DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Fox And Crane.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Once two persons uninvited
Came to join my dinner table;
For the nonce they lived united,
Fox and crane yclept in fable.
Civil greetings pass'd between us
Then I pluck'd some pigeons tender
For the fox of jackal-genius,
Adding grapes in full-grown splendour.
Long-neck'd flasks I put as dishes
For the crane, without delaying,
Fill'd with gold and silver fishes,
In the limpid water playing.
Had ye witness'd Reynard planted
At his flat plate, all demurely,
Ye with envy must have granted:
"Ne'er was such a gourmand, surely!"
While the bird with circumspection
On one foot, as usual, cradled,
From the flasks his fish-refection
With his bill and long neck ladled.
One the pigeons praised, the other,
As they went, extoll'd the fishes,
Each one scoffing at his brother
For preferring vulgar dishes.
*        *        *
If thou wouldst preserve thy credit,
When thou askest folks to guzzle
At thy hoard, take care to spread it
Suited both for bill and muzzle.
Remembrance.
by Jean Blewett

"Once they were lovers," says the world, "with young hearts all aglow;
They have forgotten," says the world, "forgotten long ago."
Between ourselves - just whisper it - the old world does not know.
They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes
Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.
Toadstools
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Once when it had rained all night
And all day, the next day, why,
In our yard, a lot of white,
Dumpy toadstools grew close by
Our old peach tree: some were high,
Peak'd, like half-shut parasols;
Others round and low, like balls,
Little hollow balls; and I
Called my father to the tree:
And he said, "I tell you what:
Fairies have been here, you see.
This is just the kind of spot
Fairies love to live in. Those
Are their houses, I suppose.
II.
"Yes, those surely are their huts!
Built of moon and mist and rain,
Such dim stuff as Elfland puts
In her buildings. Come again,
And, like castles built in Spain,
They are nowhere. But to-night,
Sliding down the moon's slim light,
Or snail-straddled, in a train
You may see the elves, perhaps,
Clad in gossamer garments, come;
Some in morning-glory caps,
And in tulip bonnets some.
If you watch, I have no doubt,
You will see them all come out.
III.
"Long of leg as grasshoppers,
Or as katydids, oh, ho!
Here they'll sit; the bachelors
By the spinsters, row on row,
Kissing when the moon is low:
You may hear their kisses sound
Faint as raindrops on the ground,
Dropped by flow'rs that overflow,
Flow'rs whose heads the rain weighs down.
Or, perhaps, to twinkling tunes,
Tiny as their tiny town,
See them dance wild rigadoons
Creaked by crickets; singing, too,
Serenades as thin as dew.
IV.
"Or hobgoblins here may rise,
Snail-faced, spider-legged, you see;
Eyed with glowworm-glowing eyes,
Lidless slits of flame. . Maybe,
Gnarled of back and knobbed of knee,
Tadpole-paunched, you'll see the gnomes
Waddle from their toadstool homes;
While the frogs industriously
Twang their big bass-violins,
And the screech-owl's bagpipes shriek:
While their eyes, like points of pins,
Glitter, great-nosed beak to beak,
Here you'll see them squat and blink
Till it'd freeze your blood, I think." .... .
V.
Won't have any goblins here!
With their eyes like upright slits,
Parrot-nosed and flopped of ear,
And a grin that cracks and splits
Wide their faces, never quits,
Faces all one wart or wen!
So I got a stick and then
Knocked those toadstools into bits.
And my father said, "Well! well!
Now you've spoiled your only chance
It will never do to tell!
To behold the fairies dance,
And those grinning goblins, too.
Wonder what got into you!"
The Little He And She.
by Lizzie Lawson

Once there lived, I'm not sure where,
May be Arcadee,
Sweet-Heart and his mistress fair,
Little He and She;
And they danced a measure light,
Danced in very glee.
Hand in hand, a pretty sight,
Little He and She.
When they ceased his bright eyes fell,
Darling must we stay?
Can't we dance so happily
You and I for aye?
Then she clasped his hand again,
Whispered sweet and low,
"Dearest, always hand in hand
You and I will go."
So they danced with merry feet,
E'en in Arcadee,
Happier pair you ne'er will meet,
Little He and She.
The Loons.
by Archibald Lampman

Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,
Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray,
Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay
Floating at rest; but that was long of yore.
He was too good for earthly men; he bore
Their bitter deeds for many a patient day,
And then at last he took his unseen way.
He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:
And now, though many hundred altering years
Have passed, among the desolate northern meres
Still must ye search and wander querulously,
Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light
With wierd entreaties, and in agony
With awful laughter pierce the lonely night.
Tynwald Hill
by William Wordsworth

Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound
(Still marked with green turf circles narrowing
Stage above stage) would sit this Island's King,
The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned:
While, compassing the little mount around,
Degrees and Orders stood, each under each:
Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach
The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found.
Off with yon cloud, old Snafell! that thine eye
Over three Realms may take its widest range;
And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange
Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy,
If the whole State must suffer mortal change
Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty.
Found.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

ONCE through the forest
Alone I went;
To seek for nothing
My thoughts were bent.
I saw i' the shadow
A flower stand there
As stars it glisten'd,
As eyes 'twas fair.
I sought to pluck it, 
It gently said:
"Shall I be gather'd
Only to fade?"
With all its roots
I dug it with care,
And took it home
To my garden fair.
In silent corner
Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,
There blooms it yet.
Verses Written In The Folio Album Of A Learned Friend.
by Friedrich Schiller

Once wisdom dwelt in tomes of ponderous size,
While friendship from a pocketbook would talk;
But now that knowledge in small compass lies,
And floats in almanacs, as light as cork,
Courageous man, thou dost not hesitate
To open for thy friends this house so great!
Hast thou no fear, I seriously would ask,
That thou may'st thus their patience overtask?
The Court Of Death.
by John Gay

Once on a time, in solemn state,
Death, in his pomp of terror, sate.
Attendant on his gloomy reign,
Sadness and Madness, Woe and Pain,
His vassal train. With hollow tone
The tyrant muttered from his throne:
"We choose a minister to-night;
Let him who wills prefer his right,
And unto the most worthy hand
We will commit the ebon wand."
Fever stood forth: "And I appeal
To weekly bills to show my zeal.
Repelled, repulsed, I persevere;
Often quotidian through a year."
Gout next appeared to urge his claim
For the racked joints of tortured frame:
He, too, besieged the man oppressed,
Nor would depart, although suppressed.
Then Rheumatics stept forth, and said:
"I plague them as they lie in bed."
Whilst Palsy said: "I make them stumble;
When they get up, I make them tumble."
Then quick Consumption, slow Decline,
Put in their claims, on counts malign;
And Plague preferred his rapid power
To weed a nation in an hour.
At the first pause, the monarch said:
"Merit of modesty was bred.
Does no physician strive with these?
Physicians are content with fees.
I say, give Drunkenness the wand;
There, give it to his drunken hand.
For wary men, as foes, detest
You, Rheumatics - who break their rest - 
Fever, and Gout, who here contend;
But Drunkenness they think their friend,
Invite him to their feasts: he shares
Alike their merriments and cares.
He for another magnum calls
At weddings, births, and funerals."
Truth And Falsehood. A Tale
by Matthew Prior

Once on a time, in sunshine weather,
Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighbouring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do:
Through many a blooming mead they pass'd,
And at a brook arrived at last:
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid
To rest a while beneath the shade;
Under a spreading beech they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
While each her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, Sister Truth,
For so she call'd her from her youth,
What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream,
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?
With all my heart, the nymph replied,
And threw her snowy robes aside,
Stripp'd herself naked to the skin,
And with a spring leapp'd headlong in.
Falsehood more leisurely undress'd,
And laying by her tawdry vest,
Trick'd herself out in Truth's array,
And cross the meadows tripp'd away.
From this cursed hour the fraudful dame
Of sacred Truth usurps the name,
And with a vile perfidious mind
Roams far and near to cheat mankind;
False sighs suborns, and artful tears,
And starts with vain pretended fears,
In visits vain still appears most wise,
And rolls at church her saint-like eyes;
Talks very much, plays idle tricks,
While rising stock her conscience pricks;
When being, poor thing, extremely gravell'd,
She secrets ope'd, and all unravell'd.
But on she will, and secrets tell
Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell,
Reviling every one she knows,
As fancy leads, beneath the rose.
Her tongue so voluble and kind
It always runs before her mind;
As times do serve she slily pleads,
And copious tears still show her needs,
With promises as thick as weeds, 
Speaks pro and con, is wondrous civil,
To-day a saint, to-morrow devil.
Poor Truth she stripp'd, as has been said,
And naked left the lovely maid,
Who, scorning from her cause to wince,
Has gone stark naked ever since,
And ever naked will appear,
Beloved by all who Truth revere.
What The Trees Said To The Little Boy
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Once when the park
Was very dark
I slipped out and went walking;
And heard the trees
To the summer breeze,
And to each other talking.
II.
And I heard them say,
"We have stood all day
In one spot here, and worried
To keep the sun
From each little one
Who laughed at our feet or hurried.
III.
"Now every boy
And girl and toy
Is safe at home, my patience!
Why! I and you,
As their parents do,
Can talk of our relations."
A Ripple Song
by Rudyard Kipling

