DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Deluge.
by Robert Herrick

Drowning, drowning, I espy
Coming from my Julia's eye:
'Tis some solace in our smart,
To have friends to bear a part:
I have none; but must be sure
Th' inundation to endure.
Shall not times hereafter tell
This for no mean miracle?
When the waters by their fall
Threaten'd ruin unto all,
Yet the deluge here was known
Of a world to drown but one.
Surface Rights
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Drifting, drifting down the River,
Tawny current and foam-flecked tide,
Sorrowful songs of lonely boatmen,
Mournful forests on either side.
Thine are the outcrops' glittering blocks,
The quartz where the rich pyrites gleam,
The golden treasure of unhewn rocks
And the loose gold in the stream.
But, - the dim vast forests along the shore,
That whisper wonderful things o' nights, - 
These are things that I value more,
My beautiful "surface rights."
Drifting, drifting down the River, - 
Stars a-tremble about the sky - 
Ah, my lover, my heart is breaking,
Breaking, breaking, I know not why.
Why is Love such a sorrowful thing?
This I never could understand;
Pain and passion are linked together,
Ever I find them hand in hand.
Loose thy hair in its soft profusion,
Let thy lashes caress thy cheek, - 
These are the things that express thy spirit,
What is the need to explain or speak?
Drifting, drifting along the River,
Under the light of a wan low moon,
Steady, the paddles; Boatmen, steady, - 
Why should we reach the sea so soon?
See where the low spit cuts the water,
What is that misty wavering light?
Only the pale datura flowers
Blossoming through the silent night.
What is the fragrance in thy tresses?
'T is the scent of the champa's breath;
The meaning of champa bloom is passion - 
And of datura - death!
Sweet are thy ways and thy strange caresses,
That sear as flame, and exult as wine.
But I care only for that wild moment
When my soul arises and reaches thine.
Wistful voices of wild birds calling - 
Far, faint lightning towards the West, - 
Twinkling lights of a Tyah homestead, - 
Ruddy glow on a girl's bare breast - 
Drifting boats on a mournful River,
Shifting thoughts in a dreaming mind, - 
We two, seeking the Sea, together, - 
When we reach it, - what shall we find?
Merely Suburban.
by Thomas Runciman

Dry light reverberates, colour withdrawing
Into a sky so white, sight cannot follow it.
While in the shadows cast, rich hues, intenser
Far than in light spaces, offer me gladness.
Sun reigns triumphantly, thinning all vapour
Into translucency, through which the foliage
Bears out in sparkles of full golden greenery.
O'er this, short dashes of keen grey-green masses lie;
Even the cooler tints, pitched in this higher key - 
Purpling and greening greys - are fierce as fires.
All the vast universe lives in one beautiful
Summer - made lambent light, offering gladness.
Who can accept of it? Hearts where no echo rings
Wildly recalling deeds done by old Destiny - 
Deeds of finality, darkening the spirit - 
Rousing the echoes of thought to reverberate
Ever and ever "Alas!" evermore.
Once in a burning day's brightness like this,
Sad I awaited the quenching forever of
Light that had mantled and flickered and ebbed out
Unto some twilight of hope and of reason.
Out of his own unto future time's darkness
Wistfully gazed he, as one who unhelped floats,
Swept by a current past land out to sea.
He started alertly with laughter and mockery,
Loud at its height with the rapture of contest.
For him the light focusses now to one vision,
Shot through its beautiful heart with black terror,
Terror from weakness, remorse and leave-taking.
To his scared eye the day's bitter brightness
Circles about the dark doorway set open
Awaiting his entrance ere shut to for ever.
Ever he harkens to voices behind him
Dolefully hinting defect and omission;
Cruelly shouting: "This, this was the true path;
Here greatness lay, by humility guarded,
She whom thou soughtest through mountains of pride!
What avails tenderness now so belated?
What gaining love with no deed as its child?"
Whitening intenselier ever to setting
Down sank the last sun save one he should gaze on.
In the next dawning, with dull apprehensiveness,
Groped he mid recent and older remembrance,
Mingled with mad vain desires for a helping hand;
Then off reeled his soul from my speechless adieus.
Once more the whole blaze triumphed through the welkin,
Bitter in brightness in memory for ever.
A March
by Charles Kingsley

Dreary East winds howling o'er us;
Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;
Mire and ice and snow and sleet;
Aching backs and frozen feet;
Knees which reel as marches quicken,
Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;
While with carrion birds we eat,
Calling puddle-water sweet,
As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:
What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?
Eversley, 1848.
Advice To A Little Girl.
by James McIntyre

