DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Fools' Paradise. Dream The First.
by Thomas Moore

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,
To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,
Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,
And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.
But they wanted not in this happy place,
Where a light of its own gilds every face;
Or if some wear a shadowy brow,
'Tis the wish to look wise,--not knowing how.
Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,
The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;
The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,
The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,
The falling founts in a titter fall,
And the sun looks simpering down on all.
Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace
The scenes I saw in that joyous place.
There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,
In converse sweet, "What charming weather!--
"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure,
"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;
"And the Premier says, my youngest brother
"(Him in the Guards) shall have another.
"Isn't this very, very gallant!--
"As for my poor old virgin aunt,
"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,
"We must quarter her on the Pension List."
Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled;
It seemed like an Age of real gold,
Where all who liked might have a slice,
So rich was that Fools' Paradise.
But the sport at which most time they spent,
Was a puppet-show, called Parliament
Performed by wooden Ciceros,
As large as life, who rose to prose,
While, hid behind them, lords and squires,
Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires;
And thought it the very best device
Of that most prosperous Paradise,
To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose
For them and their wooden Ciceros.
And many more such things I saw
In this Eden of Church and State and Law;
Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk
As those who had the best of the joke.
There were Irish Rectors, such as resort
To Cheltenham yearly, to drink--port,
And bumper, "Long may the Church endure,
"May her cure of souls be a sinecure,
"And a score of Parsons to every soul
"A moderate allowance on the whole."
There were Heads of Colleges lying about,
From which the sense had all run out,
Even to the lowest classic lees,
Till nothing was left but quantities;
Which made them heads most fit to be
Stuck up on a University,
Which yearly hatches, in its schools,
Such flights of young Elysian fools.
Thus all went on, so snug and nice,
In this happiest possible Paradise.
But plain it was to see, alas!
That a downfall soon must come to pass.
For grief is a lot the good and wise
Don't quite so much monopolize,
But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are)
Even blessed fools must have their share.
And so it happened:--but what befell,
In Dream the Second I mean to tell.
A Pastoral Ballad.
by Thomas Moore

BY JOHN BULL.
Dublin, March 12, 1827.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--Freeman's Journal.
I have found out a gift for my Erin,
A gift that will surely content her:--
Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!
Five millions of bullets I've sent her.
She askt me for Freedom and Right,
But ill she her wants understood;--
Ball cartridges, morning and night,
Is a dose that will do her more good.
There is hardly a day of our lives
But we read, in some amiable trials,
How husbands make love to their wives
Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.
One thinks, with his mistress or mate
A good halter is sure to agree--
That love-knot which, early and late,
I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.
While another, whom Hymen has blest
With a wife that is not over placid,
Consigns the dear charmer to rest,
With a dose of the best Prussic acid.
Thus, Erin! my love do I show--
Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!
And, as poison and hemp are too slow,
Do thy business with bullets instead.
Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,
Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;
He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,
Alone can remove thy complaints;--
That, blest as thou art in thy lot,
Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant
But being hanged, tortured and shot,
Much oftener than thou art at present.
Even Wellington's self hath averred
Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,
And I loved him the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from his tongue.
So take the five millions of pills,
Dear partner, I herewith inclose;
'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,
From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.
And you, ye brave bullets that go,
How I wish that, before you set out,
The Devil of the Freisch'tz could know
The good work you are going about.
For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.
Into such supernatural wit.
That you'd all of you know, as you sped,
Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.
Elysium
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

I have found a place of loneliness
Lonelier than Lyonesse
Lovelier than Paradise;
Full of sweet stillness
That no noise can transgress
Never a lamp distress.
The full moon sank in state.
I saw her stand and wait
For her watchers to shut the gate.
Then I found myself in a wonderland
All of shadow and of bland
Silence hard to understand.
I waited therefore; then I knew
The presence of the flowers that grew
Noiseless, their wonder noiseless blew.
And flashing kingfishers that flew
In sightless beauty, and the few
Shadows the passing wild-beast threw.
And Eve approaching over the ground
Unheard and subtle, never a sound
To let me know that I was found.
Invisible the hands of Eve
Upon me travelling to reeve
Me from the matrix, to relieve
Me from the rest! Ah terribly
Between the body of life and me
Her hands slid in and set me free.
Ah, with a fearful, strange detection
She found the source of my subjection
To the All, and severed the connection.
Delivered helpless and amazed
From the womb of the All, I am waiting, dazed
For memory to be erased.
Then I shall know the Elysium
That lies outside the monstrous womb
Of time from out of which I come.
What I Have Come For
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I have come with my verses - I think I may claim
It is not the first time I have tried on the same.
They were puckered in rhyme, they were wrinkled in wit;
But your hearts were so large that they made them a fit.
I have come - not to tease you with more of my rhyme,
But to feel as I did in the blessed old time;
I want to hear him with the Brobdingnag laugh - 
We count him at least as three men and a half.
I have come to meet judges so wise and so grand
That I shake in my shoes while they're shaking my hand;
And the prince among merchants who put back the crown
When they tried to enthrone him the King of the Town.
I have come to see George - Yes, I think there are four,
If they all were like these I could wish there were more.
I have come to see one whom we used to call "Jim,"
I want to see - oh, don't I want to see him?
I have come to grow young - on my word I declare
I have thought I detected a change in my hair!
One hour with "The Boys" will restore it to brown - 
And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub down.
Yes, that's what I've come for, as all of us come;
When I meet the dear Boys I could wish I were dumb.
You asked me, you know, but it's spoiling the fun;
I have told what I came for; my ditty is done.
Dreams
by Victor James Daley

