DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonetto Di Vittorelli.[575] Per Monaca.
by George Gordon Byron

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era motta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata: e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, die degne di pi' nobil sorte
L' una e l' altra veggendo, ambe chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte
A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in suggellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai dalla gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un flume d' amarissim' onde,
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa:
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.
[Opere Edite e Postume di J. Vittorelli, Bassano, 1841, p. 294.]
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XCVII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Dian, that faine would cheare her friend the Night,
Shewes her oft, at the full, her fairest face,
Bringing with her those starry Nymphs, whose chace
From heau'nly standing hits each mortall wight.
But ah, poore Night, in loue with Phoebus light,
And endlesly dispairing of his grace,
Her selfe, to shewe no other ioy hath place;
Sylent and sad, in mourning weedes doth dight.
Euen so (alas) a lady, Dians peere,
With choise delights and rarest company
Would faine driue cloudes from out my heauy cheere;
But, wo is me, though Ioy her selfe were she,
Shee could not shew my blind braine waies of ioy,
While I despaire my sunnes sight to enioy.
On Bentley's 'Milton.'
by Alexander Pope

Did Milton's prose, O Charles! thy death defend?
A furious foe unconscious proves a friend.
On Milton's verse did Bentley comment? Know,
A weak officious friend becomes a foe.
While he but sought his author's fame to further,
The murderous critic has avenged thy murther.
Isle Of Man
by William Wordsworth

Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen,
Grief that devouring waves had caused, or guilt
Which they had witnessed, sway the man who built
This Homestead, placed where nothing could be seen,
Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene?
A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land,
That o'er the channel holds august command,
The dwelling raised, a veteran Marine.
He, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea
To shun the memory of a listless life
That hung between two callings. May no strife
More hurtful here beset him, doomed though free,
Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye
Shrink from the daily sight of earth and sky!
Possession.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Did the harebell loose her girdle
To the lover bee,
Would the bee the harebell hallow
Much as formerly?
Did the paradise, persuaded,
Yield her moat of pearl,
Would the Eden be an Eden,
Or the earl an earl?
Now and Then.
by John Hartley

Did we but know what lurks beyond the NOW;
Could we but see what the dim future hides;
Had we some power occult that would us show
The joy and sorrow which in THEN abides;
Would life be happier, - or less fraught with woe,
Did we but know?
I long, yet fear to pierce those clouds ahead; - 
To solve life's secrets, - learn what means this death.
Are fresh joys waiting for the silent dead?
Or do we perish with am fleeting breath?
If not; then whither will the spirit go?
Did we but know.
'Tis all a mist. Reason can naught explain,
We dream and scheme for what to-morrow brings;
We sleep, perchance, and never wake again,
Nor taste life's joys, or suffer sorrow's stings.
Will the soul soar, or will it sink below?
How can we know.
"You must have Faith!" - How can a mortal weak,
Pin faith on what he cannot comprehend?
We grope for light, - but all in vain we seek,
Oblivion seems poor mortal's truest friend.
Like bats at noonday, blindly on we go,
For naught we know.
Yet, why should we repine? Could we but see
Our lifelong journey with its ups and downs!
Ambition, hope and longings all would flee,
Indifferent alike to smiles and frowns.
'Tis better as it is. It must be so.
We ne'er can know.
Did You Never Know
by Sara Teasdale

Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me,
That your love would never lessen and never go?
You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,
You were too young to know.
Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it
Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year,
Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,
I know your secret, my dear, my dear.
To .... ....
by Thomas Moore

Maria pur quando vuol, non ' bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo.[1]
Die when you will, you need not wear
At Heaven's Court a form more fair
Than Beauty here on earth has given;
Keep but the lovely looks we see--
The voice we hear--and you will be
An angel ready-made for Heaven!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXVI. Jingles.
by Unknown

Dibbity, dibbity, dibbity, doe.
Give me a pancake
And I'll go.
Dibbity, dibbity, dibbity, ditter,
Please to give me
A bit of a fritter.
Daisy Fraser
by Edgar Lee Masters

