DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sinner's Rue
by Alfred Edward Housman

I walked alone and thinking,
And faint the nightwind blew
And stirred on mounds at crossways
The flower of sinner's rue.
Where the roads part they bury
Him that his own hand slays,
And so the weed of sorrow
Springs at the four cross ways.
By night I plucked it hueless,
When morning broke 'twas blue:
Blue at my breast I fastened
The flower of sinner's rue.
It seemed a herb of healing,
A balsam and a sign,
Flower of a heart whose trouble
Must have been worse than mine.
Dead clay that did me kindness,
I can do none to you,
But only wear for breastknot
The flower of sinner's rue.
The Trailing Arbutus
by John Greenleaf Whittier

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made
Against the bitter East their barricade,
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell,
The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,
And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
How Salty Win Out
by Eugene Field

I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck--
It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck;
But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaim
That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game;
It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days,
An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways;
So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game
Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name;
An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he wore
Invariably less wealth about his person than before.
But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night
Occurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight.
He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack--he win on king an' queen--
Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen.
An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when
He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.
There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore,
An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore!
For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luck
Agin the science uv a man who's teched a hump f'r luck;
And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do
The thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to;
Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard,
An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard;
But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again:
You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!
So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow
That luck, for luck, agin a hump aint nowhere in it now!
An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain
There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain;
For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten!
Amongst the Roses
by Henry Kendall

I walked through a Forest, beneath the hot noon,
On Etheline calling and calling!
One said: 'She will hear you and come to you soon,
When the coolness, my brother, is falling.'
But I whispered: 'O Darling, I falter with pain!'
And the thirsty leaves rustled, and hissed for the rain,
Where a wayfarer halted and slept on the plain;
And dreamt of a garden of Roses!
Of a cool sweet place,
And a nestling face
In a dance and a dazzle of Roses.
In the drouth of a Desert, outwearied, I wept,
O Etheline, darkened with dolours!
But, folded in sunset, how long have you slept
By the Roses all reeling with colours?
A tree from its tresses a blossom did shake,
It fell on her face, and I feared she would wake,
So I brushed it away for her sweet sake;
In that garden of beautiful Roses!
In the dreamy perfumes
From ripe-red blooms
In a dance and a dazzle of Roses.
A Small Boy's Desire
by Alan L. Strang

Written for the first thrift stamp drive.
I want to be a soldier
And march away to France;
I want to find a wicked "Hun,"
And shoot him in the pants.
I want to be a soldier,
And wear a khaki suit;
I want to have a sword and gun
And all the "Boches" shoot.
I want to be a soldier,
And have an aeroplane
To drop bombs on the German towns,
And fly back home again.
I want to be a soldier
And do my little bit;
My country needs brave fighting men,
While here at home I sit.
Some day I'll be a big, big man;
I'll go to war and fight
The wicked Hun, or any one
Who does not do what's right.
But now the only way for me
To help my country win,
Is save my coin and buy thrift stamps,
So, boys, let's save our tin.
Adam Weirauch
by Edgar Lee Masters

I was crushed between Altgeld and Armour.
I lost many friends, much time and money
Fighting for Altgeld whom Editor Whedon
Denounced as the candidate of gamblers and anarchists.
Then Armour started to ship dressed meat to Spoon River,
Forcing me to shut down my slaughter-house
And my butcher shop went all to pieces.
The new forces of Altgeld and Armour caught me
At the same time. I thought it due me, to recoup the money I lost
And to make good the friends that left me,
For the Governor to appoint me Canal Commissioner.
Instead he appointed Whedon of the Spoon River Argus,
So I ran for the legislature and was elected.
I said to hell with principle and sold my vote
On Charles T. Yerkes' street-car franchise.
Of course I was one of the fellows they caught.
Who was it, Armour, Altgeld or myself
That ruined me?
Mannahatta
by Walt Whitman

I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and steamships - an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets - high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd;
The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses of business - the houses of business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers - the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods - the manly race of drivers of horses - the brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells - the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form'd, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng'd - vehicles - Broadway - the women - the shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people - manners free and superb - open voices - hospitality - the most courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!
Sonnet to Asterie.
by W. M. MacKeracher

I was enveloped in black clouds of woe,
Woven o'er my vision by dark-veiled Despair;
I breathed the poison of the midnight air,
And 'neath its dank oppression wasted low.
I staggered wildly in the gloom at first;
And prayed in anguish that it be removed;
Then cursed the day I saw thee - saw and loved,
And ceased to hope the clouds would be dispersed.
At last that Heavenly Love that rules the night
Removed thine orbit nearer to the earth,
And filled my soul with rapturous delight;
And in the place of that devouring dearth,
When I can see, though distant still, thy light,
Blest Happiness from Hope receives her birth.
Searcy Foote
by Edgar Lee Masters