I have been dreaming all a summer day
Of rare and dainty poems I would write;
Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scent,
Soft idylls woven of wind, and flower, and stream,
And songs and sonnets carven in fine gold.
The day is fading and the dusk is cold;
Out of the skies has gone the opal gleam,
Out of my heart has passed the high intent
Into the shadow of the falling night,
Must all my dreams in darkness pass away?
I have been dreaming all a summer day:
Shall I go dreaming so until Life's light
Fades in Death's dusk, and all my days are spent?
Ah, what am I the dreamer but a dream!
The day is fading and the dusk is cold.
My songs and sonnets carven in fine gold
Have faded from me with the last day -beam
That purple lustre to the sea-line lent,
And flushed the clouds with rose and chrysolite;
So days and dreams in darkness pass away.
I have been dreaming all a summer day
Of songs and sonnets carven in fine gold;
But all my dreams in darkness pass away;
The day is fading, and the dusk is cold.
Happiness
by John Frederick Freeman

I have found happiness who looked not for it.
There was a green fresh hedge,
And willows by the river side,
And whistling sedge.
The heaviness I felt was all around.
No joy sang in the wind.
Only dull slow life everywhere,
And in my mind.
Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed.
Heaviness turned to mirth:
The willows the stream's cheek caressed,
The sun the earth.
What was it in the bird's song worked such change?
The grass was wonderful.
I did not dream such beauty was
In things so dull.
What was it in the bird's song gave the water
That living, sentient look?
Lent the rare brightness to the hedge?
That sweetness shook
Down on the green path by the running water?
Or the small daisies lit
With light of the white northern stars
In dark skies set?
What was it made the whole world marvellous?
Mere common things were joys.
The cloud running upon the grass,
Children's faint noise,
The trees that grow straight up and stretch wide arms,
The snow heaped in the skies,
The light falling so simply on all;
My lifted eyes
That all this startling aching beauty saw?
I felt the sharp excess
Of joy like the strong sun at noon--
Insupportable bliss!
Life's Joys.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

I have been pondering what our teachers call
The mystery of Pain; and lo! my thought
After it's half-blind reaching out has caught
This truth and held it fast. We may not fall
Beyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy,
Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.
Sometimes they steal across us like a breath
Of Eastern perfume in a darkened room,
These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloom
Seeking some common thing, and from its sheath
Unloose, unknowing, some bewildering scent
Of spice-thronged memories of the Orient.
Sometimes they dart across our turbid sky
Like a quick flash after a heated day.
A moment, where the sombrous shadows lay
We see a glory. Though it passed us by
No earthly power can filch that dazzling glow
From memory's eye, that instant's shine and show.
Life is so full of joys. The alluring sea,
This morning clear and placid, may, ere night,
Toss like a petulant child, and when the light
Of a new morning dawns sweep grand and free
A mighty power. If fierce, or mild, or bright,
With every tide flows in a fresh delight.
I can remember well when first I knew
The fragrance of white clover. There I lay
On the warm July grass and heard the play
Of sun-browned insects, and the breezes blew
To my drowsed sense the scent the blossoms had;
The subtle sweetness stayed, and I was glad.
Nor passed the gladness. Though the years have gone
(A many years, Beloved, since that day,)
Whenever by the roadside or away
In radiant summer fields, wandering alone
Or with glad children, to my restless sight
Shows that pale head, comes back the old delight.
Oh! the dark water, and the filling sail!
The scudding like a sea-mew, with the hand
Firm on the tiller! See, the red-shored land
Receding, as we brave the hastening gale!
White gleam the wave-tops, and the breakers' roar
Sounds thunderingly on the far distant shore.
This mad hair flying in the breeze blows wild
Across my face. See, there, the gathering squall,
That dark line to the eastward, watch it crawl
Stealthily towards us o'er the snow-wreaths piled
Close on each other! Ah! what joy to be
Drunk with salt air, in battle with the sea!
So many joys, and yet I have but told
Of simple things, the joys of air and sea!
Not all these things are worth one hour with thee,
One moment, when thy daring arms enfold
My body, and all other, meaner joys,
Fade from me like a child's forgotten toys.
One thought is ever with me, glorying all
Life's common aims. Surely will dawn a day
Bright with an unknown rapture, when thy way
Will be my journey-road, and I can call
These joys our joys, for thou wilt walk with me
Down budding pathways to the abounding sea.
Despair
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I have experienc'd
The worst, the World can wreak on me, the worst
That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb
With whisper'd Discontents the dying prayer,
I have beheld the whole of all, wherein
My Heart had any interest in this Life,
To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes
That nothing now is left. Why then live on?
That Hostage, which the world had in it's keeping
Given by me as a Pledge that I would live,
That Hope of Her, say rather, that pure Faith
In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce
With the Tyranny of Life, is gone ah! whither?
What boots it to reply? 'tis gone! and now
Well may I break this Pact, this League of Blood
That ties me to myself, and break I shall!
Bed-Rock
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