Did you ever hear of Editor Whedon
Giving to the public treasury any of the money he received
For supporting candidates for office?
Or for writing up the canning factory
To get people to invest?
Or for suppressing the facts about the bank,
When it was rotten and ready to break?
Did you ever hear of the Circuit Judge
Helping anyone except the "Q" railroad,
Or the bankers? Or did Rev. Peet or Rev. Sibley
Give any part of their salary, earned by keeping still,
Or speaking out as the leaders wished them to do,
To the building of the water works?
But I    Daisy Fraser who always passed
Along the street through rows of nods and smiles,
And caughs and words such as "there she goes."
Never was taken before Justice Arnett
Without contributing ten dollars and costs
To the school fund of Spoon River!
To His Honoured Friend, M. John Weare, Councillor.
by Robert Herrick

Did I or love, or could I others draw
To the indulgence of the rugged law,
The first foundation of that zeal should be
By reading all her paragraphs in thee,
Who dost so fitly with the laws unite,
As if you two were one hermaphrodite.
Nor courts[t] thou her because she's well attended
With wealth, but for those ends she was intended:
Which were, - and still her offices are known, -
Law is to give to ev'ry one his own;
To shore the feeble up against the strong,
To shield the stranger and the poor from wrong.
This was the founder's grave and good intent:
To keep the outcast in his tenement,
To free the orphan from that wolf-like man,
Who is his butcher more than guardian;
To dry the widow's tears, and stop her swoons,
By pouring balm and oil into her wounds.
This was the old way; and 'tis yet thy course
To keep those pious principles in force.
Modest I will be; but one word I'll say,
Like to a sound that's vanishing away,
Sooner the inside of thy hand shall grow
Hisped and hairy, ere thy palm shall know
A postern-bribe took, or a forked fee,
To fetter Justice, when she might be free.
Eggs I'll not shave; but yet, brave man, if I
Was destin'd forth to golden sovereignty,
A prince I'd be, that I might thee prefer
To be my counsel both and chancellor.
Enough.
by Muriel Stuart

Did he forget? ... I do not remember,
All I had of him once I still have to-day;
He was lovely to me as the word "amber,"
As the taste of honey and as the smell of hay.
What if he forget if I remember?
What more of love have you than I to say?
I have and hold him still in the word "amber,"
Taste of honey brings him, he comes back with the hay.
Sonnet V
by Robert Southey

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade
In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?
Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade
Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought
Of every past delight; his native grove,
Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,
All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought
His soul to madness; round his restless bed
Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile
Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while
She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:
No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,
But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.
To A Certain Civilian
by Walt Whitman

Did YOU ask dulcet rhymes from me?
Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes?
Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow?
Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand nor am I now;
(I have been born of the same as the war was born;
The drum-corps' harsh rattle is to me sweet music I love well the martial dirge,
With slow wail, and convulsive throb, leading the officer's funeral:)
What to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I? therefore leave my works,
And go lull yourself with what you can understand and with piano- tunes;
For I lull nobody and you will never understand me.
Cree Fairies.
by John Campbell

"Did earth ever see
On thy prairie's line
Tribes older than thine,
Old Chief of the Cree?"
"Before us we know
Of none who lived here;
Our shafts bade them go.
"But others have share
Of lake and of land,
A swift-footed band
No arrow can scare.
"Their coming has been
When flowers are gay;
On islet and bay
Their footprints are seen.
"There dance little feet
Light grasses they break;
Beneath the blue lake
Must be their retreat.
"We listen, and none
Hears ever a sound;
But where, lily-crowned,
Floats the isle in the sun,
"Three children we see
Like sunbeams at play.
And, voiceless as they,
Dogs bounding in glee.
"Of old they were there!
Ever young, who are these
Whom Death cannot seize?
What Spirits of air?"
Nursery Rhyme. DXXIV. Natural History.
by Unknown

Dickery, dickery, dare,
The pig flew up in the air;
The man in brown soon brought him down,
Dickery, dickery, dare.
Contention.
by Robert Herrick

