DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Maid Of The Mill's Repentance.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

YOUTH.
Away, thou swarthy witch! Go forth
From out my house, I tell thee!
Or else I needs must, in my wrath,
Expel thee!
What's this thou singest so falsely, forsooth,
Of love and a maiden's silent truth?
Who'll trust to such a story!
GIPSY.
I sing of a maid's repentant fears,
And long and bitter yearning;
Her levity's changed to truth and tears
All-burning.
She dreads no more the threats of her mother,
She dreads far less the blows of her brother,
Than the dearly loved-one's hatred.
YOUTH.
Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies,
Of murder and thievish plunder!
Such actions false will cause no surprise,
Or wonder.
When they share their booty, both clothes and purse, 
As bad as you gipsies, and even worse,
Such tales find ready credence.
GIPSY.
"Alas, alas! oh what have I done?
Can listening aught avail me?
I hear him toward my room hasten on,
To hail me.
My heart beat high, to myself I said:
'O would that thou hadst never betray'd
That night of love to thy mother!'"
YOUTH.
Alas! I foolishly ventured there,
For the cheating silence misled me;
Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair, 
Nor dread me!
When suddenly rose a fearful din,
Her mad relations came pouring in.
My blood still boils in my body!
GIPSY.
"Oh when will return an hour like this?
I pine in silent sadness;
I've thrown away my only true bliss
With madness.
Alas, poor maid! O pity my youth!
My brother was then full cruel in troth
To treat the loved one so basely!"
THE POET.
The swarthy woman then went inside,
To the spring in the courtyard yonder;
Her eyes from their stain she purified,
And, wonder! 
Her face and eyes were radiant and bright,
And the maid of the mill was disclosed to the sight
Of the startled and angry stripling!
THE MAID OF THE MILL.
Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-loved life!
Before thine anger I cower;
But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edged knife, 
This hour
Of sorrow and love to thee I'll sing,
And myself before thy feet I'll fling,
And either live or die there!
YOUTH.
Affection, say, why buried so deep
In my heart hast thou lain hidden?
By whom hast thou now to awake from thy sleep
Been bidden?
Ah love, that thou art immortal I see!
Nor knavish cunning nor treachery
Can destroy thy life so godlike.
THE MAID OF THE MILL.
If still with as fond and heartfelt love,
As thou once didst swear, I'm cherish'd,
Then nought of the rapture we used to prove
Is perish'd.
So take the woman so dear to thy breast!
In her young and innocent charms be blest,
For all are thine from henceforward!
BOTH.
Now, sun, sink to rest! Now, sun, arise!
Ye stars, be now shining, now darkling!
A star of love now gleams in the skies,
All-sparkling!
As long as the fountain may spring and run,
So long will we two be blended in one,
Upon each other's bosoms!
That Lass.
by John Hartley

Awm nobbut a poor workin man,
An mi wage leeavs me little to spare;
But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can,
An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.
'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast,
Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean;
But th' one thing awm langin for mooast,
Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
They may call me a fooil or a ass,
To tawk abaat wantin a wife;
But there's nowt like a true hearted lass,
To sweeten a workinman's life.
An love is a feelin as pure
In a peasant as 'tis in a queen,
An happy aw could be awm sewer,
Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet,
An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day;
An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet,
But its melted i'th' distance away.
At mi lot aw cant help but repine,
When aw think ov her bonny black een,
For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine;
That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
The Hunter Of The Prairies.
by William Cullen Bryant

Ay, this is freedom! these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert, and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew;
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?
Broad are these streams, my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods, I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night.
Elmer Brown
by James Whitcomb Riley

Awf'lest boy in this-here town
Er anywheres is Elmer Brown!
He'll mock you - yes, an' strangers, too,
An' make a face an' yell at you, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
Yes, an' wunst in School one day,
An' Teacher's lookin' wite that way,
He helt his slate, an' hide his head,
An' maked a face at her, an' said, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
An' sir! when Rosie Wheeler smile
One morning at him 'crosst the aisle,
He twist his face all up, an' black
His nose wiv ink, an' whisper back, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
Wunst when his Aunt's all dressed to call,
An' kiss him good-bye in the hall,
An' latch the gate an' start away,
He holler out to her an' say, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
An' when his Pa he read out loud
The speech he maked, an' feel so proud
It's in the paper - Elmer's Ma
She ketched him - wite behind his Pa, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
Nen when his Ma she slip an' take
Him in the other room an' shake
Him good! w'y, he don't care - no-sir! - 
He ist look up an' laugh at her, - 
"Here's the way you look!"
Woman.
by Thomas Moore