The following lines were written at the request of a little girl, who said she would recite them at a Sunday School entertainment. Prof. J. S. Blackie of Edinburgh, in a letter acknowledging the receipt of my book, said he considered this piece worthy of being committed to memory in the public schools. Sir Daniel Wilson of Toronto University also approves of them as containing good sentiments and should be impressed on the minds of the young.
Dressing in fashion will be called vain,
And they'll call you a dowdy if you are plain,
But do what is right, let that be the test,
Then proudly hold up your head with the best.
For people will talk.
You will never be wrong if you do what is right,
And this course pursue with all of your might,
And if you're a child going to school,
Or full grown up take this for your rule.
For people will talk.
The best way to do is to let them rave
And they'll think more of you if you are brave,
For no one will ever think you are rude
If you are determined for to be good.
For people will talk.
Little girl on her way to Sunday School class,
Rude boys sometimes will not let her pass,
But if they see she is not afraid
They soon will respect the brave little maid.
For people will talk.
Little girls should learn to knit and to sew,
Then if to womanhood they ever grow,
Their hose they can knit and make their own dress,
And pathway of life for others they bless.
For people will talk.
And their homes they should make tidy and neat,
Everything should be so clean and so sweet,
This line for ourselves out we will chalk
And we are determined in it to walk.
For people will talk.
Three Palinodias. III - Rain And Rainbow.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

During a heavy storm it chanced
That from his room a cockney glanced
At the fierce tempest as it broke,
While to his neighbour thus he spoke:
"The thunder has our awe inspired,
Our barns by lightning have been fired, 
Our sins to punish, I suppose;
But in return, to soothe our woes,
See how the rain in torrents fell,
Making the harvest promise well!
But is't a rainbow that I spy
Extending o'er the dark-grey sky?
With it I'm sure we may dispense,
The colour'd cheat! The vain pretence!"
Dame Iris straightway thus replied:
"Dost dare my beauty to deride?
In realms of space God station'd me
A type of better worlds to be
To eyes that from life's sorrows rove
In cheerful hope to Heav'n above,
And, through the mists that hover here
God and his precepts blest revere.
Do thou, then, grovel like the swine,
And to the ground thy snout confine,
But suffer the enlighten'd eye
To feast upon my majesty."
The Bliss Of Absence.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

DRINK, oh youth, joy's purest ray
From thy loved one's eyes all day,
And her image paint at night!
Better rule no lover knows,
Yet true rapture greater grows,
When far sever'd from her sight.
Powers eternal, distance, time,
Like the might of stars sublime,
Gently rock the blood to rest,
O'er my senses softness steals,
Yet my bosom lighter feels,
And I daily am more blest.
Though I can forget her ne'er,
Yet my mind is free from care,
I can calmly live and move;
Unperceived infatuation
Longing turns to adoration,
Turns to reverence my love.
Ne'er can cloud, however light,
Float in ether's regions bright,
When drawn upwards by the sun,
As my heart in rapturous calm.
Free from envy and alarm,
Ever love I her alone!
Song: To Celia
by Ben Jonson

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,
And sent'st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.
Eva
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Dry the tears for holy Eva,
With the blessed angels leave her;
Of the form so soft and fair
Give to earth the tender care.
For the golden locks of Eva
Let the sunny south-land give her
Flowery pillow of repose,
Orange-bloom and budding rose.
In the better home of Eva
Let the shining ones receive her,
With the welcome-voiced psalm,
Harp of gold and waving palm,
All is light and peace with Eva;
There the darkness cometh never;
Tears are wiped, and fetters fall.
And the Lord is all in all.
Weep no more for happy Eva,
Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her;
Care and pain and weariness
Lost in love so measureless.
Gentle Eva, loving Eva,
Child confessor, true believer,
Listener at the Master's knee,
"Suffer such to come to me."
Oh, for faith like thine, sweet Eva,
Lighting all the solemn river,
And the blessings of the poor
Wafting to the heavenly shore
Song. "Dropt Here And There Upon The Flower"
by John Clare

