DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead
by William Butler Yeats

Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.
Nicholas Bindle
by Edgar Lee Masters

Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens,
When my estate was probated and everyone knew
How small a fortune I left? - 
You who hounded me in life,
To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor,
To the village! - me who had already given much.
And think you not I did not know
That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church,
Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes,
Who broke and all but ruined me,
Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?
The New Year (Prose)
by John Hartley

What a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it's a new year or a new waist-coit. Aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther'd be if ther wor nowt new.
Solomon sed ther wor nowt new under th' sun; an' he owt to know if onybody did. Maybe he wor reight if we luk at it i' some ways, but aw think it's possible to see it in another leet. If ther wor nowt new, ther'd be nowt to hooap for - nowt to live for but to dee; an' we should lang for that time to come just for th' sake ov a change. Ha anxiously a little child looks forrard to th' time when he's to have a new toy, an' ha he prizes it at furst when he's getten it: but in a while he throws it o' one side an' cries fur summat new. Ha he langs to be as big as his brother, soa's he can have a new bat an' ball; an' his brother langs for th' time when he can leeave schooil an' goa work for his livin'; an' varry likely his fayther's langin' for th' time when he can live withaat workin' - all on 'em langin for summat new. Langill' for things new doesn't prevent us lovin' things at's owd. Who isn't praad ov ther owd fayther, as he sits i' tharm-cheer an' tells long tales abaat what he can remember bein' new? An' who doesn't feel a soothin' kind ov a feelin' come ovver him when his mother's kindly warnin' falls on his ear, as shoo tells him "what-iver he does, net to be soa fond ov ivery thing new?" What a love fowk get for "th' owd haase;" but ther's moor o'th' past nor o'th' futur' i' these feelin's, they're not hopeful, an' its hopeful feelin's at keeps th' world a goin', its hooap at maks us keep o'th' look aat for summat fresh.
Aw've heeard fowk wish for things to keep just as they are, they say they dooant want owt new. What a mistak' they mak! They're wishin' for what ud be th' mooast of a novelty. Things willn't stop as they are, an' it wodn't be reight if they did. It's all weel enuff for them at's feathered ther nest to feel moderate contented, but them at's sufferin' for want ov a meal's mait are all hopin' for a change for th' better. Owd hats an' owd slippers are generally more comfortable nor new ens, an' fowk "wish they'd niver be done," - "they hate owt new" - as if it wodn't be summat new if they could wear 'em withaat 'em bein' done. Young fowk are allus moor anxious for changes nor owd fowk, its likely enuff; like a child wi' a pictur book, watch him turn ovver two or three leaves at th' beginnin', see ha delighted he is; but in a while he turns ovver moor carelessly, an' befoor he gets to th' end he leaves it, wearied with its variety, or falls hard asleep opposite one at wod have fascinated him when he began. Life's nobbut a pictur' book ov another sooart, at th' beginnin' we're delighted wi' ivery fresh leeaf, an' we keep turnin' ovver till at last we get wearied, an' had rayther sit quietly looking at one. But we cannot stop, we ha' to goo throo th' book whether we like it or net, until at last we shut us een an' fall asleep over summat new.
Waiting.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Were we in May now, while
Our souls are yearning,
Sad hearts would bound and smile
With red blood burning;
Around the tedious dial
No slow hands turning.
Were we in May now, say,
What joy to know
Her heart's streams pulse away
In winds that blow,
See graceful limbs of May
Revealed to glow.
Were we in May now, think
What wealth she has;
The dog-tooth violets pink,
Wind-flowers like glass,
About the wood brook's brink
Dark sassafras.
Nights, which the large stars strew
Heav'n on heav'n rolled,
Nights, whose feet flash with dew,
Whose long locks hold
Aromas cool and new,
A moon's curved gold.
This makes me sad in March;
I long and long
To see the red-bud's torch
Flame far and strong,
Hear on my vine-climbed porch
The blue-bird's song.
What else then but to sleep
And cease from such;
Dream of her and to leap
At her white touch?
Ah me! then wake and weep,
Weep overmuch.
This is why day by day
Time lamely crawls,
Feet clogged with winter clay
That never falls,
While the dim month of May
Me far off calls.
The Sonnets CXXV - Were't aught to me I bore the canopy
by William Shakespeare

Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all and more by paying too much rent
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborned informer! a true soul
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control.
Let th' Lasses Alooan!
by John Hartley

