DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Wanderer
by Arthur Conan Doyle

With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.
'Twas in the shadowy gloaming
Of a cold and wet March day,
That a wanderer came roaming
From countries far away.
Scant raiment had he round him,
Nor purse, nor worldly gear,
Hungry and faint we found him,
And bade him welcome here.
His weary frame bent double,
His eyes were old and dim,
His face was writhed with trouble
Which none might share with him.
His speech was strange and broken,
And none could understand,
Such words as might be spoken
In some far distant land.
We guessed not whence he hailed from,
Nor knew what far-off quay
His roving bark had sailed from
Before he came to me.
But there he was, so slender,
So helpless and so pale,
That my wife's heart grew tender
For one who seemed so frail.
She cried, "But you must bide here!
You shall no further roam.
Grow stronger by our side here,
Within our moorland home!"
She laid her best before him,
Homely and simple fare,
And to his couch she bore him
The raiment he should wear.
To mine he had been welcome,
My suit of russet brown,
But she had dressed our weary guest
In a loose and easy gown.
And long in peace he lay there,
Brooding and still and weak,
Smiling from day to day there
At thoughts he would not speak.
The months flowed on, but ever
Our guest would still remain,
Nor made the least endeavour
To leave our home again.
He heeded not for grammar,
Nor did we care to teach,
But soon he learned to stammer
Some words of English speech.
With these our guest would tell us
The things that he liked best,
And order and compel us
To follow his behest.
He ruled us without malice,
But as if he owned us all,
A sultan in his palace
With his servants at his call.
Those calls came fast and faster,
Our service still we gave,
Till I who had been master
Had grown to be his slave.
He claimed with grasping gestures
Each thing of price he saw,
Watches and rings and vestures,
His will the only law.
In vain had I commanded,
In vain I struggled still,
Servants and wife were banded
To do the stranger's will.
And then in deep dejection
It came to me one day,
That my own wife's affection
Had been beguiled away.
Our love had known no danger,
So certain had it been!
And now to think a stranger
Should dare to step between.
I saw him lie and harken
To the little songs she sung,
And when the shadows darken
I could hear his lisping tongue.
They would sit in chambers shady,
When the light was growing dim,
Ah, my fickle-hearted lady!
With your arm embracing him.
So, at last, lest he divide us,
I would put them to the test.
There was no one there beside us,
Save this interloping guest.
So I took my stand before them,
Very silent and erect,
My accusing glance passed o'er them,
Though with no observed effect.
But the lamp light shone upon her,
And I saw each tell-tale feature,
As I cried, "Now, on your honour,
Do or don't you love the creature?"
But her answer seemed evasive,
It was "Ducky-doodle-doo!
If his mummy loves um babby,
Doesn't daddums love um too?"
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXVII.
by Thomas Moore

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul;
As lulled in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy played.
With maidens, blooming as the dawn,
I seemed to skim the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,
We flew, and sported as we flew!
Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on--
With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone,
Saw me chasing, free and wild,
These blooming maids, and slyly smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
Though none could doubt they envied me.
And still I flew--and now had caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To gather from each rosy lip
A kiss that Jove himself might sip--
When sudden all my dream of joys,
Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,
All were gone!--"Alas!" I said,
Sighing for the illusion fled,
"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,
Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]
Lines Written In A Cottage By The Sea-Side
by John Carr (Sir)

In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm, Upon Seeing An Idiotic Youth Seated In The Chimney-Corner, Caressing A Broom.
'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar'd the raving main, - 
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
And hail beat hard the cottage pane, - 
Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter'd broom was all his pride, - 
It was his wife, his child, his prize!
Alike to him if tempests howl,
Or summer beam its sweetest day;
For still is pleas'd the silly soul,
And still he laughs the hours away.
Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
To see him thus so wildly stare, - 
To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
Callous alike to joy and care.
God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;
Yet are thy wants but very few:
The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried;
Its cares and crimes to thee are new.
The hoary hag[A], who cross'd thee so,
Did not unkindly vex thy brain;
Indeed she could not be thy foe,
To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.
Deceit shall never wring thy heart,
And baffled hope awake no sighs;
And true love, harshly forc'd to part,
Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.
Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom,
Poor merry fool! and laugh away
'Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom
In blissful scenes of brighter day.
The American Rebellion
by Rudyard Kipling