Once red ripple came to land
In the golden sunset burning,
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.
Dainty foot and gentle breast,
Here, across, be glad and rest.
"Maiden, wait," the ripplee saith;
"Wait awhile, for I am Death!"
"Where my lover calls I go,
Shame it were to treat him coldly,
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly."
Dainty foot and tender heart,
Wait the loaded ferry-raft.
"Wait, ah, wait!" the ripple saith;
"Maiden, wait, for I am Death!"
"When my lover calls I haste,
Dame Disdain was never wedded!"
Ripple-ripple round her waist,
Clear the current eddied.
Foolish heart and faithfut hand,
Little feet that touched no land.
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple-ripple runnin red!
The Man And His Image (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

Once there was a man who loved himself very much, and who permitted himself no rivals in that love. He thought his face and figure the handsomest in all the world. Anything in the shape of a mirror that could show him his own likeness he took care to avoid; for he did not want to be reminded that perhaps he was over-rating his beauty. For this reason he hated looking-glasses and accused them of being false. He made a very great mistake in this respect; but that he did not mind, being quite content to live in the happiness the mistake afforded him.
To cure him of so grievous an error, officious Fate managed matters in such a way that wherever he turned his eyes they would fall on one of those mute little counsellors that ladies carry and appeal to when they are anxious about their appearance. He found mirrors in the houses; mirrors in the shops; mirrors in the pockets of gallants; mirrors even as ornaments on waist-belts of ladies.
What was he to do - this poor Narcissus? He thought to avoid all such things by going far away from haunts of mankind, where he should never have to face a mirror again. But in the woods to which he retreated a clear rivulet ran. Into this he happened to look and - saw himself again. Angrily he told himself that his eyes had been deluded by an idle fancy. Henceforth he would keep away from the water! This he tried his utmost to do; but who can resist the beauty of a woodland stream? There he was and remained, always with that which he had determined to shun.
My meaning is easily seen. It applies to everybody; for everybody takes some joy in harbouring this very error. The man in love with himself stands for the soul of each one of us. All the mirrors wherein he saw himself reflected stand for the faults of other people, in which we really see our own faults though we hate to recognise them as such. As for the brook, that, as every one knows, stands for the book of maxims which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld[1] wrote.
Song Of The Men's Side
by Rudyard Kipling

Once we feared The Beast when he followed us we ran,
Ran very fast though we knew
It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?
The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears 
Grinned at the hammers that we made;
But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife 
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!
Room for his shadow on the grass let it pass!
To left and right-stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Tyr thought hard till he hammered our a plan,
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
"The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!"
And that was the price he paid.
Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead run ahead!
Shout it so the Women's Side can hear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond, 
We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,
Feet-in-the-Night have run!
Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr, aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!
Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass-let it pass!
To left and to right stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Kith And Kin
by Paul Cameron Brown

Once there was a giant
who lived in a kneecap,
a peculiar giant at that
who expelled all reality
as a pig might a poke.
Not concerned with the dilemma
of easing life's toothpaste form
into dental crustings or
oblivion's dark shadows
from lightless paths,
the giant assumed guardianship
over his fibro-tissual home.
The giant could be seen
ferrying dwarfed bones
over the inter causal dome
of flesh and blood.
At times, he substituted
a remarkable likeness
for his kith and kin
by dumping calloused cushions,
too long cousins
of the diaper rash effect
bunions, corns,
carbuncles
eager to roam
the padlocked sockets
between distant fibula
and tibia.
Poor femur, of course, was
outraged against carpals
and the growing phalanx
arrangement of
distant phalanges.
Even the metatarsals
were girdled in
righteous indignation
committed against their person
by a maverick masquerading
in pelvic insubordination.
Altogether the body contains 206 bones.
It is rumoured none contain
a giant of his capacity, notoriety, or effect.
A Legend Of Truth
by Rudyard Kipling