Away, away--you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.
Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both;
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.
Away, away--your smile's a curse--
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
If e'er I love such things again.
Is it Reight?
by John Hartley

Awm noa radical, liberal nor toory,
Awm a plain spokken, hard-workin man;
Aw cooart nawther fame, wealth nor glory,
But try to do th' best 'at aw can.
But when them who hold lofty positions,
Are unmindful of all but thersen, - 
An aw know under what hard conditions,
Thaasands struggle to prove thersen men,
It sets me a thinkin an thinkin,
Ther's summat 'at wants setting reight;
An wol th' wealthy all seem to be winkin,
Leeavin poor fowk to wonder an wait, - 
Is it cappin to find one's hooap sickens?
Or at workers should join in a strike?
When they see at distress daily thickens,
Till despairin turns into dislike?
Is it strange they should feel discontented,
An repine at ther comfortless lot,
When they see lux'ry rife in the mansion,
An starvation at th' door ov the cot?
Is it reight 'at theas hard-handed workers
Should wear aght ther life day bi day,
An find 'at th' reward for ther labors
Is ten per cent knockt off ther pay?
But we're tell'd 'at we owt to be thankful
If we've plenty to ait an to drink;
An its sinful to question one's betters, - 
We wor sent here to work, net to think.
Then lets try to appear quite contented,
For this maathful o' summat to ait;
Its for what us poor fowk wor invented, - 
But awm blowed if aw think at its reight.
Sol An' Doll.
by John Hartley

Awm a young Yorksher lad as jolly an gay,
As a lark on a sunshiny mornin,
An Dolly's as fair as the flaars i' May,
An trubbles we meean to be scornin.
If we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife,
An we'll donce to a rollickin measure,
For we booath are agreed to begin wedded life,
As we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure.
Then we'll donce an be gay,
An we'll laff care away,
An we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow,
An mi Dolly an me,
Ax yo all to a spree;
Come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow.
Awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor,
An aw feel rayther funny abaat it;
But Dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess,
An if ther's owt short we'll do baat it.
Mi mother says "Sol, if tha'll leave it to Doll,
Tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle,
Shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all done
Aw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle."
Then we'll donce &c.
We've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin,
An we've beddin an furnitur plenty;
We've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell ha
Monny paands, but aw think abaat twenty.
We've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet,
For true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks it
An if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan,
An aw'll leave it for Dolly to fix it.
Then we'll donce &c.
The King Is Dead
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year!
His life is lived--fulfilled his destiny.
Have you for him no sad, regretful tear
To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier?
Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh?
Was he not kind to you, this dead old year?
Did he not give enough of earthly store?
Enough of love, and laughter, and good cheer?
Have not the skies you scanned sometimes been clear?
How, then, of him who dies, could you ask more?
It is not well to hate him for the pain
He brought you, and the sorrows manifold.
To pardon him these hurts still I am fain;
For in the panting period of his reign,
He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old.
One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend--
One little sigh while my companions sing.
Thou art so soon forgotten in the end;
We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend:
"The king is dead! long live the king!"
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXIII.
by Thomas Moore

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower,
Till love approached one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then lost I fell, like some poor willow
That falls across the wintry billow!
In a Garden
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Baby, see the flowers!
- Baby sees
Fairer things than these,
Fairer though they be than dreams of ours.
Baby, hear the birds!
- Baby knows
Better songs than those,
Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words.
Baby, see the moon!
- Baby's eyes
Laugh to watch it rise,
Answering light with love and night with noon.
Baby, hear the sea!
- Baby's face
Takes a graver grace,
Touched with wonder what the sound may be.
Baby, see the star!
- Baby's hand
Opens, warm and bland,
Calm in claim of all things fair that are.
Baby, hear the bells!
- Baby's head
Bows, as ripe for bed,
Now the flowers curl round and close their cells.
Baby, flower of light,
Sleep, and see
Brighter dreams than we,
Till good day shall smile away good night.
Hello, Soldier!
by Edward Dyson