What a lot ov advice ther is wasted; - 
What praichin is all thrown away; - 
Young fowk lang for pleasures untasted,
An its little they'll heed what yo say.
Old fowk may have wisdom i' plenty,
But they're apt to forget just one thing;
What suits sixty will hardly fit twenty,
An youth ivver will have its fling.
Old Jenny sat silently freeatin, - 
Sed Alec, "Pray lass, what's to do?"
But his old wife went on wi her knittin,
As if shoo'd a task to get throo.
Then shoo tuk off her specs, and sed sadly,
"Awm capt ha blind some fowk can be;
Ther's reason for me lukkin badly,
But nowt maks a difference to thee."
Ther's awr Reuben, he's hardly turned twenty,
An awr Jim isn't nineteen wol May; - 
Aw provide for em gooid things i plenty,
An ne'er a wrang word to em say;
But they've noa sooiner swoller'd ther drinkin,
Nor they're don'd, an away off they've gooan,
An awm feared, - for aw connot help thinkin,
At they dunnot let th' lasses alooan.
Ther's that forrad young hussy, Sal Sankey,
Awm thankful shoo's noa child o' mine: - 
When awr Reuben's abaat shoo's fair cranky; - 
An shoo's don'd like some grand lady fine.
An Reuben's soa soft he can't see it,
An aw mud as weel praich to a stooan,
He does nowt but grin when aw tell him,
To mind, an let th' lasses alooan.
Awr Jim follers Reuben's example,
He hasn't a morsel o' wit!
An yond lass o' Braans, - shoo's a sample
Ov a gigglin, young impitent chit.
An he'd cheek to tell me shoo wor bonny, - 
One like her!! - Why, shoo's just skin an booan
Awd have better nor her if awd onny,
But he'd better let th' lasses alooan.
"All th' four went to th' meetin last Sundy, - 
Aw dursn't think what they'll do next;
An ther worrit one on em at Mundy
Could tell what th' chap tuk for his text.
Tha may laff, like a child at a bubble,
But thi laff may yet end in a grooan;
For they're sartin to get into trubble,
If they dunnot lei th' lasses alooan."
"Aw connot help laffin, old beauty!
Tho' aw know at tha meeans to do reight;
Tha's nivver neglected thi duty,
An tha's kept thi lads honest an straight.
Just think ha ther father behaved when
He met thee i'th' days at are gooan;
Tha knows ha aw beg'd, an aw slaved, then
To win th' lass at aw ne'er let alooan."
"Aw've nivver regretted that mornin,
When aw made thi mi bonny young bride,
An although we're nah past life's turnin,
We still jog along, side bi side.
We've shared i' booath pleasures an bothers,
An ther's noa reason why we should mooan;
An its folly to try to stop others,
For lads willn't let th' lasses alooan,"
Aedh Wishes His Beloved Were Dead
by William Butler Yeats

Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would beloved that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.
Were Not The Sinful Mary's Tears. (Air.--Stevenson.)
by Thomas Moore

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
She wept--and was forgiven?
When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet
The precious odors poured;--
And wiped them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone;
Tho' now those gems of grief were there
Which shine for GOD alone!
Were not those sweets, so humbly shed--
That hair--those weeping eyes--
And the sunk heart, that inly bled--
Heaven's noblest sacrifice?
Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
"Love much" and be forgiven![1]
Gaein And Comin
by George MacDonald

Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed
The lift was lowerin dreary,
The sun he wadna raise his heid,
The win' blew laich and eerie.
In's pooch he had a plack or twa--
I vow he hadna mony,
Yet Andrew like a linty sang,
For Lizzie was sae bonny!
O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny lassie!
Bonny, saucy hizzy!
What richt had ye to luik at me
And drive me daft and dizzy?
Whan Andrew to Strathbogie cam
The sun was shinin rarely;
He rade a horse that pranced and sprang--
I vow he sat him fairly!
And he had gowd to spen' and spare,
And a hert as true as ony;
But his luik was doon, his sigh was sair,
For Lizzie was sae bonny!
O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzy!
Aih, the sunlicht weary!
Ye're straucht and rare--ye're fause though fair!--
Hech, auld John Armstrong's deary!
The Next Morning.
by Edwin C. Ranck

What a difference in the morning
When you try to raise your head;
When your eyelids seem so heavy
You could swear they were of lead;
When your tongue is thickly coated
And you have an awful thirst;
When you drink so much cold water
That you feel about to burst;
When you lift your hand towards heaven
And solemnly do say:
"I'm going to 'cut out' drinking
And I'll swear off right to-day."
Whare Hae Ye Been.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Killiecrankie."
I.
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O?
O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O?
An' ye had been whare I hae been,
Ye wad na been so cantie, O;
An' ye had seen what I hae seen,
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
II.
I fought at land, I fought at sea;
At hame I fought my auntie, O;
But I met the Devil an' Dundee,
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,
An' Clavers got a clankie, O;
Or I had fed on Athole gled,
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
Two In One
by George MacDonald

