DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Clover
by James Whitcomb Riley

Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.
And so I love clover - it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume
Mending Wall
by Robert Lee Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."
A Twist Of "Natural Leaf."
by George W. Doneghy

Some sing of the lily, some sing of the rose,
Some sing of each flower in beauty that blows;
But sing me a song that shall render its meed
To the fragrance and aroma found in a weed,
Which banishes care and mitigates grief--
I mean a big twist of old "natural leaf!"
When sorrow's dark mantle the spirit doth wear,
And the heart is oppressed with the demon of care,
Then get out your pipe and its magic invoke
And all of your troubles will vanish in smoke!
O, you who have tried it will know what I mean
When the praises I sing of a hank of long green!
Since the days of King James and his old counterblast
Its sway of all classes has ever held fast,
And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live
In remembrance as sweet as affection can give,
And the incense we burn is an offering seen
In wreaths of blue smoke from a twist of long green!
Now some may advise you and others may swear
That nicotine poison your nerves will impair,
And if from the weed you'd just kept aloof
From heartburn and palsy you'd surely been proof--
For a man who had died at a hundred fifteen
Was hastened away by smoking long green!
But a cigar, a pipe, or a good juicy chew
Will yield you more comfort than harm they will do,
And murder the microbes that float in the air,
And make magical dreams in the old arm-chair,
If you will remember, and never forget,
To just draw the line at a vile cigarette!
O'er the Mountains.
by George Pope Morris

Some spirit wafts our mountain lay--
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
To distant groves and glens away!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the tide of empire flows--
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Rejoicing as it westward goes!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
To refresh our weary way
Gush the crystal fountains,
As a pilgrim band we stray
Cheerly o'er the mountains.
The woodland rings with song and shout!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
As though a fairy hunt were out!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the voice of woman cheers--
Ho! boys, hili ho!
The hearts of hardy mountaineers!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Like the glow of northern skies
Mirrored in the fountains,
Beams the love-light of fond eyes,
As we cross the mountains.
Mrs. Merdle Accepteth Of A Slight Dinner, Suitable For A Woman Suffering With Dyspepsia.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Some turkey? why yes--the least mite will suffice;
A side bone and dressing and bit of the breast;
The tip of the rump--that's it--and one o' the fli's--
In spite of the doctor: my appetite's none of the best,
And so I must pamper the delicate thing,
And tickle a fancy that's very capricious
With bits of a turkey, the breast or the wing,
With beef very tender, and gravy delicious.
Some beef now? I thank you, not any at present;
I'll nibble a little at what I have got,
And wish for a duck, or a grouse, or a pheasant,
Though none of them come for a wish, in the pot.
The Martinet.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Some time ago, in simple verse
I sang the story true
Of Captain Reece, the Mantelpiece,
And all her happy crew.
I showed how any captain may
Attach his men to him,
If he but heeds their smallest needs,
And studies every whim.
Now mark how, by Draconic rule
And hauteur ill-advised,
The noblest crew upon the Blue
May be demoralized.
When his ungrateful country placed
Kind Reece upon half-pay,
Without much claim Sir Berkely came,
And took command one day.
Sir Berkely was a martinet -
A stern unyielding soul -
Who ruled his ship by dint of whip
And horrible black-hole.
A sailor who was overcome
From having freely dined,
And chanced to reel when at the wheel,
He instantly confined!
And tars who, when an action raged,
Appeared alarmed or scared,
And those below who wished to go,
He very seldom spared.
E'en he who smote his officer
For punishment was booked,
And mutinies upon the seas
He rarely overlooked.
In short, the happy Mantelpiece,
Where all had gone so well,
Beneath that fool Sir Berkely's rule
Became a floating hell.
When first Sir Berkely came aboard
He read a speech to all,
And told them how he'd made a vow
To act on duty's call.
Then William Lee, he up and said
(The Captain's coxswain he),
"We've heard the speech your honour's made,
And werry pleased we be.
"We won't pretend, my lad, as how
We're glad to lose our Reece;
Urbane, polite, he suited quite
The saucy Mantelpiece.
"But if your honour gives your mind
To study all our ways,
With dance and song we'll jog along
As in those happy days.
"I like your honour's looks, and feel
You're worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad I'm doosid glad
To welcome you aboard!"
Sir Berkely looked amazed, as though
He didn't understand.
"Don't shake your head," good William said,
"It is an honest hand.
"It's grasped a better hand than yourn -
Come, gov'nor, I insist!"
The Captain stared the coxswain glared -
The hand became a fist!
"Down, upstart!" said the hardy salt;
But Berkely dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
The seamen murmured "Shame!"
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,
Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
Be used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess,
Nor asked them to his own,
But chaffed in gay and social way
The officers alone.
His First Lieutenant, Peter, was
As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
When there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to be
His foster-sister May,
Who went to sea for love of he
In masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact,
Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears or end her fears
By marrying her? No!
Or did he even try to soothe
This maiden in her teens?
Oh, no! instead he made her wed
The Sergeant of Marines!
Of course such Spartan discipline
Would make an angel fret;
They drew a lot, and William shot
This fearful martinet.
The Admiralty saw how ill
They'd treated Captain Reece;
He was restored once more aboard
The saucy Mantelpiece.
His Answer To A Question.
by Robert Herrick