I wanted to go away to college
But rich Aunt Persis wouldn't help me.
So I made gardens and raked the lawns
And bought John Alden's books with my earnings
And toiled for the very means of life.
I wanted to marry Delia Prickett,
But how could I do it with what I earned?
And there was Aunt Persis more than seventy
Who sat in a wheel-chair half alive
With her throat so paralyzed, when she swallowed
The soup ran out of her mouth like a duck - 
A gourmand yet, investing her income
In mortgages, fretting all the time
About her notes and rents and papers.
That day I was sawing wood for her,
And reading Proudhon in between.
I went in the house for a drink of water,
And there she sat asleep in her chair,
And Proudhon lying on the table,
And a bottle of chloroform on the book,
She used sometimes for an aching tooth!
I poured the chloroform on a handkerchief
And held it to her nose till she died. - 
Oh Delia, Delia, you and Proudhon
Steadied my hand, and the coroner
Said she died of heart failure.
I married Delia and got the money - 
A joke on you, Spoon River?
Campus Sonnets: 4. Return -- 1917
by Stephen Vincent Benet

"The College will reopen Sept. --." `Catalogue'.
I was just aiming at the jagged hole
Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,
When something threw me sideways with a wrench,
And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll
And disappear... and propped against the bole
Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds
Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,
And I was clean again, and young, and whole.
Lord, what a dream that was! And what a doze
Waiting for Bill to come along to class!
I've cut it now -- and he -- Oh, hello, Fred!
Why, what's the matter? -- here -- don't be an ass,
Sit down and tell me! -- What do you suppose?
I dreamed I... AM I... wounded? "YOU ARE DEAD."
Dorcas Gustine
by Edgar Lee Masters

I was not beloved of the villagers,
But all because I spoke my mind,
And met those who transgressed against me
With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing
Nor secret griefs nor grudges.
That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised,
Who hid the wolf under his cloak,
Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly.
It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth
And fight him openly, even in the street,
Amid dust and howls of pain.
The tongue may be an unruly member - 
But silence poisons the soul.
Berate me who will - I am content.
Little Florence Gray
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

I was in Greece. It was the hour of noon,
And the 'gean wind had dropped asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and 'gina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climbed up th' Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled as time will in a dream
Amid its deathless ruins, for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And in an absent idleness of thought
I scrawled upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirred tent,
Had witched me from my slumber. I arose,
And silently stole forth, and by the brink
Of golden 'Pactolus,' where bathe his waters
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood
I mused upon the storied past awhile,
Watching the moon, that with the same mild eye
Had looked upon the mighty Lybian kings
Sleeping around me, Cr'sus, who had heaped
Within the mouldering portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath you swelling tumulus, and then
I loitered up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seemed as if, amid the moonlight, stood
'The angel of the church of Sardis' still!
And I again passed onward, and as dawn
Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn,
Wrote with my fingers in the golden 'sands.'
Tell me, O memory! what wrote I there?
The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
The dust is old upon my 'sandal-shoon''
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
And worshipped at innumerable shrines
Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored
My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness; and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,
Minister to me. But when wearily
The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes
Open but seeing not, and senses all
Lying awake within their chambers fine,
Thought settles like a fountain, clear and calm,
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem,
Tell me, O memory what shines so fair?
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
A Modern Grandmother
by Helen Leah Reed

I want to see a grandmother like those there used to be,
In a cosy little farm-house, where I could go to tea;
A grandmother with spectacles and a funny, frilly cap,
Who would make me sugar cookies, and take me on her lap,
And tell me lots of stories of the days when she was small,
When everything was perfect - not like today at all.
My grandmother is "grandma," and she lives in a hotel,
And when they ask "What is his age?" she smiles and will not tell.
Says she doesn't care to realize that she is growing old;
Then whispers - "But you're far too big a boy for me to hold."
Her dresses shine and rustle, and her hair is wavy brown,
And she has an automobile, that she steers, herself, down town.
My grandmother is pretty. "Do I love her?" Rather - yes;
Our Norah calls her stylish, and on the whole I guess
She's better than the other kind, for once, when I was ill,
She helped my mother nurse me, and read to me until
I fell asleep; and stayed with me, and wasn't tired, and then
She played nine holes of golf with me when I got out again.
Yet, because I've never seen one, just once I want to see
A real old-fashioned grandmother, like those there used to be.
The Orphaned Old Maid
by Thomas Hardy

