DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
South Africa
by Rudyard Kipling

Lived a woman wonderful,
(May the Lord amend her!)
Neither simple, kind, nor true,
But her Pagan beauty drew
Christian gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her.
Christian gentlemen a few
From Berwick unto Dover;
For she was South Africa,
Ana she was South Africa,
She was Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Half her land was dead with drouth,
Half was red with battle;
She was fenced with fire and sword
Plague on pestilence outpoured,
Locusts on the greening sward
And murrain on the cattle!
True, ah true, and overtrue.
That is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
And she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Bitter hard her lovers toild,
Scandalous their paymen,,
Food forgot on trains derailed;
Cattle, dung where fuel failed;
Water where the mules had staled;
And sackcloth for their raiment!
So she filled their mouths with dust
And their bones with fever;
Greeted them with cruel lies;
Treated them despiteful-wise;
Meted them calamities
Till they vowed to leave her!
They took ship and they took sail,
Raging, from her borders,
In a little, none the less,
They forgat their sore duresse;
They forgave her waywardness
And returned for orders!
They esteemed her favour more
Than a Throne's foundation.
For the glory of her face
Bade farewell to breed and race,
Yea, and made their burial-place
Altar of a Nation!
Wherefore, being bought by blood,
And by blood restored
To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
Perfect and adored!
On your feet, and let them know
This is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Is Our Own South Africa,
Africa all over!
Nursery Rhyme. DI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Little Poll Parrot
Sat in his garret,
Eating toast and tea;
A little brown mouse,
Jumped into the house,
And stole it all away.
Little Trotty Wagtail
by John Clare

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,
And tittering, tottering sideways he neer got straight again,
He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,
And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.
Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud,
And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.
He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail,
And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.
Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about,
And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out;
Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye,
So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good-bye.
The Violet.
by John Hartley

Little simple violet,
Glittering with dewy wet,
Hidden by protecting grass
All unheeded we should pass
Were it not the rich perfume,
Leads us on to find the bloom
Which so modestly does dwell,
Sweetly scenting all the dell.
Simple little violet; - 
Lessons I shall ne'er forget
By thy modest mien were taught, - 
Rich in peace, - with wisdom fraught.
Oft I've laid me down to rest,
With thy blossoms on my breast;
Screen'd from noontide's sunny flood,
By some monarch of the wood.
I have thought and dreamed of thee,
Clad in such simplicity;
Yet so rich in fragrance sweet,
That exhales from thy retreat;
And I've seen the gaudy flower
Blest alone with beauty's dower; - 
Have looked, - admired, - then bid them go, - 
Violet, - I love thee so.
Rival, thou hast none to fear,
For to me thou art most dear; - 
Buttercups and daisies vie,
'With thy charms to please the eye,
Roses red and lillies white,
All enchanting to the sight;
Yield me joys sincere, but yet
Thou'rt my favorite, - Violet.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLX. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

"Little maid, pretty maid, whither goest thou?"
"Down in the forest to milk my cow."
"Shall I go with thee?" "No, not now;
When I send for thee, then come thou."
The Christmas Child
by George MacDonald

"Little one, who straight hast come
Down the heavenly stair,
Tell us all about your home,
And the father there."
"He is such a one as I,
Like as like can be.
Do his will, and, by and by,
Home and him you'll see."
Conditions Of Living
by Ben Jonson

Living a whole life has three conditions:
absorbing work which demands and brings fulfilment,
a group of friends with whom to exchange minds,
and a full love to be lost in all the time.
Of these I have the easier two,
but lack the third in lacking you.
Going To Sleep
by George MacDonald

Little one, you must not fret
That I take your clothes away;
Better sleep you so will get,
And at morning wake more gay--
Saith the children's mother.
You I must unclothe again,
For you need a better dress;
Too much worn are body and brain;
You need everlastingness--
Saith the heavenly father.
I went down death's lonely stair;
Laid my garments in the tomb;
Dressed again one morning fair;
Hastened up, and hied me home--
Saith the elder brother.
Then I will not be afraid
Any ill can come to me;
When 'tis time to go to bed,
I will rise and go with thee--
Saith the little brother.
Acrostic
by Lewis Carroll