Before
Twas not while England's sword unsheathed
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men
These worshipers at Freedoms shrine
They did not quit her then!
Not till their foes were driven forth
By England o'er the main
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember that they owed
To Freedom, and were bold!
After
The    snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
The ice on the Delaware,     
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.
Not though the earliest primrose break
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England' s spring again.
They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.
They will    not    stir    though    the mayflower blows
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.
Each for his land, in a fair fight,
Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite 
Covers them side by side.
She is too busy to think of war;
She has all the world to make gay;
And,    behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers' day!
Golden-rod by the pasture-wall 
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.
Beneath The Snow.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

'Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December's winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.
No mourners there to sorrow or pray,
But soon a traveller passed that way:
He paused and leant against the low stone wall,
While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall
That darkly look down on the silent crowd
Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.
Solemn and weird was the spectral scene - 
The tombstones white, with low mounds between,
The awful stillness, eerie and dread,
Brooding above that home of the dead,
While Christmas fires lit up each hearth
And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.
Silent the weary wayfarer stood - 
The spot well suited his pensive mood,
And severed friendships, bright day-dreams flown,
Thronged on his thoughts in that moment lone.
"Yes, happiness-hope," he murmured low,
"All buried alike beneath the snow."
"O, for the right to lay down the load
I've borne so long on life's dreary road,
Heavily weighing on heart and brain,
And as galling to both as a convict's chain; - 
No more its strain shall I tamely bear
But join the peaceful sleepers there."
His head on the old wall drooped more low,
Whilst faster came down the sleet and snow,
Sharply chilling the blood in his veins,
Racking his frame with rheumatic pains;
"No matter," he thought, "I'll soon lie low,
Calm - quiet enough - beneath the snow."
Ah! hapless one, thus thine arms to yield
When nearly won, perchance, is the field.
After long struggling to lose at last
The price of many a victory past,
Of many an hour of keen, sharp strife,
Mournfully spent in the war of Life.
But, hark! on high sound the Christmas bells,
Of hope to that mourner their chiming tells,
Of the sinless hours of childhood pure,
Of a God who came all griefs to cure;
And, leaving, he prayed: "O my Father and Friend,
Grant me strength to be faithful to the end!"
The Morning Dream.
by William Cowper

'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
I dream'd what I cannot but sing,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
I dream'd that, on ocean afloat,
Far hence to the westward I sail'd,
While the billows high lifted the boat,
And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.
In the steerage a woman I saw,
Such at least was the form that she wore,
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,
Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She sat, and a shield at her side
Shed light, like a sun on the waves,
And smiling divinely, she cried'
'I go to make freemen of slaves.'
Then, raising her voice to a strain
The sweetest that ear ever heard,
She sung of the slave's broken chain,
Wherever her glory appear'd.
Some clouds, which had over us hung,
Fled, chased by her melody clear,
And methought while she liberty sung,
'Twas liberty only to hear.
Thus swiftly dividing the flood,
To a slave-cultured island we came,
Where a demon, her enemy, stood'
Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's sorrowful shore.
But soon as, approaching the land,
That goddess-like woman he view'd,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued.
I saw him both sicken and die,
And, the moment the monster expired,
Heard shouts, that ascended the sky,
From thousands with rapture inspired.
Awaking, how could I but muse
At what such a dream should betide?
But soon my ear caught the glad news,
Which served my weak thought for a guide;
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.
The Bubble Chase.
by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Twas morn, and, wending on its way,
Beside my path a stream was playing;
And down its banks, in humor gay,
A thoughtless boy was idly straying.
Light as the breeze they onward flew 
That joyous youth and laughing tide,
And seemed each other's course to woo,
For long they bounded side by side.
And now the dimpling water staid,
And glassed its ripples in a nook;
And on its breast a bubble played,
Which won the boy's admiring look.
He bent him o'er the river's brim,
And on the radiant vision gazed;
For lovelier still it seemed to him,
That in its breast his imaged blazed.
With beating heart and trembling finger,
He stooped the wondrous gem to clasp,
But, spellbound, seemed a while to linger,
Ere yet he made th' adventurous grasp.
And still a while the glittering toy,
Coquettish, seemed to shun the snare,
And then more eager grew the boy,
And followed with impetuous air.
Round and around, with heedful eyes,
He chased it o'er the wavy river:
He marked his time and seized his prize,
But in his hand it burst for ever!
Upon the river's marge he sate,
The tears adown his young cheek gushing;
And long, his heart disconsolate 
He heeded not the river's rushing.
But tears will cease. And now the boy
Once more looked forth upon the stream:
'Twas morning still, and lo! a toy,
Bright as the last one, in the beam!
He rose pursued the bubble caught;
It burst he sighed then others chased;
And as I parted, still he sought
New bubbles in their downward haste.
My onward path I still pursued,
Till the high noontide sun was o'er me.
And now, though changed in form and mood,
That Youth and river seemed before me.
The deepened stream more proudly swept,
Though chafed by many a vessel's prow;
The Youth in manhood's vigor stept,
But care was chiselled on his brow.
Still on the stream he kept his eye,
And wooed the bubbles to the shore,
And snatched them, as they circled by,
Though bursting as they burst before.
Once more we parted. Yet again
We met though now 'twas evening dim:
Onward the waters rushed amain,
And vanished o'er a cataract's brim.
Though swift and dark the raging surge,
The Bubble-Chaser still was there;
And, bending o'er the dizzy verge,
Clutched at the gaudy things of air.
With staff in hand and tottering knee,
Upon the slippery brink he stood,
And watched, with doting ecstasy,
Each wreath of foam that rode the flood.
"One bubble more!" I heard him call,
And saw his trembling fingers play:
He snatched, and down the roaring fall,
With the lost bubble, passed away!
July
by John Le Gay Brereton