Discreet and prudent we that discord call
That either profits, or not hurts at all.
Northumbria. - A Dirge.
by Thomas Runciman

Dirge the sorrows by time made dim:
Seas are sullen in rain and mist.
Regret the woes that behind us swim:
Sullen's the north and grey the east.
Black boats speck the horizon's rim:
The north is heavy and grey the east.
They plash to shore in unison grim:
The breakers roar through rain and mist.
Ah! the ravening Dane of old!
Joys are born of time and sorrow.
He was beautiful, cruel and bold:
Death yesterday is life to-morrow.
The slain lie stark on bented mounds:
Winds are calling in rain and mist.
There's blood and smoke and wide red wounds,
And black boats make to north and east.
Through murky weltering seas they row:
Dirge the eyes their deeds made dim.
Wives at their conning smile and glow,
And hail them on the horizon's rim.
There's peace on low mounds and shallow dells,
Yellow rag-wort and sea-reed grey,
And thrumming and booming of village bells:
Dirge the lives of that faded day.
Absence
by John Frederick Freeman

Distance no grace can lend you, but for me
Distance yet magnifies your mystery.
With you, and soon content, I ask how should
In your two eyes be hid my heaven of good?
How should your own mere voice the strange words speak
That tease me with the sense of what's to seek
In all the world beside? How your brown hair,
That simply and neglectfully you wear,
Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare?
With you, I wonder how you're stranger than
Another woman to another man;
But parted--and you're as a ship unknown
That to poor castaways at dawn is shown
As strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trick
Of eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick.
Parted, and like the riddle of a dream,
Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem.
I wonder at your patience, stirless peace,
Your subtle pride, mute pity's quick release.
Then are you strange to me and sweet as light
Or dew; as strange and dark as starless night.
Then let this restless parting be forgiven:
I go from you to find in you strange heaven.
Lines To The Memory Of An Amiable Youth, Of Great Promise, Whose Afflicted Parents Received The Intelligence Of His Having Been Drowned, At The Very Time When His Arrival Was Expected From Abroad.
by John Carr (Sir)

Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave;
Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave.
Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste
Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch'd away
Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,
From those who fondly watch'd their rich display, - 
Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last;
Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm,
Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast,
And Fancy animate again thy form.
Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho' little known,
Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,
Th' admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,
And sounds of grief shall o'er the floods expire.
But, far more grateful to thy pensive shade,
Parental Fondness mourns her Lycid gone,
Lycid! who to her bosom oft convey'd
The liveliest joys to tend'rest feelings known.
For her the lustre of the dawning day,
With all its charms, no longer yields delight;
And silent sorrow marks its parting ray,
And saddens ev'ry vision of the night.
Oh! what ecstatic joys inspir'd her breast,
When, fast advancing to thy native shore,
She thought she saw thee in the bay at rest,
And now in fancy heard th' approaching oar.
Oh! sad reverse! The dire delusive wind,
Which promis'd fair to bring thee to her breast,
Thy youthful honours to the wave consign'd,
And bore thy spirit to the realms of rest
Ah! had the song of ancient Bard been true,
Had Genius still the pow'r to soothe the storm,
Harmless had been each blast that round thee blew,
And safe and sacred, 'midst its rage, thy form.
What tho' no marble urn thy relics hold,
Where grief at midnight hour may sit and sigh,
Like gem in amber, Fancy shall enfold
Thy relics in each wave that murmurs by.
Still shall she listen to thy glowing song,
And dwell with rapture on each vivid line,
Shall round thy lyre, neglected and unstrung,
Of sweetest flow'rs a fun'ral wreath entwine.
Ah! since thy tuneful song no more shall flow,
Nor here again thy op'ning virtues shine,
May those who, Lycid! lov'd thee living, know
To bear the sorrows of a loss like thine!
And, while they linger yet another hour
On life's extended, tempest-beaten, strand,
Waiting the gale that shall convey them o'er,
To hail their Lycid in a happier land,
Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest,
Teach them a God, in mercy rob'd, to praise,
To know that ev'ry act of his is best,
And, tho' mysterious, still to prize his ways!
Jim Jay
by Walter De La Mare