Dropt here and there upon the flower
I love the dew to see,
For then returns the even's hour
That is so dear to me,
When silence reigns upon the plain,
And night hides all, or nearly;
For then I meet the smiles again
Of her I love so dearly.
O how I love yon dusky plains,
Though others there may be
As much belov'd by other swains,
But none so dear to me:
Their thorn-buds smell as sweet the while,
Their brooks may run as clearly;
But what are they without the smile
Of her I love so dearly.
In yonder bower the maid I've met,
Whom still I love to meet;
The dew-drops fall, the sun has set,
O evening thou art sweet!
Hope's eye fain breaks the misty glooms,
The time's expir'd, or nearly--
Ah, faithful still, and here she comes;
Who could but love thee dearly!
Though till we meet 'neath fate's control,
Who knows the luck that shall come,
And then, thou idol of my soul,
We'll meet, with happier welcome;
I wish I had, for sake of thee,
A lord's estate, or nearly;
They soon should see who'd ladies be,
And whom I love so dearly.
Drowning Is Not So Pitiful
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise.
Three times, 't is said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode
Where hope and he part company, --
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.
Drink To Her.
by Thomas Moore

Drink to her, who long,
Hath waked the poet's sigh.
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,
It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
At Beauty's door of glass,
When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They asked her 'which might pass?"
She answered, "he, who could."
With golden key Wealth thought
To pass--but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,
Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Tho' woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Song To Celia
by Ben Jonson

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
Dreamer, Say
by James Whitcomb Riley

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O'er crags of opal and amethyst?
Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of wasted wine, -
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the waters run?
Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquette
Breaks the sleep of the silence there?
The Redbreast - Suggested In A Westmoreland Cottage
by William Wordsworth

Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air
From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.
But pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays the expert ventriloquist;
And, caught by glimpses now, now missed,
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without!
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustained by delicate illusion?
He's at your elbow, to your feeling
The notes are from the floor or ceiling;
And there's a riddle to be guessed,
'Till you have marked his heaving chest,
And busy throat whose sink and swell,
Betray the Elf that loves to dwell
In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.
Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred
Commend him, when he's only heard.
But small and fugitive our gain
Compared with 'hers' who long hath lain,
With languid limbs and patient head
Reposing on a lone sick-bed;
Where now, she daily hears a strain
That cheats her of too busy cares,
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.
And who but this dear Bird beguiled
The fever of that pale-faced Child;
Now cooling, with his passing wing,
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring:
Recalling now, with descant soft
Shed round her pillow from aloft,
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,
And the invisible sympathy
Of "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Blessing the bed she lies upon"?
And sometimes, just as listening ends
In slumber, with the cadence blends
A dream of that low-warbled hymn
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim
Lamps of faith, now burning dim,
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,
When clouds gave way at dead of night
And the ancient church was filled with light,
Used to sing in heavenly tone,
Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with winged baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature! in all lands
Nurtured by hospitable hands:
Free entrance to this cot has he,
Entrance and exit both 'yet' free;
And, when the keen unruffled weather
That thus brings man and bird together,
Shall with its pleasantness be past,
And casement closed and door made fast,
To keep at bay the howling blast,
'He' needs not fear the season's rage,
For the whole house is Robin's cage.
Whether the bird flit here or there,
O'er table 'lilt', or perch on chair,
Though some may frown and make a stir,
To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start,
Good friends he has to take his part;
One chiefly, who with voice and look
Pleads for him from the chimney-nook,
Where sits the Dame, and wears away
Her long and vacant holiday;
With images about her heart,
Reflected from the years gone by,
On human nature's second infancy.
Upon Julia's Recovery
by Robert Herrick

Droop, droop no more, or hang the head,
Ye roses almost withered;
Now strength, and newer purple get,
Each here declining violet.
O primroses!    let this day be
A resurrection unto ye;
And to all flowers allied in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood.
For health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled;
And those, her lips, do now appear
As beams of coral, but more clear.
Falling in the River
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Drunk, Lene Levi walked
In the neighboring streets nightly
Back and forth, screaming, "auto."
Her blouse was opened,
So that one saw her fine, fascinating
Underclothing and skin.
Seven horny little men ran
After Lene.
Seven horny little men chased
Lene Levi for her body,
Thinking about what it costs.
Seven men, otherwise very respectable,
Forgot their children and art,
Science and factory.
And they ran as though possessed
After Lene Levi.
Lene Levi stopped
On a bridge, catching her breath,
And she lifted her blurred blue
Drunken glances in the wide
Sweet darkness above
The street lamps and the houses.
Seven randy little men though
Caught Lene's eye.
Seven randy little men tried
To touch Lene Levi's heart.
Lene remained unapproachable.
Suddenly she jumped up on the railing,
Turns up her nose at the world for the last time,
Joyfully jumps into the river.
Seven pale little men ran,
As quickly as they could, out of the place.
Dreaming For Ever.
by Thomas Moore