Back again 'n' nothin' missin' barrin' arf a hand,
Where an Abdul bit me, chokin' in the Holy Land.
'Struth, they got some dirty fighters in the Moslem pack,
Bull-nosed slugs their sneakin' snipers spatters in yer back
Blows a gapin' sort iv pit in
What a helephant could sit in.
Bounced their bullets, if yeh please,
Like the 'oppers in a cheese,
Off me rubber pelt in droves,
Moppin' up the other coves.
So here's me once more at large in
Bay-street, Port, a bloomin' Sargin'.
'Cri, it jumbo.' 'Have a beer.'
'Wot-o, Anzac; you're a dear.'
Back once more on Moley's corner, loafin' like a dook;
Back on Bourke, me livin' image, not a slinkin' spook;
Solid ez the day I started, medals on me chest,
Switchin' with me pert melacca, swankin' with the best
Where the little wimmen's flowin',
With their veils 'n' ribbons blowin'
See their eyes of bloo 'n' brown
Butterflyin' 'bout the town!
Back at 'ome-oh, 'struth, it's good!
Long, cold lagers from the wood,
Ev'ry cobber jumpin' at you,
Strangers duckin' in to bat you
'Good ole Jumbo, how're you?'
''Ello, soldier, howja do?'
Back at Grillo's where the nigger googs his whitey eyes,
Plucks his black ole greasy banjo while the cod-steak fries;
Fish 'n' chips, a pint iv local, and the tidy girl
Dancin' glad attendance on yeh 'zif yeh was an earl;
Trailin' round the blazin' city,
Feelin' all content 'n' pretty,
Where the smart procession goes,
Prinked 'n' polished to the shows,
One among the happy drive-
'Sworth the world to be alive!
Dames ez smilin' ez a mother,
Ev'ry man ver fav'rit brother:
''Ello, Jumbo, how is it ?'
'Arr there, soldier! Good 'n' fit?'
Takin' hozone at St. Kilder's good enough for me,
Seein' Summer and the star-blink simmer in the sea;
Cantin' up me bloomin' cady, toyin' with a cig.,
Blowin' out me pout a little, chattin' wide 'n' big
When there's skirt around to skite to.
Say, 'oo has a better right to?
Done me bit 'n' done it well,
Got the tag iv plate to tell;
Square Gallipoli surviver,
With a touch iv Colonel's guyver.
'Sargin' Jumbo, good ole son!'
'Soldier, soldier, you're the one!'
Back again, a wounded hero, moochin' up 'n' down,
Feelin' 'sthough I'd got a fond arf-Nelson on the town;
Never was so gay, so 'elp me, never felt so kind;
Fresh from 'ell a paradise ain't very hard to find.
After filth, 'n' flies, 'n' slaughter
Fat brown babies in the water,
Singin' people on the sand
Makes a boshter Happy Land!
War what toughened hone 'n' hide
Turned a feller soft inside!
Great it is, the 'earty greetin's,
Friendly digs, 'n' cheerful meetin's
''Ello, Jumbo, howja do?'
'Soldier, soldier, how're you?'
The Scholars
by William Butler Yeats

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.
They'll cough in the ink to the world's end;
Wear out the carpet with their shoes
Earning respect; have no strange friend;
If they have sinned nobody knows.
Lord, what would they say
Should their Catullus walk that way?
Laura Matilda's Dirge.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

FROM 'REJECTED ADDRESSES.'
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus' summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
Softly slept the dome of Drury
O'er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto's sister-fury
Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Cytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
See Erostratas the second
Fires again Diana's fane;
By the Fates from Orcus beckon'd,
Clouds envelop Drury Lane.
Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.
Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part.
NAENIA.
O quot odoriferi voitatis in aere venti,
Caeruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi:
Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens,
Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.
Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare Theatri
Coeperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli:
Alectus consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn,
Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.
Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia linquit
Luridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus:
Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores;
Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.
Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero;
Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci;
Omnia tristiae fas concessisse superbae:
Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.
Respice! Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter ad aedem
Rursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam?
Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris,
Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.
O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o qui
Me mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis!
Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite recto
Quo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!
Jamque - soporat enim pectus Vindicta Virago;
Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit;
Gorgoneique greges praeceps (adverte!) feruntur -
Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.
No Lock Against Letchery.
by Robert Herrick