Do diddle di do,
Poor Jim Jay
Got stuck fast
In Yesterday.
Squinting he was,
On Cross-legs bent,
Never heeding
The wind was spent.
Round veered the weathercock,
The sun drew in -
And stuck was Jim
Like a rusty pin...
We pulled and we pulled
From seven till twelve,
Jim, too frightened
To help himself.
But all in vain.
The clock struck one,
And there was Jim
A little bit gone.
At half-past five
You scarce could see
A glimpse of his flapping
Handkerchee.
And when came noon,
And we climbed sky-high,
Jim was a speck
Slip - slipping by.
Come to-morrow,
The neighbours say,
He'll be past crying for;
Poor Jim Jay.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXXI. Jingles.
by Unknown

Ding, dong, darrow,
The cat and the sparrow;
The little dog has burnt his tail,
And he shall be hang'd to-morrow.
A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten
by Vachel Lindsay

To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Here lies a kitten good, who kept
A kitten's proper place.
He stole no pantry eatables,
Nor scratched the baby's face.
He let the alley-cats alone.
He had no yowling vice.
His shirt was always laundried well,
He freed the house of mice.
Until his death he had not caused
His little mistress tears,
He wore his ribbon prettily,
He washed behind his ears.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Dingley And Brent[1], A Song
by Jonathan Swift

To the tune of "Ye Commons and Peers."
Dingley and Brent,
Wherever they went,
Ne'er minded a word that was spoken;
Whatever was said,
They ne'er troubled their head,
But laugh'd at their own silly joking.
Should Solomon wise
In majesty rise,
And show them his wit and his learning;
They never would hear,
But turn the deaf ear,
As a matter they had no concern in.
You tell a good jest,
And please all the rest;
Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it?
And, curious to know,
Away she will go
To seek an old rag in the closet.
Sonnet LXII.
by Anna Seward

[1]Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breast
From whom my life I drew; - and thrice has Spring
Bloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,
Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'd
Or strength of frame, or intellect. - - Now bring
Nor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'd
Thy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'd
Of social gladness. They have fail'd, and cling
Feebly to the fix'd chair, no more to rise
Elastic! - Ah! my heart forebodes that soon
The FULL OF DAYS shall sleep; - nor Spring's soft sighs,
Nor Winter's blast awaken him! - Begun
The twilight! - Night is long! - but o'er his eyes
Life-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!
1: When this Sonnet was written, the Subject of it had languished three years beneath repeated paralytic strokes, which had greatly enfeebled his limbs, and impaired his understanding. Contrary to all expectation he survived three more years, subject, through their progress, to the same frequent and dreadful attacks, though in their intervals he was serene and apparently free from pain or sickness.
The Dean Of Faculty. - A New Ballad.
by Robert Burns

I.
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw,
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.
II.
This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,
Commandment tenth remember'd.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And won his heart's desire;
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot,
Though the devil p--s in the fire.
III.
Squire Hal besides had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy,
For talents to deserve a place
Are qualifications saucy;
So, their worships of the Faculty,
Quite sick of merit's rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.
IV.
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob's purblind, mental vision:
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet
Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear he has the angel met
That met the Ass of Balaam.
St. John's Eve.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Dizzily round
On the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlight
To a sweet, unholy, ravishing sound
Of wizard voices from underground,
Their mazy dance the Elle-maids wound
On St. John's Eve.
II
Beautiful white,
Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed;
And frail, sweet faces bloomed out on the night
From floating tresses of glow-worm light,
That puffed like foam to the left and the right
On St. John's Eve.
III
Warily there
They flashed like a rill which the moonbeams fill,
But I saw what a mockery all of them were
With their hollow bodies, when the moonlit air
Rayed out through their eyes with a sudden glare
On St. John's Eve.
IV
Solemnly sweet,
By the river's banks in the rushes' ranks,
The Necks their sorrowful songs repeat:
A music of winds over dipping wheat,
Of moss-dulled cascades seemed to meet
On St. John's Eve.
V
Drowsily swam
The fire-flies fleet in eddies of heat;
Through the willows a glimmer of gold harps came,
And I saw their hair like a misty flame
Bunched over white brows, too white to name,
On St. John's Eve.
VI
Beggarly torn,
A wizen chap in a red-peaked cap,
All gray with the chaff and dust of the corn,
And strong with the pungent scent of the barn,
The Nis scowled under the flowering thorn
On St. John's Eve.
VII
Merrily call
The singing crickets in the twinkling thickets,
And the Troll hill rose on pillars tall,
Crimson pillars that ranked a hall
Where the beak-nosed Trolls were holding a ball
On St. John's Eve.
VIII
Reveling flew
From beakers of gold the wassail old;
And she reached me a goblet brimmed bright with dew - 
But her wily witcheries well I knew,
And the philtre over my shoulder threw
On St. John's Eve.
To Minna.
by Friedrich Schiller