Were thou and I the white pinions
On some eager, heaven-born dove,
Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
To our rest of old, my love!
Were thou and I trembling strands
In music's enchanted line,
We would wait and wait for magic hands
To untwist the magic twine.
Were we two sky-tints, thou and I,
Thou the golden, I the red;
We would quiver and glow and darken and die,
And love until we were dead!
Nearer than wings of one dove,
Than tones or colours in chord,
We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love,
Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord.
Her Portrait
by Madison Julius Cawein

Were I an artist, Lydia, I
Would paint you as you merit,
Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;
Not in the flesh, but spirit.
The canvas I would paint you on
Should be a bit of heaven;
My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawn
And night and starry even.
Your form and features to express,
Likewise your soul's chaste whiteness,
I'd take the primal essences
Of darkness and of brightness.
I'd take pure night to paint your hair;
Stars for your eyes; and morning
To paint your skin--the rosy air
That is your limbs' adorning.
To paint the love-bows of your lips,
I'd mix, for colors, kisses;
And for your breasts and finger-tips,
Sweet odors and soft blisses.
And to complete the picture well,
I'd temper all with woman,--
Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,
To show you still are human.
Mr. Roger Dodsworth.
by Thomas Moore

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.
Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc.
Laudator Temporis Acti.
What a lucky turn-up!--just as Eldon's withdrawing,
To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year
Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing
To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer;--
To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone
Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves,
But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,
To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home--
Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;
With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,
And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"
What a God-send to them!--a good, obsolete man,
Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;--
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,
And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.
Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou shalt be their chosen;
And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,
To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,
So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.
And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation
Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he
Has been also laid up in a long congelation,
And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.
Valentines From A Conchologist
by Arthur Macy

Were I a murm'ring ocean shell
Pressed close against your ear,
My constant whisperings would tell
A story sweet to hear.
I'd make the message from the sea
Love's tidings on the shore,
And I would woo with words so true
That you could ask no more.
So if some silvern nautilus
Lay close beside your cheek,
And you should hear a language dear
Unto the heart I seek,
You'll know within the simple shell
That murmurs o'er and o'er
I send to you a love more true
Than e'er was breathed before.
Were you with me, or I with you
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Were you with me, or I with you,
There's nought, methinks, I might not do;
Could venture here, and venture there,
And never fear, nor ever care.
To things before, and things behind,
Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind,
On this and that, day after day,
Could dare to throw myself away.
Secure, when all was o'er, to find
My proper thought, my perfect mind,
And unimpaired receive anew
My own and better self in you.
September 1922
by Alfred Edward Housman

We'll to the weeds no more,
The laurels are all cut,
The bowers are bare of bay
That once the Muses wore;
The year draws in the day
And soon will evening shut:
The laurels all are cut,
We'll to the woods no more.
Oh we'll no more, no more
To the leafy woods away,
To the high wild woods of laurel
And the bowers of bay no more.
The Single-Handed Team
by Edward Dyson

We're more than partners, Ned 'n' me,
Two sections permanently righted.
Yiv seen us on the mooch, maybe,
Like remnants lovin'ly united.
Ned's only got one stump, the left;
By 'appy chance I've got its brother,
Of his two dukes he's been bereft;
My left was mauled, 'n' had to go,
It fortunitly 'appens though,
I kept the other.
Ned lost one ear, the left, 'n' struth,
He dropped the correspondin' weeper.
A Hun he crooled me lovely youth
By bombin' out me right 'and peeper.
He done a guy too with me ear,
The right, 'n' now I dunno whether
'Twas Fate's intention, butt it's clear
When trimmed each as the other's mate
'Twas up to us two, soon or late,
To get together.
'Board ship there's me like arf a peach,
'N' Ned's the other arf, but soon it
Strikes' Bill Carkeek that side by each
We makes a satisfact'rv unit.
A 'andy cobber on the ship
Fakes up for us a set of clutches
That damps us firmly hip to hip.
In seven minutes we can peg
The mile out on a timber leg
'N' two steel crutches.
We now go halves, like Si'mese twins,
'N' as a team I hold we're bosker,
The blighter on the street that grins
Has got to deal with Edwin-Oscar.
At balls we two-step, waltz, 'n' swing,
'N' proppin' walls no one has seen us.
When at the bar I never ring
The double on ole Ned. For both
One hand must serve, 'n', on me oath,
It's fair between us.
We jolt one knife 'n' fork, 'n' find
One horse enough for both to ride on,
And neither feller rides behind.
Some sez we put a pile of side on.
Well, where's the single-handed brace
Will take us on? We'll put the peg in,
Train fine, 'n' jump, or box, or race,
Or wrestle them; 'n' more than that
To clinch a match, so 'elp me cat,
We'll throw a leg in!
He's five feet eight, I'm little less;
He's Roman, I'm a sort of Proddy;
But no sectarian bitterness
Will disunite this sec'lar body,
We're hitched for good, we're two in one.
Our taste's the same, from togs to tipple.
But, straight, it makes me sad, ole son,
To think if he should croak or me,
The pore bloke what is left might be
A bloomin' cripple.
Art And Poetry
by James Whitcomb Riley