Little maidens, when you look
On this little story-book,
Reading with attentive eye
Its enticing history,
Never think that hours of play
Are your only holiday,
And that in a house of joy
Lessons serve but to annoy:
If in any house you find
Children of a gentle mind,
Each the others pleasing ever,
Each the others vexing never,
Daily work and pastime daily
In their order taking gaily,
Then be very sure that they
Have a life of holiday.
Each And All
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, 'I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:'--
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky.
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;--
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
Sonnet CCXX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumi.
A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.
Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,
So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,
And softly from a feeling heart and wise,
Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:
Even the memory serves to wake my sighs
When I recall that day so glad esteem'd,
And in my heart its sinking spirit dies
As some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.
My soul in pain and grief that most has been
(How great the power of constant habit is!)
Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:
For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,
Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,
Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope.
MACGREGOR.
Nursery Rhyme. DXXXCIX. Relics.
by Unknown

Little Tommy Tacket,
Sits upon his cracket;
Half a yard of cloth will make him coat and jacket;
Make him coat and jacket,
Trowsers to the knee.
And if you will not have him, you may let him be.
Give
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Live, and thou shalt receive.    Give thoughts of cheer,
Of courage and success, to friend and stranger.
And from a thousand sources, far and near,
Strength will be sent thee in thy hour of danger.
Give words of comfort, of defence, and hope,
To mortals crushed by sorrow and by error.
And though thy feet through shadowy paths may grope,
Thou shalt not walk in loneliness or terror.
Give of thy gold, though small thy portion be.
Gold rusts and shrivels in the hand that keeps it.
It grows in one that opens wide and free.
Who sows his harvest is the one who reaps it.
Give of thy love, nor wait to know the worth
Of what thou lovest; and ask no returning.
And wheresoe'er thy pathway leads on earth,
There thou shalt find the lamp of love-light burning.
Going To See Grandmamma.
by Kate Greenaway

Little Molly and Damon
Are walking so far,
For they're going to see
Their kind Grandmamma.
And they very well know,
When they get there she'll take
From out of her cupboard
Some very nice cake.
And into her garden
They know they may run,
And pick some red currants,
And have lots of fun.
So Damon to doggie
Says, "How do you do?"
And asks his mamma
If he may not go too.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,
Up went Pussy cat, and down went he;
Down came Pussy cat, and away Robin ran;
Says little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can."
Little Robin Redbreast jump'd upon a wall,
Pussy cat jump'd after him, and almost got a fall,
Little Robin chirp'd and sang, and what did Pussy say?
Pussy cat said "Mew," and Robin jump'd away.
The Meddlesome Child.
by H. P. Nichols

Little Lucy was left in the room once alone,
Where the table was set out for tea;
She looked all around, and she thought to herself
That no one was there who could see.
Then she climbed on a chair and took off the top
Of the sugar-bowl, shining and bright;
And there were the lumps of the sugar she loved,
All looking so nice and so white!
Then she said to herself, "Mamma never will know,
If I take away only just one;"
So she took it, and ate it;--it tasted so good,
She thought, "But one more, and I've done."
But while she was reaching her hand out for more,
The chair slipped away from her feet;
And poor little Lucy soon wished much that she
Had not taken the sugar so sweet:
For her head struck the floor, and made such a noise,
That every one hastened to see;
And all of them knew, by the sugar she held,
How naughty Miss Lucy could be!
And no one was sorry, although her poor head
Ached sadly because of her fall;
For little girls never--so every one said--
Should taste or should meddle at all.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCX. Jingles.
by Unknown

Little Tee Wee,
He went to sea
In an open boat;
And while afloat
The little boat bended,
And my story's ended.
With A Painted Ribbon.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Little leaves and flow'rets too,
Scatter we with gentle hand,
Kind young spring-gods to the view,
Sporting on an airy band.
Zephyr, bear it on the wing,
Twine it round my loved one's dress;
To her glass then let her spring,
Full of eager joyousness.
Roses round her let her see,
She herself a youthful rose.
Grant, dear life, one look to me!
'Twill repay me all my woes,
What this bosom feels, feel thou.
Freely offer me thy hand;
Let the band that joins us now
Be no fragile rosy band!
Little Miss Brag
by Eugene Field