Once on a time, the ancient legends tell,
Truth, rising from the bottom of her well,
Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied,
Returned to her seclusion horrified.
There she abode, so conscious of her worth,
Not even Pilate's Question called her forth,
Nor Galileo, kneeling to deny
The Laws that hold our Planet 'neath the sky.
Meantime, her kindlier sister, whom men call
Fiction, did all her work and more than all,
With so much zeal, devotion, tact, and care,
That no one noticed Truth was otherwhere.
Then came a War when, bombed and gassed and mined,
Truth rose once more, perforce, to meet mankind,
And through the dust and glare and wreck of things,
Beheld a phantom on unbalanced wings,
Reeling and groping, dazed, dishevelled, dumb,
But semaphoring direr deeds to come.
Truth hailed and bade her stand; the quavering shade
Clung to her knees and babbled, "Sister, aid!
I am I was thy Deputy, and men
Besought me for my useful tongue or pen
To gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied,
And they, and thy demands, were satisfied.
But this " she pointed o'er the blistered plain,
Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain 
"This is beyond me! Take thy work again."
Tablets and pen transferred, she fled afar,
And Truth assumed the record of the War...
She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tell
Facts beyond precedent and parallel 
Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write,
But happening every minute, day and night.
She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew.
She marked them, first, "Return. This can't be true."
Then, underneath the cold official word:
"This is not really half of what occurred."
She faced herself at last, the story runs,
And telegraphed her sister: "Come at once.
Facts out of hand. Unable overtake
Without your aid. Come back for Truth's own sake!
Co-equal rank and powers if you agree.
They need us both, but you far more than me!"
The Runaway
by Robert Lee Frost

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, 'Whose colt?'
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted to us. And then we saw him bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow across instead of behind the flakes.
The little fellow's afraid of the falling snow.
He never saw it before. It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
He wouldn't believe when his mother told him, 'Sakes,
It's only weather.' He thought she didn't know!
So this is something he has to bear alone
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone,
He mounts the wall again with whited eyes
Dilated nostrils, and tail held straight up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When all other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in.'
Song Of The Men's Side
by Rudyard Kipling

Once we feared The Beast, when he followed us we ran,
Ran very fast though we knew
It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?
The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears,
Grinned at the hammers that we made;
But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife,
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!
Room for his shadow on the grass, let it pass
To left and right, stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade, be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan,
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
'The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!'
And that was the price he paid.
Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead, run ahead!
Shout it so the Women's Side can hear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade, be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond.
We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For Shepherd of the Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,
Feet-in-the-Night have run!
Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr, aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!
Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass, let it pass!
To left and right, stand clear!.
This is the Buyer of the Blade, be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
Education (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

Once upon a time there were two dogs, one named Lurcher and the other C'sar. They were brothers; handsome, well-built, and plucky, and descended from dogs who were famous in their day. These two brothers, falling into the hands of different masters, found their destinies likewise in different spheres; for whilst one haunted the forests, the other lurched about a kitchen.
The names to which they now answered were not, however, the names that were first given them. The influence of each one's career upon his nature brought about a new name and a new reputation; for C'sar's nature was improved and strengthened by the life he led, whilst Lurcher's was made more and more despicable by a degraded existence. A scullion named him Lurcher; but the other dog received his noble name on account of his life of high adventure. He had held many a stag at bay, killed many a hare, and otherwise risen to the position of a C'sar among dogs. Care was taken that he should not mate indiscriminately, so that his descendants' blood should not degenerate. On the other hand, poor Lurcher bestowed his affections wherever he would and his brood became populous. He was the progenitor of all turn-spits in France; a variety which became common enough to form at last a race in themselves. They show more readiness to flee than to attack, and are the very antipodes of the C'sars.
We do not always follow our ancestors, nor even resemble our fathers. Want of care, the flight of time, a thousand things, cause us to degenerate.
Ah! how many, C'sars, failing to cultivate their best nature and their gifts, become Lurchers!
Spring
by Walter De La Mare

Once when my life was young,
I, too, with Spring's bright face
By mine, walked softly along,
Pace to his pace.
Then burned his crimson may,
Like a clear flame outspread,
Arching our happy way:
Then would he shed
Strangely from his wild face
Wonderful light on me - 
Like hounds that keen in chase
Their quarry see.
Oh, sorrow now to know
What shafts, what keenness cold
His are to pierce me through,
Now that I'm old.
The Battle-Field.
by William Cullen Bryant

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! I never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown, yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.