I have been tried,
Tried in the fire,
And I say this,
As the result of dire distress,
And tribulation sore--
That a man's happiness doth not consist
Of that he hath, but of the faith
And trust in God's great love
These bring him to.
Nought else is worth consideration.
For the peace a man may find
In perfect trust in God
Outweighs all else, and is
The only possible foundation
For true happiness.
Little Elfie.
by George MacDonald

I have an elfish maiden child;
She is not two years old;
Through windy locks her eyes gleam wild,
With glances shy and bold.
Like little imps, her tiny hands
Dart out and push and take;
Chide her--a trembling thing she stands,
And like two leaves they shake.
But to her mind a minute gone
Is like a year ago;
So when you lift your eyes anon,
They're at it, to and fro.
Sometimes, though not oppressed with thought,
She has her sleepless fits;
Then to my room in blanket brought,
In round-backed chair she sits;
Where, if by chance in graver mood,
A hermit she appears,
Seated in cave of ancient wood,
Grown very still with years.
Then suddenly the pope she is,
A playful one, I know;
For up and down, now that, now this,
Her feet like plash-mill go.
Why like the pope? She's at it yet,
Her knee-joints flail-like go:
Unthinking man! it is to let
Her mother kiss each toe.
But if I turn away and write,
Then sudden look around,
I almost tremble; tall and white
She stands upon the ground.
In long night-gown, a tiny ghost,
She stands unmoving there;
Or if she moves, my wits were lost
To meet her on the stair!
O Elfie, make no haste to lose
Thy lack of conscious sense;
Thou hast the best gift I could choose,
A God-like confidence.
The Fairies' Siege
by Rudyard Kipling

I have been given my charge to keep,
Well have I kept the same!
Playing with strife for the most of my life,
But this is a different game.
I'11 not fight against swords unseen,
Or spears that I cannot view,
Hand him the keys of the place on your knees,
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Ask him his terms and accept them at once.
Quick, ere we anger him, go!
Never before have I flinched from the guns,
But this is a different show.
I'11 not fight with the Herald of God
(I know what his Master can do!)
Open the gate, he must enter in state,
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
I'd not give way for an Emperor,
I'd hold my road for a King,
To the Triple Crown I would not bow down,
But this is a different thing.
I'11 not fight with the Powers of Air,
Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall, 'tis the Lord of us all,
The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Acquainted With The Night
by Robert Lee Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain, and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Content.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

I have been wandering where the daisies grow,
Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw
Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw
Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow
From timothy and yellow buttercup,
So by their fearless beauty lifted up.
Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,
Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep
Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep
Over the meadows and adown the hill.
So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,
Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live, so sweet
To hear the ripple of the bobolink,
To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,
To feel oneself far from the dusty street,
From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret
Of living, and the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can scarce believe
It is the same sad woman full of dreams
Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems
I am a child again, and can deceive
My soul with daisies, plucking one by one
The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness I try
My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"
Then, lower, "passion'ment, pas du tout;"
Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly
I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch
The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."
I can remember how, in childish days,
I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall
Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."
Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays
It knows not what, and heedlessly demands
The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize
Peace above passion, and the summer life
Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife
Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise
Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold
Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
Dooryard Roses
by Sara Teasdale

I have come the selfsame path
To the selfsame door,
Years have left the roses there
Burning as before
While I watch them in the wind
Quick the hot tears start,
Strange so frail a flame outlasts
Fire in the heart.
The Tree And The Lady
by Thomas Hardy