Some would know
Why I so
Long still do tarry,
And ask why
Here that I
Live and not marry.
Thus I those
Do oppose:
What man would be here
Slave to thrall,
If at all
He could live free here?
Sonnets: Idea XXXIX
by Michael Drayton

Some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell,
With flames and lightnings their exordiums paint.
Some call on heaven, some invocate on hell,
And Fates and Furies, with their woes acquaint.
Elizium is too high a seat for me,
I will not come in Styx or Phlegethon,
The thrice-three Muses but too wanton be,
Like they that lust, I care not, I will none.
Spiteful Erinnys frights me with her looks,
My manhood dares not with foul Ate mell,
I quake to look on Hecate's charming books,
I still fear bugbears in Apollo's cell.
I pass not for Minerva, nor Astrea,
Only I call on my divine Idea!
Her Valentine
by James Whitcomb Riley

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me.
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree,
And hovering above them - just as cute as he can be -
Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.
And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee,
With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly
At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see
That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is meant for me.
But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C! -
For the roses they are blushing, and the vase stands awkwardly,
And the little god above it - though as cute as he can be -
Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love for me.
Sonnet.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
The giant hills of doubting reach the skies,
Abiding shadows bring eternal night,
And on my ways no suns of morning rise;
Dark mysteries across the years of might
Crush down my hopes, until each yearning dies,
Until my soul is weary, dim my sight,
And ghostly echoes mock my fainting cries.
Ah, I shall know beyond these narrow years,
The glorious mornings of eternal day,
Where perfect love and tender trust shall play,
And smiles and laughter banish all the tears,
And all the heavy mists of doubts and fears
Shall leave my longing soul somehow, someway!
Sonnet XXIV.
by Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa

Something in me was born before the stars
And saw the sun begin from far away.
Our yellow, local day on its wont jars,
For it hath communed with an absolute day.
Through my Thought's night, as a worn robe's heard trail
That I have never seen, I drag this past
That saw the Possible like a dawn grow pale
On the lost night before it, mute and vast.
It dates remoter than God's birth can reach,
That had no birth but the world's coming after.
So the world's to me as, after whispered speech,
The cause-ignored sudden echoing of laughter.
That 't has a meaning my conjecture knows,
But that 't has meaning's all its meaning shows.
The Cow In Apple-Time
by Robert Lee Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
Limited Liability
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Some seven men form an Association
(If possible, all Peers and Baronets),
They start off with a public declaration
To what extent they mean to pay their debts.
That's called their Capital:    if they are wary
They will not quote it at a sum immense.
The figure's immaterial - it may vary
From eighteen million down to eighteenpence.
I should put it rather low;
The good sense of doing so
Will be evident at once to any debtor.
When it's left to you to say
What amount you mean to pay,
Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.
They then proceed to trade with all who'll trust 'em,
Quite irrespective of their capital
(It's shady, but it's sanctified by custom);
Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.
You can't embark on trading too tremendous -
It's strictly fair, and based on common sense -
If you succeed, your profits are stupendous -
And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.
Make the money-spinner spin!
For you only stand to win,
And you'll never with dishonesty be twitted.
For nobody can know,
To a million or so,
To what extent your capital's committed!
If you come to grief, and creditors are craving
(For nothing that is planned by mortal head
Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow - saving
That one's Liability is Limited), -
Do you suppose that signifies perdition?
If so you're but a monetary dunce -
You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,
And start another Company at once!
Though a Rothschild you may be
In your own capacity,
As a Company you've come to utter sorrow -
But the Liquidators say,
"Never mind - you needn't pay,"
So you start another Company to-morrow!
Nursery Rhyme. CXLVI. Songs.
by Unknown