'Twas Jack-o'-Winter hailed it first,
But now more timid angels sing,
For what dull ear can fail to hear
Afar the fluting of the Spring?
In all free spaces of the land
A sightless flame is flickering;
Through every vein it leaps amain,
The fiery miracle of Spring.
A music ranging in the air,
A lambent light in everything;
O sweet, my sweet, the subtle heat,
The dancing light of Love and Spring!
The Rift (Song: Minor Mode)
by Thomas Hardy

'Twas just at gnat and cobweb-time,
When yellow begins to show in the leaf,
That your old gamut changed its chime
From those true tones of span so brief! -
That met my beats of joy, of grief,
As rhyme meets rhyme.
So sank I from my high sublime!
We faced but chancewise after that,
And never I knew or guessed my crime. . .
Yes; 'twas the date or nigh thereat -
Of the yellowing leaf; at moth and gnat
And cobweb-time.
A Hymn To Sir Clipseby Crew.
by Robert Herrick

'Twas not love's dart,
Or any blow
Of want, or foe,
Did wound my heart
With an eternal smart;
But only you,
My sometimes known
Companion,
My dearest Crew,
That me unkindly slew.
May your fault die,
And have no name
In books of fame;
Or let it lie
Forgotten now, as I.
We parted are
And now no more,
As heretofore,
By jocund Lar
Shall be familiar.
But though we sever,
My Crew shall see
That I will be
Here faithless never,
But love my Clipseby ever.
Hagar And Ishmael.
by H. P. Nichols

'Twas morning, and the pleasant light
Shone on the hills, the trees, the flowers,
And made a far-off country bright,
A lovely land, but not like ours.
A mother led her little child
Forth from his father's door away;
And with the flowers he played, and smiled
As beautiful and bright as they.
But when, at noon, the warm sun beat
Upon the sweet boy's forehead fair,
Tired and thirsty from the heat,
He asked in vain for water there.
The bottle, filled with water clear
At early day, was empty now;
The mother laid her child so dear
Beneath an old tree's spreading bough.
She turned away, and heard the sound
Of water, gushing like the rain;
She raised her boy from off the ground,
He drank, and played and smiled again.
They travelled on for many a day,
The mother and her little child;
And found a home, far, far away,
At last, among the deserts wild.
Mulga Bill's Bicycle
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?'
'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk -- I HATE a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.'
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.'
The Stable Of Bethlehem.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

'Twas not a palace proud and fair
He chose for His first home;
No dazz'ling pile of grandeur rare,
With pillar'd hall and dome;
Oh no! a stable, rude and poor,
Received Him at His birth;
And thus was born, unknown, obscure,
The Lord of Heaven and Earth.
No band of anxious menials there,
To tend the new-born child,
Joseph alone and Mary fair
Upon the infant smiled;
No broidered linens fine had they
Those little limbs to fold,
No baby garments rich and gay,
No tissues wrought with gold.
Come to your Saviour's lowly bed,
Ye vain and proud of heart!
And learn with bowed and humbled head
The lesson 'twill impart;
'Twill teach you not to prize too high
The riches vain of earth - 
But to lay up in God's bright sky
Treasures of truer worth.
And you, poor stricken sons of grief,
Sad outcasts of this life,
Come, too, and seek a sure relief
For your heart's bitter strife;
Enter that village stable door,
And view that lowly cot - 
Will it not teach you to endure,
And even bless your lot?
Cock Robin And Jenny Wren
by Walter Crane