I have done all I could
For that lady I knew! Through the heats I have shaded her,
Drawn to her songsters when summer has jaded her,
Home from the heath or the wood.
At the mirth-time of May,
When my shadow first lured her, I'd donned my new bravery
Of greenth: 'twas my all. Now I shiver in slavery,
Icicles grieving me gray.
Plumed to every twig's end
I could tempt her chair under me. Much did I treasure her
During those days she had nothing to pleasure her;
Mutely she used me as friend.
I'm a skeleton now,
And she's gone, craving warmth. The rime sticks like a skin to me;
Through me Arcturus peers; Nor'lights shoot into me;
Gone is she, scorning my bough!
Melodian
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

I have been at this shooting-gallery too long.
It is monotonous how the little coloured balls
Make up and down on their silvery water thread;
It would be pleasant to have money and go instead
To watch your greasy audience in the threepenny stalls
Of the World-famous Caravan of Dance and Song.
And I want to go out beyond the turf fires there,
After I've looked at your just smiling face,
To that untented silent dark blue nighted place;
And wait such time as you will wish the noise all dumb
And drop your fairings and leave the funny man, and come ...
You have the most understanding face in all the fair.
From the Arabic of John Duncan.
The Return
by Kate Seymour Maclean

I have been where the roses blow,
Where the orange ripens its gold,
And the mountains stand with their peaks of snow,
To fence away the cold,
Where the lime and the myrtle lent
Their fragrance to the air,
To make the land of my banishment
More exquisitely fair.
And I heard the ring dove call
To his mate in the blossoming trees,
And I saw the white waves heave and fall.
Far away over southern seas.
I listened along the beach,
By the shore of the shifting sea,
To the waves, till I knew their murmured speech,
And the message they bore to me.
And I watched the great sails furled.
Like the wings of some ocean bird,
That brought me, out of another world,
A warning, and a word;
For still beside my way,
By shore or sunlit wave,
There journeyed with me night and day,
The shadow of a grave.
Oh, friends! my heart went forth
To you with a yearning cry,
To be taken back to my native North--
To be taken home to die.
For sweeter than southern suns,
Or the blossoms of summer lands,
Are the faces of my little ones,
And the touch of their tender hands.
Come closer to my side,
Your eyes are as clear and true
As if they were stars my way to guide,
My darlings, back to you.
Oh God! my heart is stirred
With thankfulness and rest,
To reach at last, like a wounded bird,
The shelter of its nest
Oh, faint pulse, throbbing long!
And weary and fluttering breath,
Twas the mother-love that kept you strong,
Though face to face with death.
But now my eyes are dim,
And my breath comes weak and slow,
Sing to me softly the evening hymn,
And kiss me ere I go.
Come close for the angel waits--
The angel with gentle hand,
To open for me the shadowy gates,
Into the silent land.
Oh, voices sweet and clear
What light is in the skies?
Is it your glad voices that I hear--
Or the hymns of paradise?
Farewell your faces fade--
Fade--fade--and disappear
In the light no earthly cloud may shade,
Heaven's morning dawning clear.
Oh, land of rest so fair
By angel footsteps trod,
I shall wait for you, beloved there,
In the paradise of God.
He Thinks Of His Past Greatness When A Part Of The Constellations Of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young
And weep because I know all things now:
I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung
The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough
Among my leaves in times out of mind:
I became a rush that horses tread:
I became a man, a hater of the wind,
Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head
May not lie on the breast nor his lips on thc hair
Of the woman that he loves, until he dies.
O beast of the wilderness, bird of the air,
Must I endure your amorous cries?
The Solitary
by Robert Fuller Murray

I have been lonely all my days on earth,
Living a life within my secret soul,
With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,
Beyond the world's control.
Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought
To walk the paths where other mortals tread,
To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought,
And eat the selfsame bread--
Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove
To mould my life upon the common plan,
That I was furthest from all truth and love,
And least a living man.
Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy,
Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense;
No man could love me, for all men could see
The hollow vain pretence.
Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air,
Upon their easy road I tripped and fell,
And still I sickened of the wholesome fare
On which they nourished well.
I was a stranger in that company,
A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed,
And when they lifted up their songs of glee,
My voice sad discord made.
Peace for mine own self I could never find,
And still my presence marred the general peace,
And when I parted, leaving them behind,
They felt, and I, release.
So will I follow now my spirit's bent,
Not scorning those who walk the beaten track,
Yet not despising mine own banishment,
Nor often looking back.
Their way is best for them, but mine for me.
And there is comfort for my lonely heart,
To think perhaps our journeys' ends may be
Not very far apart.