Little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over the way
And the rich little lady puts out a lip
As she looks at her own white, dainty slip,
And wishes that she could wear a gown
As pretty as gingham of faded brown!
For little Miss Brag she lays much stress
On the privileges of a gingham dress -
"Aha,
Oho!"
The rich little lady from over the way
Has beautiful dolls in vast array;
Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll
She hears our little Miss Brag extol.
For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt
From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt!
Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too,
And one eye's black and the other's blue -
"Aha,
Oho!"
The rich little lady goes out to ride
With footmen standing up outside,
Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark
Her father would trundle her in the park; -
That, sometimes, her mother would sing the things
Little Miss Brag says her mother sings
When through the attic window streams
The moonlight full of golden dreams -
"Aha,
Oho!"
Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say
To the rich little lady from over the way;
And yet who knows but from her heart
Often the bitter sighs upstart -
Uprise to lose their burn and sting
In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing
Praise of the treasures all its own!
So I've come to love that treble tone -
"Aha,
Oho!"
The Lamb
by William Blake

Little Lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Dad's Lad.
by John Hartley

Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet,
Runnin raand throo morn to neet;
Banishin mi mornin's nap, - 
Little bonny, noisy chap, - 
But aw can't find fault yo see, - 
For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.
He loves his mother withaat daat,
Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat;
An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad,"
Which ov coorse maks mother mad;
Then he snoozles on her knee,
For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.
He's a bother aw'll admit,
But he'll alter in a bit;
An when older grown, maybe,
He'll a comfort prove to me,
An mi latter days mak glad,
For aw know he's Daddy's lad.
If he's aght o' sect a minnit,
Ther's some mischief, an he's in it,
When he's done it then he'll flee;
An for shelter comes to me.
What can aw do but shield my lad?
For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.
After a day's hard toil an care,
Sittin in mi rockin chair;
Nowt mi wearied spirit charms,
Like him nestlin i' mi arms,
An noa music is as sweet,
As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.
Little And Loud.
by Robert Herrick

Little you are, for woman's sake be proud;
For my sake next, though little, be not loud.
To Phillis, To Love And Live With Him
by Robert Herrick

Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee:
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine over-spread:
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing next, shall be a gown
Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread
With cream of cowslips buttered:
Thy feasting-table shall be hills
With daisies spread, and daffodils;
Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought, and this as brave;
So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess.
At shearing-times, and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
Nay more, the feast, and grace of it.
On holydays, when virgins meet
To dance the heys with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth, and then appear
The Queen of Roses for that year.
And having danced ('bove all the best)
Carry the garland from the rest,
In wicker-baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherd ling,
The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum, all simp'ring there.
Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind
Of every straight and smooth-skin tree;
Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee.
To thee a sheep-hook I will send,
Be-prank'd with ribbands, to this end,
This, this alluring hook might be
Less for to catch a sheep, than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
Not made of ale, but spiced wine;
To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings
Of winning colours, that shall move
Others to lust, but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love, and live with me.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXIV. Relics.
by Unknown

Little Mary Ester,
Sat upon a tester,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a little spider,
And sat him down beside her,
And frightened Mary Ester away.
Tillie Olson
by William F. Kirk

Little Tillie Olson
Ban my little pearl;
God ant never making
Any nicer girl.
Dis har Qveen of Sheba,
She ban nice to see;
But little Tillie Olson
Ban gude enuff for me.
Ay ban yust a svamper
Vorking op in voods;
Ay ant ever having
Much of dis vorld's goods.
Ay know lots of ladies
Var ay used to be,
But little Tillie Olson
Ban gude enuff for me.
Over in Chicago
'Bout sax veeks ago,
Torger Yohnson tak me
Out to see nice show.
Chorus girls ban dancing
Purty fine, by yee;
But little Tillie Olson
Ban gude enuff for me.
Ven ve sit by fireplace
Op at Tillie's house,
She ban cuddling near me,
Yust lak little mouse.
After ve ban married,
Happy ve skol be.
Yas, little Tillie Olson
Ban gude enuff for me.
The Persian, The Sun, And The Cloud.
by John Gay

