DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Poem: Symphony In Yellow
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Nursery Rhyme. DXCVI. Accumulative Stories.
by Unknown

"An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. 'What,' said she, 'shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market, and buy a little pig.' As she was coming home, she came to a stile: the piggy would not go over the stile.
"She went a little further, and she met a dog. So she said to the dog, 'Dog! bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and I shan't get home to-night.' But the dog would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a stick. So she said, 'Stick! stick! beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home to-night.' But the stick would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a fire. So she said, 'Fire! fire! burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig,' ( and so forth, always repeating the foregoing words.) But the fire would not.
"She went a little further, and she met some water. So she said, 'Water! water! quench fire; fire won't burn stick,' & c. But the water would not.
"She went a little further, and she met an ox. So she said, 'Ox! ox! drink water; water won't quench fire' & c. But the ox would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a butcher. So she said, 'Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won't drink water,' & c. But the butcher would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a rope. So she said, 'Rope! rope! hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox,' & c. But the rope would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a rat. So she said, 'Rat! rat! gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher,' & c. But the rat would not.
"She went a little further, and she met a cat. So she said, 'Cat! cat! kill rat; rat won't gnaw rope,' & c. But the cat said to her, 'If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat.' So away went the old woman to the cow.
"But the cow said to her, 'If you will go to yonder haystack,[*] and fetch me a handful of hay, I'll give you the milk.' So away went the old woman to the haystack; and she brought the hay to the cow.
"As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat.
"As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; and so the old woman got home that night."
Rebel Hearts
by John Le Gay Brereton

An outcry in the bush below,
A crash, and boughs that sway,
And shouts of laughter let me know
Where my two ruffians play.
Barelegged, bareheaded, brown and free,
They lurk and prowl and spring;
Like tiger-cubs they disagree,
Like honeysuckers sing.
For in their hearts are echoes yet
From ages when they knew
The caves of green they now forget,
Though there they climbed or flew.
No cage set limits to their pace;
They held the hunt at bay;
And in their careless mien I trace
The savage mood to-day.
They'll take no tidal drift, nor lie
And rot like souls of mud,
For sullen lip and flashing eye
Betray the rebel blood.
Go, flout the law your hearts disdain
Your foes are well arrayed
And take for guerdon love and pain,
And triumph unafraid.
In jungles where the night imparts
Her secret lore to you,
Lie still and listen to your hearts.
Be true, my sons, be true!
The Old Man And The Ass.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
An old man, riding on his ass,
Had found a spot of thrifty grass,
And there turn'd loose his weary beast.
Old Grizzle, pleased with such a feast,
Flung up his heels, and caper'd round,
Then roll'd and rubb'd upon the ground,
And frisk'd and browsed and bray'd,
And many a clean spot made.
Arm'd men came on them as he fed:
'Let's fly,' in haste the old man said.
'And wherefore so?' the ass replied;
'With heavier burdens will they ride?'
'No,' said the man, already started.
'Then,' cried the ass, as he departed,
'I'll stay, and be - no matter whose;
Save you yourself, and leave me loose.
But let me tell you, ere you go,
(I speak plain French, you know,)
My master is my only foe.'
The Poet, The Oyster, And Sensitive Plant.
by William Cowper

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:'
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough:
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied
(When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?
No matter when'a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses):'
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says'Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying'Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all'not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
Players
by Victor James Daley

And after all, and after all,
Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears,
Is life a reckless carnival?
And are they lost, our golden years?
Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago,
Ere time could sear, or care could fret,
There was a youth called Romeo,
There was a maid named Juliet.
The players of the past are gone;
The races rise; the races pass;
And softly over all is drawn
The quiet Curtain of the Grass.
But when the world went wild with Spring,
What days we had! Do you forget?
When I of all the world was King,
And you were my Queen Juliet?
The things that are; the things that seem,
Who shall distinguish shape from show?
The great processional, splendid dream
Of life is all I wish to know.
The gods their faces turn away
From nations and their little wars;
But we our golden drama play
Before the footlights of the stars.
There lives, though Time should cease to flow,
And stars their courses should forget,
There lives a grey-haired Romeo,
Who loves a golden Juliet.
Disappointed
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