[From 'Histrio-mastix, or, the Player Whipt,' 4to, Lond. 1610. Mr. Rimbault tells me this is common in Yorkshire.]
Some up, and some down,
There's players in the town,
You wot well who they be;
The sun doth arise,
To three companies,
One, two, three, four, make wee!
Besides we that travel,
With pumps full of gravel,
Made all of such running leather:
That once in a week,
New masters we seek,
And never can hold together.
Unanswered
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Something compels me, somewhere.    Yet I see
No clear command in Life's long mystery.
Oft have I flung myself beside my horse,
To drink the water from the roadside mire,
And felt the liquid through my being course,
Stilling the anguish of my thirst's desire.
A simple want; so easily allayed;
After the burning march; water and shade.
Also I lay against the loved one's heart
Finding fulfilment in that resting-place,
Feeling my longing, quenched, was but a part
Of nature's ceaseless striving for the race.
But now, I know not what they would with me;
Matter or Force or God, if Gods there be.
I wait; I question; Nature heeds me not.
She does but urge in answer to my prayer,
"Arise and do!"    Alas, she adds not what;
"Arise and go!"    Alas, she says not where!
My Friends.
by W. M. MacKeracher

"My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day."
- Southey.
Some to and fro for converse flit
And on their friends intrude,
Or shun society and sit
In cheerless solitude;
But I can sit, when night descends,
At home among a thousand friends.
The garish day is left behind,
The scurry and the din;
The hours of toil are out of mind,
As if they had not been.
No thought of morrow that impends
Comes in between me and my friends.
We reck not of the flight of time,
To them a subject strange;
They pass their days in a sublime
Indifference to change:
Theirs is the life that never ends;
Immortal beings are my friends.
They toil not, neither do they spin;
Yet none is meanly drest;
And some are clad in costly skin,
And some in silken vest;
And everyone who sees commends
The decent habits of my friends.
And some are short, and some are tall;
Some portly, and some spare;
Here is a group of pygmies small,
A Tom Thumb family; there
A Brobdingnagian row extends,
The best-informed among my friends.
Wot one among them all is low,
A fellow to be spurned;
And none is ever rude, although
Their backs are often turned.
No observation that offends
Is dropped by any of my friends.
And some are steeped in classic lore;
Some brim with wisdom sage;
And some can trace a far-off shore,
Or paint a former age;
And each his talent freely lends,
For talented are all my friends.
Some tell of deeds and lives sublime
And triumphs over foes;
Some weave a spell of lofty rhyme,
Some charm with stately prose;
And here and there a mind unbends
Familiarly among my friends.
In diction antiquated, quaint,
Or with a modern sound,
They speak their thoughts without restraint,
Although they're mostly bound;
And cease to speak when none attends,
A valued feature of my friends.
Although they shun the thoughtless crowd,
The frivolous disdain,
Their titles have not made them proud,
Nor all their pages vain;
No common mortal less pretends,
None can be opener than my friends.
They care not that they've all been cut,
A number by myself,
And often taken down, and put
As often on the shelf;
My estimation makes amends
For such ill-treatment of my friends.
An ever-fresh, unfailing source
Of thought and sympathy,
What hours of goodly intercourse
They have afforded me!
I cannot doubt that heaven still sends
Us angels while I have my friends.
If he who sits at home in gloom,
Or rushes here and there,
Will put a bookshelf in his room
And furnish it with care,
He'll bless the evenings that he spends
With such companions as my friends.
The Lion.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Some time ago, a sultan Leopard,
By means of many a rich escheat,
Had many an ox in meadow sweet,
And many a stag in forest, fleet,
And (what a savage sort of shepherd!)
Full many a sheep upon the plains,
That lay within his wide domains.
Not far away, one morn,
There was a lion born.
Exchanged high compliments of state,
As is the custom with the great,
The sultan call'd his vizier Fox,
Who had a deeper knowledge-box,
And said to him, 'This lion's whelp you dread;
What can he do, his father being dead?
Our pity rather let him share,
An orphan so beset with care.
The luckiest lion ever known,
If, letting conquest quite alone,
He should have power to keep his own.'
Sir Renard said,
And shook his head,
'Such orphans, please your majesty,
Will get no pity out of me.
We ought to keep within his favour,
Or else with all our might endeavour
To thrust him out of life and throne,
Ere yet his claws and teeth are grown.
There's not a moment to be lost.
His horoscope I've cast;
He'll never quarrel to his cost;
But then his friendship fast
Will be to friends of greater worth
Than any lion's e'er on earth.
Try then, my liege, to make it ours,
Or else to check his rising powers.'
The warning fell in vain.
The sultan slept; and beasts and men
Did so, throughout his whole domain,
Till lion's whelp became a lion.
Then came at once the tocsin cry on,
Alarm and fluttering consternation.
The vizier call'd to consultation,
A sigh escaped him as he said,
'Why all this mad excitement now,
When hope is fled, no matter how?
A thousand men were useless aid, - 
The more, the worse, - since all their power
Would be our mutton to devour.
Appease this lion; sole he doth exceed
The helpers all that on us feed.
And three hath he, that cost him nought - 
His courage, strength, and watchful thought.
Quick send a wether for his use:
If not contented, send him more;
Yes, add an ox, and see you choose
The best our pastures ever bore.
Thus save the rest.' - But such advice
The sultan spurn'd, as cowardice.
And his, and many states beside,
Did ills, in consequence, betide.
However fought this world allied,
The beast maintain'd his power and pride.
If you must let the lion grow,
Don't let him live to be your foe.
The Dawn Patrol
by Paul Bewsher

