scales of justice seemed to hang beneath his noble beak.
He said, "I'll take possession of the subject of debate";
He stowed the fish inside his pouch and then began to speak.
"The case is far from clear," he said, "and justices of note",
But here he snapped his beak and flapped his piebald overcoat,
"Oh dear," he said, "that wretched fish has slithered down my throat."
"But still," he said, "the point involved requires a full debate.
I'll have to get the lawyer birds and fix a special day.
Ad interim I rule that costs come out of the estate."
And Baggy-beak the Pelican got up and flew away.
So both the pair who went to law were feeling very small.
Said they, "We might have halved the fish and saved a nasty brawl;
For half a crawfish isn't much, but more than none at all."
Piccadilly Circus At Night
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Street-Walkers.
When into the night the yellow light is roused like dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in the midst of the downs,
Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in expectancy to meet
The luminous mist which the poor things wist was dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town has driven so high.
All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,
All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round, and keep
The shores of this innermost ocean alive and illusory.
Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning looked in at their eyes
And the Cyprian's pavement-roses are gone, and now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a Paradise
On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of the town-dark sea.
Riding To Town
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

When labor is light and the morning is fair,
I find it a pleasure beyond all compare
To hitch up my nag and go hurrying down
And take Katie May for a ride into town;
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our lay.
There's joy in a song as we rattle along
In the light of the glorious day.
A coach would be fine, but a spring wagon's good;
My jeans are a match for Kate's gingham and hood;
The hills take us up and the vales take us down,
But what matters that? we are riding to town,
And bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la sing we.
There's never a care may live in the air
That is filled with the breath of our glee.
And after we've started, there's naught can repress
The thrill of our hearts in their wild happiness;
The heavens may smile or the heavens may frown,
And it's all one to us when we're riding to town.
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la we shout,
For our hearts they are clear and there 's nothing to fear,
And we've never a pain nor a doubt.
The wagon is weak and the roadway is rough,
And tho' it is long it is not long enough,
For mid all my ecstasies this is the crown
To sit beside Katie and ride into town,
When bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our song;
And if I had my way, I 'd be willing to pay
If the road could be made twice as long.
When It Comes Night
by Louisa May Alcott

"When it comes night,
We put out the light.
Some blow with a puff,
Some turn down and snuff;
But neat folks prefer
A nice extinguis_her_.
So here I send you back
One to put on Mr. Jack."
Nursery Rhyme. DCXLII. Relics.
by Unknown

When Jacky's a very good boy,
He shall have cakes and a custard;
But when he does nothing but cry,
He shall have nothing but mustard.
When Norway Would Not Help (Easter Eve, 1864)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 24)
When Kattegat now or the Belt you sail,
No more will you sight
The Danish proud frigate, no more will you hail
The red and white;
No more will the ringing command be heard
In Wessel's tongue,
No rollicking music, no jocund word,
'Neath Dannebrog sung.
No dance will you see, no laughter meet,
As the white sails shine,
From mast and from stern no garland you greet,
Of arts the sign.
But all that we owned of the treasures on board
The deeps now hold;
One sad winter night to the sea-waves were poured
Our memories old.
It was that same night, when the frigate nigh
To Norway's land
Distress-guns was firing, the surf running high
With sea-weed and sand.
To help from the harbor men put out boats,
But they turn back, ...
The frigate toward Germany drifting floats,
A broken wrack!
What once had been ours overboard was strown,
Each kinship mark
Was quickly removed, to the sea it was thrown
With curses stark!
The Northern lion, that figure-head gray,
Now had to fall,
In pieces 'twas hewn, and the frigate lay
Like a shattered wall.
...
Repaired and refitted, its canvas it spread
Near Germany's coast,
With black-yellow flag and an eagle dread
In the lion's post.
When sailing we Kattegat sweep with our eyes,
'T is still evermore.
But a German admiral's frigate lies
Near Scania's shore.
The Processional.
by Edwin C. Ranck