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
Soon as it shines, 'tis past.
Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing--
Emblem of life's short doom!
But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,
'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
Whose cloud, once come, will stay.
Twilight
by Sara Teasdale

Dreamily over the roofs
The cold spring rain is falling;
Out in the lonely tree
A bird is calling, calling.
Slowly over the earth
The wings of night are falling;
My heart like the bird in the tree
Is calling, calling, calling.
Gray November
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Dull, dimly gleaming,
The dawn looks downward
Where, flowing townward,
The river, steaming
With mist, is hidden:
Each bush, that huddles
Beside the road, the rain has pooled with puddles,
Seems, in the fog, a hag or thing hag-ridden.
II.
Where leaves hang tattered
In forest tangles,
And woodway angles
Are acorn-scattered,
Coughing and yawning
The woodsman slouches,
Or stands as silent as the hound that crouches
Beside him, ghostly in the mist-drenched dawning.
III.
Through roses, rotting
Within the garden,
With blooms, that harden,
Of marigolds, knotting,
(Each one an ember
Dull, dead and dripping,)
Her brow, from which their faded wreath is slipping,
Mantled in frost and fog, comes in November.
November's Here.
by John Hartley

Dullest month of all the year, - 
Suicidal atmosphere,
Everything is dark and drear,
Filling nervous minds with fear,
Skies are seldom ever clear,
Fogs are ever hov'ring near, - 
'Tis a heavy load to bear.
Were it not that life is dear,
We should wish to disappear,
For it puts us out of gear.
But in vain we shed the tear,
We must still cling to the rear
Of the year that now is near.
Though our eyes begin to blear,
With fogs thick enough to shear,
And we feel inclined to swear,
At the month that comes to smear
All things lovely, all things dear;
We must bear and yet forbear.
But some thoughts our spirits cheer,
Christmas time will soon be here,
Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer,
Smoke our pipes and drink our beer, - 
Sit until brave chanticleer
Tells us that the morn is here.
Do thy worst, November drear!
We can stand it, never fear, - 
Christmas time will soon be here.
Ode Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald, Of Auchencruive.
by Robert Burns

Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark!
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse?
Strophe.
View the wither'd beldam's face,
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
Pity's flood there never rose.
See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
Hands that took, but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
Antistrophe.
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;)
Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies;
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate,
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
Epode.
And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n!
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.
On The Death Of N. F. S. Grundtvig (1872)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 57)
E'en as the Sibyl in Northland-dawn drew
Forth from the myth-billows gliding,
Told all the past, all the future so true,
Sank with the lands' last subsiding, - 
Prophecies leaving, eternally new,
Still abiding
Thus goes his spirit the Northland before, - 
Though, that he sank, we have tiding, - 
Visions unfolding like sun-clouds, when o'er
Sea-circled lands they are riding,
Northern lands' future, till time is no more,
Ever guiding.
A Peck Of Gold
by Robert Lee Frost

Dust always blowing about the town,
Except when sea-fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children told
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
All the dust the wind blew high
Appeared like god in the sunset sky,
But I was one of the children told
Some of the dust was really gold.
Such was life in the Golden Gate:
Gold dusted all we drank and ate,
And I was one of the children told,
'We all must eat our peck of gold.'
The Unimaginative
by Madison Julius Cawein

Each form of beauty's but the new disguise
Of thoughts more beautiful than forms can be;
Sceptics, who search with unanointed eyes,
Never the Earth's wild fairy-dance shall see.
Wail Of An Old-Timer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Each new invention doubles our worries an' our troubles,
These scientific fellows are spoilin' of our land;
With motor, wire, an' cable, now'-days we're scarcely able
To walk or ride in peace o' mind, an' 'tisn't safe to stand.
It fairly makes me crazy to see how tarnal lazy
The risin' generation grows -an' science is to blame.
With telephones for talkin', an' messengers for walkin',
Our young men sit an' loaf an' smoke, without a blush o' shame.
An' then they wer'n't contented until some one invented
A sort o' jerky tape-line clock, to help on wasteful ways.
An' that infernal ticker spends money fur 'em quicker
Than any neighbourhood o' men in good old bygone days.
The risin' generation is bent so on creation,
Folks haven't time to talk or sing or cry or even laugh.
But if you take the notion to want some such emotion,
They've got it all on tap fur you, right in the phonograph.
But now a crazy creature has introduced the feature
Of artificial weather, I think we're nearly through.
For when we once go strainin' to keep it dry or rainin'
To suit the general public, 'twill bust the world in two,