I wanted to marry, but father said, "No -
'Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;
If you care for your freedom you'll listen to me,
Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be."
I spake on't again and again: father cried,
"Why - if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?
For never a home's for me elsewhere than here!"
And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.
But now father's gone, and I feel growing old,
And I'm lonely and poor in this house on the wold,
And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,
And nobody flings me a thought or a care.
A Good Sport
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I was a little lad, and the older boys called to me from the pier:
They called to me:    'Be a sport:    be a sport!    Leap in and swim!'
I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.
Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted:
'Well done!    Well done,
Brave boy, you are a sport, a good sport!'
And I was very glad.
But now I wish I had learned to swim the right way,
Or had never learned at all.
Now I regret that day,
For it led to my fall.
I was a youth, and I heard the older men talking of the road to wealth;
They talked of bulls and bears, of buying on margins,
And they said, 'Be a sport, my boy, plunge in and win or lose it all!
It is the only way to fortune.'
So I plunged in and won; and the older men patted me on the back,
And they said, 'You are a sport, my boy, a good sport!'
And I was very glad.
But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on that day -
Yes, wish I had lost it all.
For it was the wrong way,
And pushed me to my fall.
I was a young man, and the gay world called me to come;
Gay women and gay men called to me, crying:
'Be a sport; be a good sport!
Fill our glasses and let us fill yours.
We are young but once; let us dance and sing,
And drive the dull hours of night until they stand at bay
Against the shining bayonets of day.'
So I filled my glass, and I filled their glasses, over and over again,
And I sang and danced and drank, and drank and danced and sang,
And I heard them cry, 'He is a sport, a good sport!'
As they held their glasses out to be filled again.
And I was very glad.
Oh the madness of youth and song and dance and wine,
Of woman's eyes and lips, when the night dies in the arms of dawn!
And now I wish I had not gone that way.
Now I wish I had not heard them say,
'He is a sport, a good sport!'
For I am old who should be young.
The splendid vigour of my youth I flung
Under the feet of a mad, unthinking throng.
My strength went out with wine and dance and song;
Unto the winds of earth I tossed like chaff,
With idle jest and laugh,
The pride of splendid manhood, all its wealth
Of unused power and health -
Its dream of looking into some pure girl's eyes
And finding there its earthly paradise -
Its hope of virile children free from blight -
Its thoughts of climbing to some noble height
Of great achievement -all these gifts divine
I cast away for song and dance and wine.
Oh, I have been a sport, a good sport;
But I am very sad.
Reasonable Interest
by Ellis Parker Butler

I want to know how Bernard Shaw
Likes beefsteak, fairly done, or raw?
I want to know what kinds of shoes
M. Maeterlinck and Howells use.
I have great curiosity
Regarding George Ade's new boot tree.
Has Carolyn Wells of late employed
Hairpins of wire or celluliod?
What kind of soap does London like?
Does Robert Chambers ever 'hike'?
Or did he ever? Or, if not,
Does he like cabbage, cheese, or what?
I want to know the size of gloves
Oppenheim wears, and if he loves
Olives, and how his clothes are made.
What does he eat? How is he paid?
All sorts of things I want to learn,
That are not of the least concern
To any one. For, Oh! and Oh!
I want to know! I WANT TO KNOW!
I want to know, and know I will,
The printing press is never still,
For me it prints such facts as these!
I am the Public, if you please!
Like His Mother Used To Make
by James Whitcomb Riley

"Uncle Jake's Place," St. Jo, Mo., 1874
"I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim,
As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him,
And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pie
And a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye.
"I was born in Indiany - more'n forty year' ago -
I hain't be'n back in twenty - and I'm workin' back'ards slow;
But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee,
And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to me!"
"Pour us out another, Daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,
A-speakin' 'cost a saucerful, as Uncle tuk his cup,
"When I seed yer sign out yander," he went on, to Uncle Jake- -,
"'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to make' -
I thought of my old mother, and the Posey County farm,
And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' in her arm,
As she set the pot: a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em in"
And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin:
And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stood
As solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would;
Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door - and nex',
Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs -
And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him!
Thank God we've met him comin'! Don't you know, yer mother, Jim?"
And the feller, as he grabbed her, says, "You bet I hain't forgot -
But," wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty hot!"
Ad Manus Puellae
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.
I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?
They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?
I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.
The Swan Of Dijon
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast
Was at its loudest; when there was no sound
From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
Or rattle of their wagons in the street.
When every engine whistle would repeat
Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,
'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring
Remnants of men back as war's offering.'
And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye
Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;
But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by
Where war was not; a little lake whereon
Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,
Majestic and imposing, yet serene.
I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight
Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,
Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid
While silver fountains for his pleasure played.
Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part
To rest a tired heart.