1.
'Twas on a merry time,
When Jenny Wren was young,
So neatly as she danced,
And so sweetly as she sung,
Robin Redbreast lost his heart,
He was a gallant bird,
He doffed his cap to Jenny Wren,
Requesting to be heard.
2.
"My dearest Jenny Wren,
If you will but be mine,
You shall dine on cherry pie,
And drink nice currant wine;
I'll dress you like a gold-finch,
Or like a peacock gay,
So if you'll have me, Jenny, dear,
Let us appoint the day."
3.
Jenny blushed behind her fan
And thus declared her mind--
"So let it be to-morrow, Rob,
I'll take your offer kind;
Cherry pie is very good,
And so is currant wine,
But I will wear my plain brown gown,
And never dress too fine."
4.
Robin Redbreast got up early,
All at the break of day,
He flew to Jenny Wren's house,
And sang a roundelay;
He sang of Robin Redbreast,
And pretty Jenny Wren,
And when he came unto the end,
He then began again.
The Trickster.
by David Rorie M.D.

'Twas the turn o' the nicht when a' was quate
An' niver a licht to see,
That Death cam' stappin' the clachan through
As the kirk knock chappit three.
An' even forrit he keepit the road,
Nor lookin' to either side,
But heidin' straucht for the eastmost hoose
Whaur an auld wife used to bide.
Wi' ae lang stride he passed her door,
Nor sign he niver gae nane,
Save pu'in' a sprig o' the rowan tree
To flick on her window pane.
"An' is this to be a' my warnin', Death?
I'm fourscore year an' four,
Yet niver a drogue has crossed my lips
Nor a doctor crossed my door."
"I dinna seek to be forcy, wife,
But I hinna a meenute to tyne,
An' ye see ye're due for a transfer noo
To the Session books frae mine."
"At ilka cryin' I'm handy wife,
Wi' herbs I hae trokit awa',
An' weel ye may dae's a gude turnie, lad,
That's dune ye ane or twa!"
"At the hin'er en' Fair Hornie then!
Fair Hornie lat it be!
An' Govy-dick! ye can tak your pick
O' the ways fowk chance to dee!"
He rattled them owre till weel on fowre
An' the cock gae signs o' life,
On ilka ill he spak' his fill-
But nane o' them pleased the wife.
"Wi' siccan a ch'ice ye're unco nice!
Hoots! came awa woman!" says Death,
"Gin ye canna wale ane o' the fancy kin's,
What think ye o' 'Want o' breath?'"
Noo, Faith! the auld jade was a humoursome taed,
As an auld wife weel can be,
An' she leugh sae sair at his fleechin' air
It fairly gar't her dee!
Wi' a gey teuch sinon in your neck
Ye'll lang keep clear o' skaith,
But the craftiest carle in a' the warl',
An' the kin'liest whiles, is Death.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXVIII. Jingles.
by Unknown

Tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee
Resolved to have a battle,
For tweedle-dum said tweedle-dee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
Just then flew by a monstrous crow,
As big as a tar-barrel,
Which frightened both the heroes so,
They quite forgot their quarrel.
An Old Bachelor
by Tudor Storrs Jenks

'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside,
With a boisterous wind untamed,
But I was sitting snug within,
Where my good log-fire flamed.
As my clock ticked,
My cat purred,
And my kettle sang.
I read me a tale of war and love,
Brave knights and their ladies fair;
And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch
To drive away dull care.
As my clock ticked,
My cat purred,
And my kettle sang.
At last the candles sputtered out,
But the embers still were bright,
When I turned my tumbler upside down,
An' bade m'self g' night!
As th' ket'l t-hic-ked,
The clock purred,
And the cat (hic) sang!
Sonnet III.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Era 'l giorno ch' al sol si scoloraro.
HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY).
'Twas on the morn, when heaven its blessed ray
In pity to its suffering master veil'd,
First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,
Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.
Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day,
Needed against Love's arrows any shield;
And trod, securely trod, the fatal field:
Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.
On every side Love found his victim bare,
And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;
Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:
But poor the triumph of his boasted art,
Who thus could pierce a naked youth, nor dare
To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!
WRANGHAM.
'Twas on the blessed morning when the sun
In pity to our Maker hid his light,
That, unawares, the captive I was won,
Lady, of your bright eyes which chain'd me quite;
That seem'd to me no time against the blows
Of love to make defence, to frame relief:
Secure and unsuspecting, thus my woes
Date their commencement from the common grief.
Love found me feeble then and fenceless all,
Open the way and easy to my heart
Through eyes, where since my sorrows ebb and flow:
But therein was, methinks, his triumph small,
On me, in that weak state, to strike his dart,
Yet hide from you so strong his very bow.
MACGREGOR.