Do I dream? can I trust to my eye?
My sight sure some vapor must cover?
Or, there, did my Minna pass by
My Minna and knew not her lover?
On the arm of the coxcomb she crossed,
Well the fan might its zephyr bestow;
Herself in her vanity lost,
That wanton my Minna? Ah, no!
In the gifts of my love she was dressed,
My plumes o'er her summer hat quiver;
The ribbons that flaunt in her breast
Might bid her remember the giver!
And still do they bloom on thy bosom,
The flowerets I gathered for thee!
Still as fresh is the leaf of each blossom,
'Tis the heart that has faded from me!
Go and take, then, the incense they tender;
Go, the one that adored thee forget!
Go, thy charms to the feigner surrender,
In my scorn is my comforter yet!
Go, for thee with what trust and belief
There beat not ignobly a heart
That has strength yet to strive with the grief
To have worshipped the trifler thou art!
Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed
Thy beauty shame, Minna, to thee!
To-morrow its glory will fade,
And its roses all withered will be!
The swallows that swarm in the sun
Will fly when the north winds awaken,
The false ones thine autumn will shun,
For whom thou the true hast forsaken!
'Mid the wrecks of the charms in December,
I see thee alone in decay,
And each spring shall but bid thee remember
How brief for thyself was the May!
Then they who so wantonly flock
To the rapture thy kiss can impart,
Shall scoff at thy winter, and mock
Thy beauty as wrecked as thy heart!
Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed
Thy beauty shame, Minna, to thee
To-morrow its glory will fade
And its roses all withered will be!
O, what scorn for thy desolate years
Shall I feel! God forbid it in me!
How bitter will then be the tears
Shed, Minna, O Minna, for thee!
Where They Lived
by Thomas Hardy

Dishevelled leaves creep down
Upon that bank to-day,
Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown;
The wet bents bob and sway;
The once warm slippery turf is sodden
Where we laughingly sat or lay.
The summerhouse is gone,
Leaving a weedy space;
The bushes that veiled it once have grown
Gaunt trees that interlace,
Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly
The nakedness of the place.
And where were hills of blue,
Blind drifts of vapour blow,
And the names of former dwellers few,
If any, people know,
And instead of a voice that called, "Come in, Dears,"
Time calls, "Pass below!"
Sonnet LXI. To Mr. Henry Cary[1], On Reading His Sonnets Written At Sixteen.
by Anna Seward

Disciple of the bright Aonian Maid
In thy life's blossom, a resistless spell
Amid the wild wood, and irriguous dell,
O'er thymy hill, and thro' illumin'd glade,
Led thee, for her thy votive wreaths to braid,
Where flaunts the musk-rose, and the azure bell
Nods o'er loquacious brook, or silent well. - 
Thus woo'd her inspirations, their rapt aid
Liberal she gave; nor only thro' thy strain
Breath'd their pure spirit, while her charms beguil'd
The languid hours of Sorrow, and of Pain,
But when Youth's tide ran high, and tempting smil'd
Circean Pleasure, rescuing did she stand,
Broke the Enchantress' cup and snapt her wand.
1: Then of Sutton Coldfield.