Lives there a bard for genius famed
Whom Envy's tongue hath not declaimed?
Her hissing snakes proclaim her spite;
She summons up the fiends of night;
Hatred and malice by her stand,
And prompt to do what she command.
As prostrate to the orb of day
A Persian, invocating, lay:
"Parent of light, whose rays dispense
The various gifts of Providence,
Accept our praise, accept our prayer,
Smile on our fields, and bless our year."
A cloud passed by - a voice aloud,
Like Envy's, issued from that cloud:
"I can eclipse your gaudy orb,
And every ray you ask absorb.
Pray, then, to me - where praise is due - 
And I will grant the rays to you."
The Persian answered in his wrath:
"He raised thee to that airy path;
A passing wind or puff of air
Will hurl thee to thy proper sphere."
The gale arose, the cloud was doomed,
The golden orb his reign resumed.
And as the sun above, so worth
Scatters the clouds of sons of earth.
Devastation
by Paul Cameron Brown

Little red berries are
the crop of this stump tree.
They are the prize stubble
where little growth is come.
A transplant of hair after
a serious illness
or after fire ravages
the body's wilderness
is that first sip of broth taken.
Little by little, they bring cautious
hope that more will
stumble into other pocket crevices,
the bits of life amidst the spores of stillness.
Little Trotty Wagtail
by John Clare

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,
And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again.
He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,
And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.
Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud,
And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.
He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail,
And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.
Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about,
And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out;
Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye,
So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye.
Nursery Rhyme. CXXXIV. Songs.
by Unknown

Little Tom Dogget,
What dost thou mean,
To kill thy poor Colly
Now she's so lean?
Sing, oh poor Colly,
Colly, my cow,
For Colly will give me
No more milk now.
I had better have kept her,
'Till fatter she had been,
For now, I confess,
She's a little too lean.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
First in comes the tanner
With his sword by his side,
And he bids me five shillings
For my poor cow's hide.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
Then in comes the tallow-chandler,
Whose brains were but shallow,
And he bids me two-and-sixpence
For my cow's tallow.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
Then in comes the huntsman
So early in the morn,
He bids me a penny
For my cow's horn.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
Then in comes the tripe-woman,
So fine and so neat,
She bids me three half-pence
For my cow's feet.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
Then in comes the butcher,
That nimble-tongu'd youth,
Who said she was carrion,
But he spoke not the truth.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
The skin of my cowly
Was softer than silk,
And three times a-day
My poor cow would give milk.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
She every year
A fine calf did me bring,
Which fetcht me a pound,
For it came in the spring.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
But now I have kill'd her,
I can't her recall;
I will sell my poor Colly,
Hide, horns, and all.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
The butcher shall have her,
Though he gives but a pound,
And he knows in his heart
That my Colly was sound.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.
And when he has bought her
Let him sell all together,
The flesh for to eat,
And the hide for leather.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.[*]
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXIII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[An Icicle.]
Lives in winter,
Dies in summer,
And grows with its root upwards!
Little Miss Muffet
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a big Spider
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Epitaph On Lord Byron
by Thomas Oldham

Lo! Byron's tomb!
Here, deeply pensive, scan
The greatness, and the littleness of man.
In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,
Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.
The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,
Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,
Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.
Thus human Glory ends its bright career.
To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!
An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;
But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,
Hurried him irresistibly along
Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;
No law could bridle his own proud self-will.
O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,
Byron had been the first of human kind!
Maternal Hope
by Thomas Campbell

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps:
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy:
"Sleep, image of thy father! sleep, my boy!
No ling'ring hour of sorrow shall be thine,
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine.
Bright, as his manly sire, the son shall be,
In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past;
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
"And say, when summon'd from the world and thee
I lay my head beneath the willow-tree,
And soothe may parted spirit ling'ring near?
Oh! wilt thou come at evening hour, to shed
The tears of mem'ry o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last 'farewell!' I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my woe?"
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But, when the cherub lip hath learn'd to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name,
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear,
How fondly looks admiring hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!