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,
Where, underneath, the restless waters flow - 
Silver, and cold, and slow.
Dim in the East there burns a new-born sun,
Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run,
Save where the mist droops low,
Hiding the level loneliness from me.
And now appears beneath the milk-white haze
A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie
In clustered company,
And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep,
Although the day has long begun to peep,
With red-inflam'd eye,
Along the still, deserted ocean ways.
The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face
As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly,
And watch the seas glide by.
Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies,
And far removed from warlike enterprise - 
Like some great gull on high
Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.
Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone,
High in the virgin morn, so white and still,
And free from human ill:
My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints - 
As though I sang among the happy Saints
With many a holy thrill - 
As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.
My flight is done. I cross the line of foam
That breaks around a town of grey and red,
Whose streets and squares lie dead
Beneath the silent dawn - then am I proud
That England's peace to guard I am allowed; - 
Then bow my humble head,
In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.
Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917.
The Lantern out of Doors
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Sometimes a lantern moves along the night,
That interests our eyes. And who goes there?
I think; where from and bound, I wonder, where,
With, all down darkness wide, his wading light?
Men go by me whom either beauty bright
In mould or mind or what not else makes rare:
They rain against our much-thick and marsh air
Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.
Death or distance soon consumes them: wind
What most I may eye after, be in at the end
I cannot, and out of sight is out of mind.
Christ minds: Christ's interest, what to avow or amend
There, 'yes them, heart w'nts, care ha'nts, foot f'llows k'nd,
Their r'nsom, th'ir rescue, 'nd first, f'st, last fri'nd.
Sometimes my Heart by cruel Care Opprest.
by W. M. MacKeracher

to -----
Sometimes my heart by cruel care opprest
Faints from the weight of woe upon my breast,
My soul embittered far beyond belief; -
As damned one, drinking galling draughts of grief,
Which boils and burns within without relief,
While fervid flames inflict the wounds unhealed,
With hellish horrors not to man revealed;
When Peace and Joy seem wrapt in sable shrouds,
And young Hope's heaven is black with lowering clouds
'Tis then thy vision comes before my view,
'Tis then I see those beaming eyes of blue,
And hear thy gentle voice in accents kind,
And see thy cheerful smile before my mind;
And taking heart, I battle on anew;
And thank my God for sending to my soul
His own blest, soothing balm of peace again,
Who sometimes still as in the days of old
By angels sends His blessings down to men.
As By Fire.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning
For spiritual perfection here below,
This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning,
Seems my determined foe,
So actively it makes a stern resistance,
So cruelly sometimes it wages war
Against a wholly spiritual existence
Which I am striving for.
It interrupts my soul's intense devotions;
Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth,
With a swift rush of violent emotions
Which link me to the earth.
It is as if two mortal foes contended
Within my bosom in a deadly strife,
One for the loftier aims for souls intended,
One for the earthly life.
And yet I know this very war within me,
Which brings out all my will-power and control,
This very conflict at the last shall win me
The loved and longed-for goal.
The very fire which seems sometimes so cruel
Is the white light that shows me my own strength.
A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel,
It may become at length.
Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted,
I sometimes wonder if we shall not find
That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted,
Our places are assigned.