TO HOMER DAVENPORT
Wess he says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins!
"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake
Poetry, and no mistake!
"Pictures, allus, 'peared to me,
Clean laid over Poetry!
"Let me draw, and then, i jings,
I'll not keer a straw who sings.
"'F I could draw as you have drew,
Like to jes' swop pens with you!
"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision
Of Life-work in Lands Elysian.
"Pictures is first language we
Find hacked out in History.
"Most delight we ever took
Was in our first Picture-book.
"'Thout the funny picture-makers,
They'd be lots more undertakers!
"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art
'Smighty hard to tell apart.
"Songs and pictures go together
Same as birds and summer weather."
So Wess says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins."
The Song My Paddle Sings
by Emily Pauline Johnson

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
To His Muse.
by Robert Herrick

Were I to give thee baptism, I would choose
To christen thee, the bride, the bashful Muse,
Or Muse of roses: since that name does fit
Best with those virgin-verses thou hast writ:
Which are so clean, so chaste, as none may fear
Cato the censor, should he scan each here.
May Seventeenth (1883)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 78)
Wergeland's statue on May seventeenth
Saw the procession. And as its rear-guard,
Slow marching masses,
Strong men, and women with flower-decked presence;
Come now the peasants, come now the peasants.
'sterdal's forest's magnificent chieftain
Bore the old banner. Soon as we see it
Blood-red uplifted,
Greet it the thousands in thought of its story:
That is our glory, that is our glory!
Never that lion bore crown that was foreign,
Never that cloth was by Dannebrog cloven.
I saw the future,
When with that banner by Wergeland's column
Peasants stood solemn, peasants stood solemn.
Most of our loss in the times that have vanished,
Most of our victories, most of our longing,
Most that is vital:
Deeds of the past and the future's bold daring
Peasants are bearing, peasants are bearing.
Sorely they suffered for sins once committed,
But they arise now. Here in the Storting
Stalwart they prove it,
All, as they come from our land's every region,
Peasants Norwegian, peasants Norwegian.
Hold what they won, with a will to go farther;
Whole we must have independence and honor!
All of us know it:
Wergeland's summer bears soon its best flower, - 
Power in peasants, peasants in power.
Song At Santa Cruz
by Francis Brett Young

Were there lovers in the lanes of Atlantis:
Meeting lips and twining fingers
In the mild Atlantis springtime?
How should I know
If there were lovers in the lanes of Atlantis
When the dark sea drowned her mountains
Many ages ago?
Were there poets in the paths of Atlantis:
Eager poets, seeking beauty
To adorn the women they worshipped?
How can I say
If there were poets in the paths of Atlantis?
For the waters that drowned her mountains
Washed their beauty away.
Were there women in the ways of Atlantis:
Foolish women, who loved, as I do,
Dreaming that mortal love was deathless?
Ask me not now
If there were women in the ways of Atlantis:
There was no woman in all her mountains
Wonderful as thou!
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - LV
by Alfred Edward Housman

Westward on the high-hilled plains
Where for me the world began,
Still, I think, in newer veins
Frets the changeless blood of man.
Now that other lads than I
Strip to bathe on Severn shore,
They, no help, for all they try,
Tread the mill I trod before.
There, when hueless is the west
And the darkness hushes wide,
Where the lad lies down to rest
Stands the troubled dream beside.
There, on thoughts that once were mine,
Day looks down the eastern steep,
And the youth at morning shine
Makes the vow he will not keep.
Sadowa - July 1866.
by John Campbell

Wet, cheerless was our bivouac last eve, but still we spoke
Of fighting and of winning, to-morrow, when day broke:
That day the thundering echoes of cannon in our front
Had louder grown until around had raged the battle's brunt
At last the carnage ended, and our regiment's retreat
Was marked by many wounded, who shrieked beneath our feet!
But here in closer order rides past a Lancer Troop--
They had but late been charging like falcons when they swoop.
How few there are remaining! Now the river's bank is gained;
The Trumpeter's white charger with blood on neck is stained.
His snowy flanks are heaving; he shudders on the brink,
Then, gently urged, he halts again, and stoops his head to drink.
He cannot ford the river, for lost are strength and speed:
The Trumpeter, dismounted, now swims beside his steed.
Together they have struggled; he will not let him die,
And soon he stands beside him though the balls are rushing by.
He takes him by the bridle;--would lead him to the town,--
Too late,--for life is ebbing,--the gallant steed is down!
Ah! long I saw that horseman kneel by his charger's head,
And when at last he left him, I knew the horse was dead.
How fiercely as he passes that comrade on the plain,
Remounted on the morrow, shall sound the "charge" again!