An old man planted and dug and tended,
Toiling in joy from dew to dew;
The sun was kind, and the rain befriended;
Fine grew his orchard and fair to view.
Then he said: "I will quiet my thrifty fears,
For here is fruit for my failing years."
But even then the storm-clouds gathered,
Swallowing up the azure sky;
The sweeping winds into white foam lathered
The placid breast of the bay, hard by;
Then the spirits that raged in the darkened air
Swept o'er his orchard and left it bare.
The old man stood in the rain, uncaring,
Viewing the place the storm had swept;
And then with a cry from his soul despairing,
He bowed him down to the earth and wept.
But a voice cried aloud from the driving rain;
"Arise, old man, and plant again!"
The Death Of Osgar
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

And after a while, at noonday, they saw Finn coming towards them, and what was left of the Sun-banner raised on a spear-shaft. All of them saluted Finn then, but he made no answer, and he came up to the hill where Osgar was. And when Osgar saw him coming he saluted him, and he said, "I have got my desire in death, Finn of the sharp arms." And Finn said, "It is worse the way you were, my son, on the day of the battle at Ben Edair, when the wild geese could swim on your breast, and it was my hand that gave you healing." "There can no healing be done for me now for ever," said Osgar, "since the King of Ireland put the spear of seven spells through my body."
And Finn said, "it is a pity it was not I myself fell in sunny scarce Gabhra, and you going east and west at the head of the Fenians." "And if it was yourself fell in the battle," said Osgar, "you would not hear me keening after you; for no man ever knew any heart in me," he said, "but a heart of twisted horn, and it covered with iron. But the howling of the dogs beside me," he said, "and the keening of the old fighting men and the crying of the women one after another, those are the things that are vexing me." And Finn said: "child of my child, calf of my calf, white and slender, it is a pity the way you are. And my heart is starting like a deer," he said, "and I am weak after you and after the Fenians of Ireland. And misfortune has followed us," he said, "and farewell now to battles and to a great name, and farewell to taking tributes; for every good thing I ever had is gone from me now," he said. And when Osgar heard those words he stretched out his hands, and his eyelids closed. And Finn turned away from the rest, and he cried tears down; and he never shed a tear through the whole length of his lifetime but only for Osgar and for Bran.
Corncob Jones
by Madison Julius Cawein

An Oldham-County Weather Philosopher.
"Who is Corncob Jones?" you say.
Beateningest man and talkingest:
Talk and talk th' enduring day,
Never even stop to rest,
Keep on talking that a-way,
Talk you dead, or do his best.
We were there in that old barn,
Loafing 'round and swapping lies:
There was Wiseheart, talking corn,
Me and Raider boosting ryes,
When old Corncob sprung a yarn
Just to give us a surprise.
"Why," says he, "the twelvth of May
'Bout ten year ago, why I
Rickolects it to the day,
By statistics hit wuz dry,
But hit must have rained, I say,
'Cause well, I remember why.
"Fer that night it 'gin to blow
And to rain, an' rained a week;
When hit stopped hit 'gun to show
Here an' there a clearin' streak,
Then set in to sleet an' snow
Blamededst weather! simply freak!
"An' the fruit wuz killt; the corn,
Gin'ral, an' the gardin truck.
That 's experience, an' no yarn.
You can't put hit down to luck,
But to Natur', whar we larn
Common sense, we do, by Huck!
"Why, as I have said to-fore,"
(Here he aimed a streak of brown
At a hornet on the floor,
Got him too)"you put hit down
To experience, nothin' more,
Whut they call hit there in town.
"Natur' jest rubs in the thing
Jest won't let a man ferget;
Keeps hit up spring arter spring
Why? Jest 'cause, now you' kin bet,
Blamed blackberries bloom, by Jing!
They jest need the cold an' wet.
"Every time the twelvth o' May
Cums around, hit 's bound to rain,
Almost to the very day,
Then hit turns an' snows again.
That 's experience, I say,
Whut we gets here, in the main."
"Talkin' 'bout experience
It don't help so much," I said;
"Not as much as common sense."
Here old Corncob shook his head,
Spat and said, "Well that depen's
On whut common sense is, Ned."
Then old Wiseheart says, says he,
"Common sense is somethin' more.
Common sense comes nat'rally.
Nothin' helps hit, that I 'm shore;
But hit helps the one, you see,
That 't was borned with, rich er poor."
Then says Corncob, "Talkin' now
Of experience. That wuz what
We wuz talkin' 'bout. Somehow
You got stalded missed the spot,
Barbwired both yerself an' plough.
An' ye have n't proved a jot.
"You can' t git along, you know,
'Thout experience. Whar 'd we be,
If we missed hit? Helps me so
I kin reckin, acktually,
When hit 's goin' to rain er snow,
Er turn hot er cold;" says he.
"Jest by thinkin' back, by Jack!
Hit 's not whut the weather is,
But whut hit wuz oncet, long back
In the times whut's gone. Gee whiz!
No man needs an almanack
If he only notices.
"Weather? Why, sirs, summer er fall
We kin lay hit by the heels.
Hit cums easy, natural,
Jest like settin' down ter meals.
Jest take notice, that is all.
Do n't rely on how hit feels.
"That 's experience. Larn to know
Whut is whut, an' then take heed.
So it cums we reap an' sow
Jest accordin' as we 've seed
How 't wuz done long years ago,
An' so profit; that's my creed."
Blamededst man you ever met,
This old Corncob. Had a way
Of convincing you, you bet,
By just facts, as you might say;
Tell you when 'twas dry or wet,
And what 't would be to the day.
Song Of The Croaker.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,
In a dismal kind of way;
And all that he did, whatever befell,
Was to croak the livelong day.
Croak, croak, croak,
When darkness filled the air,
And croak, croak, croak,
When the skies were bright and fair.
"Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,
And the foeman's power is broke."
But he only turned a greener hue,
And answered with a croak.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the clouds are dark and dun,
And croak, croak, croak,
In the blaze of the noontide sun.
"Good Master Frog, the forces of right
Are driving the hosts of wrong."
But he gave his head an ominous shake,
And croaked out, "Nous verrons!"
Croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
To poison the cup of life,
By always dreading the worst.
Is to make of the earth a dungeon damp,
And the happiest life accursed.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the noontide sun rides high,
And croak, croak, croak,
Lest the night come by and by.
Farewell to the dismal frog;
Let him croak as loud as he may,
He cannot blot the sun from heaven,
Nor hinder the march of day,
Though he croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
The Old Man (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)
by James Stephens