Bar close as you can, and bolt fast too your door,
To keep out the letcher, and keep in the whore;
Yet quickly you'll see by the turn of a pin,
The whore to come out, or the letcher come in.
To George Peabody
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Danvers, 1866
Bankrupt! our pockets inside out!
Empty of words to speak his praises!
Worcester and Webster up the spout!
Dead broke of laudatory phrases!
Yet why with flowery speeches tease,
With vain superlatives distress him?
Has language better words than these?
THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!
A simple prayer - but words more sweet
By human lips were never uttered,
Since Adam left the country seat
Where angel wings around him fluttered.
The old look on with tear-dimmed eyes,
The children cluster to caress him,
And every voice unbidden cries,
THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!
The Bough Of Nonsense
by Robert von Ranke Graves

An Idyll
Back from the Somme two Fusiliers
Limped painfully home; the elder said,
S. "Robert, I've lived three thousand years
This Summer, and I'm nine parts dead."
R. "But if that's truly so," I cried, "quick, now,
Through these great oaks and see the famous bough
"Where once a nonsense built her nest
With skulls and flowers and all things queer,
In an old boot, with patient breast
Hatching three eggs; and the next year ..."
S. "Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid
Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did."
Said he, "Before this quaint mood fails,
We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn,"
R. "Hanging it up with monkey tails
In a deep grove all hushed and dim...."
S. "To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees,"
R. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese,"
S. "Which men are wise beyond their time,
And worship nonsense, no one more."
R. "Hard by, among old quince and lime,
They've built a temple with no floor,"
S. "And whosoever worships in that place,
He disappears from sight and leaves no trace."
R. "Once the Galatians built a fane
To Sense: what duller God than that?"
S. "But the first day of autumn rain
The roof fell in and crushed them flat."
R. "Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls
When nonsense is foundation for the walls."
I tell him old Galatian tales;
He caps them in quick Portuguese,
While phantom creatures with green scales
Scramble and roll among the trees.
The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings
A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings.
Surfeits.
by Robert Herrick

Bad are all surfeits; but physicians call
That surfeit took by bread the worst of all.
Boston Lullaby
by James Jeffrey Roche

Baby's brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.
Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.
Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes.
And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.
Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling, leave Creation
To its chances for the night.
Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.
by John Hartley

Backward turn, oh! recollection!
Far, far back to childhoods' days;
To those treasures of affection,
'Round which loving memory plays
Show to me the loving faces
Of my parents, now no more, - 
Fill again the vacant places
With the images of yore.
Conjure up the home where comfort
Seemed to make its cosy nest;
Where the stranger's only passport,
Was the need of food and rest.
Show the schoolhouse where with others,
I engaged in mental strife,
And the playground, where as brothers
Running, jumping, full of life.
Now I see the lovely maiden,
That my young heart captive led;
Like a sylph, with gold curls laden,
And her lips of cherry red.
Now fond voices seem to echo,
Tones as when I heard them last;
And my heart sighs sadly, Heigh, ho!
For the joys for ever past.
From the past back to the present,
Come, ye wandering thoughts again;
Memories however pleasant,
Will not rid to-day of pain,
Now we live, the past is buried, - 
We are midway in life's stream;
Onward, onward! ever hurried, - 
And the futures but a dream.
A Pastoral Sung To The King
by Robert Herrick

MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS
MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we.
MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup
Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up:
And he, who used to lead the country-round,
Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.
AMBO. Let's cheer him up. SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe.
MIRT. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.
Dear Amarillis! MON. Hark! SIL. Mark! MIRT. This
earth grew sweet
Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.
AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT. And here the breath
of kine
And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.
This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair,
This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
SIL. Words sweet as love itself. MON. Hark!
MIRT. This way she came, and this way too she went;
How each thing smells divinely redolent!
Like to a field of beans, when newly blown,
Or like a meadow being lately mown.
MON. A sweet sad passion
MIRT. In dewy mornings, when she came this way,
Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day;
And when at night she folded had her sheep,
Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell,
The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.
But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither?
MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together.
MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please
To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs
as these.
MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure
The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills
And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still;
And all the while my part shall be to weep;
And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep;
And in the rind of every comely tree
I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day
grows old;
And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows
our sorrow:
But let's go steep
Our eyes in sleep;
And meet to weep
To-morrow.