(Written in collaboration with R. B. Hamilton.)
When Julius Caesar met his death,
He muttered in his dying breath:
"It is not patriotism now
Prompts you to break your friendship's vow."
Quoth Brutus, as he stabbed again
The greatest of his countrymen:
"You're in this fix
Through politics."
As on his path Columbus sped,
A sailor to the great man said:
"Without a break, without a bend,
The broad Atlantic has no end."
And to the sailor at his side,
'Tis rumored, that great man replied:
"I guess I know.
You go below."
The snow fell fast on Russia's soil,
The soldiers, wearied with their toil,
Cried: "'Tis not possible that we
Our native France again shall see."
Stern ever in the face of death,
Napoleon said beneath his breath:
"Go take a walk,
I hate such talk."
A cherry tree lay on the ground,
On George's body, pa did pound;
"But pa," George cried, "It seems to me
That you are wrong; dis ain't your tree."
The old man sadly shook his head
And to his wayward son he said:
"Don't lie to me
I know my tree."
When Dewey on his flagship sailed,
The Spaniards never even quailed.
"Oh, it ain't possible," said they,
"For him to reach Manila Bay."
But Dewey merely smiled in glee,
"It isn't possible?" quoth he,
"Why, hully gee,
Just wait and see."
MORAL.
Thus onward as through life we go,
Amid the pomp, and glare, and show,
We oft some proverb misconstrue
And mutter boldly, "'Tis not true."
But in their calm, majestic way,
We hear the tongues of wise men say:
"You go way back
And then sit down."
Concerning Kavin.
by Bliss Carman (William)

When Kavin comes back from the barber,
Although he no longer is young,
One cheek is as soft as his heart,
And the other as smooth as his tongue.
The Sufi In The City
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

I.
When late I watched the arrows of the sleet
Against the windows of the Tavern beat,
I heard a Rose that murmured from her Pot:
"Why trudge thy fellows yonder in the Street?
II.
"Before the phantom of False Morning dies,
Choked in the bitter Net that binds the skies,
Their feet, bemired with Yesterday, set out
For the dark alleys where To-morrow lies.
III.
"Think you, when all their petals they have bruised,
And all the fragrances of Life confused,
That Night with sweeter rest will comfort these
Than us, who still within the Garden mused?
IV.
"Think you the Gold they fight for all day long
Is worth the frugal Peace their clamours wrong?
Their Titles, and the Name they toil to build---
Will they outlast the echoes of our Song?"
V.
O Sons of Omar, what shall be the close
Seek not to know, for no man living knows:
But while within your hands the Wine is set
Drink ye--to Omar and the Dreaming Rose!
Sonnet I.
by Anna Seward

When Life's realities the Soul perceives
Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows
With rising energy, and open throws
The golden gates of Genius, she achieves
His fairy clime delighted, and receives
In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose,
Blest compensation. - Lo! with alter'd brows
Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves;
No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom
The darkening Scene. - Then to ourselves we say,
Come, bright IMAGINATION, come! relume
Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray
Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom
With all the fires of intellectual Day!
A Walk At Sunset.
by William Cullen Bryant

When insect wings are glistening in the beam
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright,
Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,
Wander amid the mild and mellow light;
And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay,
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.
Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now
Goest down in glory! ever beautiful
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou
Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high
Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.
Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard
The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.
They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won;
They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died,
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun;
Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair,
And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.
So, with the glories of the dying day,
Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues,
The memory of the brave who passed away
Tenderly mingled; fitting hour to muse
On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed
Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.
For ages, on the silent forests here,
Thy beams did fall before the red man came
To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer
Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.
Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods,
Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.
Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase,
And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook
Took the first stain of blood; before thy face
The warrior generations came and passed,
And glory was laid up for many an age to last.
Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze
Goes down the west, while night is pressing on,
And with them the old tale of better days,
And trophies of remembered power, are gone.
Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now.
I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,
The offspring of another race, I stand,
Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream;
And where the night-fire of the quivered band
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung,
I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.
Farewell! but thou shalt come again, thy light
Must shine on other changes, and behold
The place of the thronged city still as night,
States fallen, new empires built upon the old,
But never shalt thou see these realms again
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.