An old man sat beneath a tree
Alone;
So still was he
That, if he had been carved in stone,
He could not be
More quiet or more cold:
He was an ancient man
More than
A thousand ages old.
Apprehension
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

And all hours long, the town
Roars like a beast in a cave
That is wounded there
And like to drown;
While days rush, wave after wave
On its lair.
An invisible woe unseals
The flood, so it passes beyond
All bounds: the great old city
Recumbent roars as it feels
The foamy paw of the pond
Reach from immensity.
But all that it can do
Now, as the tide rises,
Is to listen and hear the grim
Waves crash like thunder through
The splintered streets, hear noises
Roll hollow in the interim.
To .... ....
by Thomas Moore

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
Which thou canst give, and only thou?
Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery, like mine.
When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
Again to close it on my breast;--
Yes,--these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
Like me was loved, like me was blest.
Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt;
Upon his words thine ear hath hung,
With transport all as purely felt.
For him--yet why the past recall,
To damp and wither present bliss?
Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all,
And heaven could grant no more than this!
Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
I would be first, be sole to thee,
Thou shouldst have but begun to live,
The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Thy book of life till then effaced,
Love should have kept that leaf alone
On which he first so brightly traced
That thou wert, soul and all, my own.
I Loved You, Once
by George Parsons Lathrop

And did you think my heart
Could keep its love unchanging,
Fresh as the buds that start
In spring, nor know estranging?
Listen! The buds depart:
I loved you once, but now - 
I love you more than ever.
'T is not the early love;
With day and night it alters,
And onward still must move
Like earth, that never falters
For storm or star above.
I loved you once; but now - 
I love you more than ever.
With gifts in those glad days
How eagerly I sought you!
Youth, shining hope, and praise:
These were the gifts I brought you.
In this world little stays:
I loved you once, but now - 
I love you more than ever.
A child with glorious eyes
Here in our arms half sleeping - 
So passion wakeful lies;
Then grows to manhood, keeping
Its wistful, young surprise:
I loved you once, but now - 
I love you more than ever.
When age's pinching air
Strips summer's rich possession,
And leaves the branches bare,
My secret in confession
Still thus with you I'll share:
I loved you once, but now - 
I love you more than ever.
From Milton: And did those feet
by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear:O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green & pleasant Land.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXVI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

And do I see some cause a hope to feede,
Or doth the tedious burden of long wo
In weaken'd minds quick apprehending breed
Of euerie image which may comfort shew?
I cannot brag of word, much lesse of deed,
Fortune wheeles still with me in one sort slow;
My wealth no more, and no whit lesse my need;
Desier still on stilts of Feare doth go.
And yet amid all feares a hope there is,
Stolne to my hart since last faire night, nay day,
Stellas eyes sent to me the beames of blisse,
Looking on me while I lookt other way:
But when mine eyes backe to their heau'n did moue,
They fled with blush which guiltie seem'd of loue.
The Interloper
by Thomas Hardy

"And I saw the figure and visage of Madness seeking for a home."
There are three folk driving in a quaint old chaise,
And the cliff-side track looks green and fair;
I view them talking in quiet glee
As they drop down towards the puffins' lair
By the roughest of ways;
But another with the three rides on, I see,
Whom I like not to be there!
No: it's not anybody you think of. Next
A dwelling appears by a slow sweet stream
Where two sit happy and half in the dark:
They read, helped out by a frail-wick'd gleam,
Some rhythmic text;
But one sits with them whom they don't mark,
One I'm wishing could not be there.
No: not whom you knew and name. And now
I discern gay diners in a mansion-place,
And the guests dropping wit - pert, prim, or choice,
And the hostess's tender and laughing face,
And the host's bland brow;
I cannot help hearing a hollow voice,
And I'd fain not hear it there.
No: it's not from the stranger you met once. Ah,
Yet a goodlier scene than that succeeds;
People on a lawn - quite a crowd of them. Yes,
And they chatter and ramble as fancy leads;
And they say, "Hurrah!"
To a blithe speech made; save one, mirthless,
Who ought not to be there.
Nay: it's not the pale Form your imagings raise,
That waits on us all at a destined time,
It is not the Fourth Figure the Furnace showed,
O that it were such a shape sublime;
In these latter days!
It is that under which best lives corrode;
Would, would it could not be there!
Victor
by Henry Lawson

And his death came in December,
When our summer was aglow,
Like a song that we remember,
Like a child's dream long ago,
And it brought Australia to him,
Her sweetest singer dead,
While in silence friends who knew him
Bowed their heads beside his bed.
Angel Death comes softly stealing
When the watchers' eyes are dim,
And, when all has failed in healing
Wounded heart or helpless limb,
With a whisper we may hear not
'Till with 'Adsum' we respond,
And a vision we shall fear not
Of the Peaceful Land beyond.
While Australians in their blindness
Fail to realize their loss,
Place the wreath of loving kindness
And raise the simple cross.
For he taught us to be brothers
And he taught us to be brave,
And we'll banish pride and envy
With a hand-clasp by his grave.
Arms And The Man. - The Allies At Yorktown.
by James Barron Hope

And here France came one hundred years ago!
Red, russet, purple glowed upon the trees,
And sunset glories deepened in their glow
Along the painted seas.
A wealth of color blazed on land and wave,
Topaz and gold, and crimson met the eye - 
October hailed the ships which came to save
With banners in the sky.
DeBarras swept down from the Northern coast,
DeGrasse, foam-driving, came with favoring breeze,
And here surprised the proud, marauding host
Like spectres of the seas.
Then was no time for such a boastful strain
As Campbell sang o'er Baltic's bloody tide,
Nor did Britannia dominate the main
In customary pride.
France closed this river, and France ruled yon sea,
Held all our waters in triumphant state,
Her sails foretelling what was soon to be
Like Ministers of Fate.
And when the Union chants her proudest Lay
DeGrasse is often on her tuneful lips,
And his achievement challenges to-day
Some Homer of the ships.
So, when this spot its monument shall crown
His name upon its base two Worlds shall see,
With a fair wind his story shall sail down
Through Ages yet to be,
Ultimus Heroum: Or, To The Most Learned, And To The Right Honourable, Henry, Marquis Of Dorchester.
by Robert Herrick

And as time past when Cato the severe
Enter'd the circumspacious theatre,
In reverence of his person everyone
Stood as he had been turn'd from flesh to stone;
E'en so my numbers will astonished be
If but looked on; struck dead, if scann'd by thee.
Love Is Blind
by John Le Gay Brereton

And can you tell me Love is blind
Because your faults he will not find,
Because the image that he sees
Is one of splendid mysteries?
And if he lack the power to look
On what he will, as on a book,
And read therein the heart of it,
Why are his ways with wonder lit?
Why think you he should bind his eyes
And hide the many-tinted skies,
But that he sees too well to trust
The shadows on an orb of dust?
For he hath vision keener far
Than poring Thought's and Fancy's are
An inward vision, full and clear
When night has flung her mantle sheer
Across the world we stumble through
In search of Truth's evasive clue.
He looks, and straight there fall away
The flutt'ring rags of your array,
The far-fet gem, th' indecent drape,
The pads that mar the perfect shape,
And naked to his reverent view
Is beauty's self, essential you.