DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
At Night
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Whut time 'd dat clock strike?
Nine? No--eight;
I didn't think hit was so late.
Aer chew! I must 'a' got a cough,
I raally b'lieve I did doze off--
Hit's mighty soothin' to de tiah,
A-dozin' dis way by de fiah;
Oo oom--hit feels so good to stretch
I sutny is one weary wretch!
Look hyeah, dat boy done gone to sleep!
He des ain't wo'th his boa'd an' keep;
I des don't b'lieve he'd bat his eyes
If Gab'el called him fo'm de skies!
But sleepin's good dey ain't no doubt--
Dis pipe o' mine is done gone out.
Don't bu'n a minute, bless my soul,
Des please to han' me dat ah coal.
You 'Lias git up now, my son,
Seems lak my nap is des begun;
You sutny mus' ma'k down de day
Wen I treats comp'ny dis away!
W'y, Brother Jones, dat drowse come on,
An' laws! I dremp dat you was gone!
You 'Lias, whaih yo' mannahs, suh,
To hyeah me call an' nevah stuh!
To-morrer mo'nin' w'en I call
Dat boy'll be sleepin' to beat all,
Don't mek no diffunce how I roah,
He'll des lay up an' sno' and sno'.
Now boy, you done hyeahed whut I said,
You bettah tek yo'se'f yo baid,
Case ef you gits me good an' wrong
I'll mek dat sno' a diffunt song.
Dis wood fiah is invitin' dho',
Hit seems to wa'm de ve'y flo'--
An' nuffin' ain't a whit ez sweet,
Ez settin' toastin' of yo' feet.
Hit mek you drowsy, too, but La!
Hyeah, 'Lias, don't you hyeah yo' ma?
Ef I gits sta'ted f'om dis cheah
I' lay, you scamp, I'll mek you heah!
To-morrer mo'nin' I kin bawl
Twell all de neighbohs hyeah me call;
An' you'll be snoozin' des ez deep
Ez if de day was made fu' sleep;
Hit's funny when you got a cough
Somehow yo' voice seems too fu' off--
Can't wake dat boy fu' all I say,
I reckon he'll sleep daih twell day!
Bereavement
by William Lisle Bowles

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.
Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung;
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung;
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers,
Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,
"No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!"
The News
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me?
Don't shut me out 'cause I 's ol' an' can't see.
Somep'n's gone wrong dat 's a-causin' you dread,--
Don't be afeared to tell--Whut! mastah dead?
Somebody brung de news early to-day,--
One of de sojers he led, do you say?
Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah lead?
How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?
Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed;
I wants to t'ink,--hit ain't cleah in my head:--
Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight,--
Dat 's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?
Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'?
Lif me up some,--dah, jes' so I kin kneel.
I was too weak to go wid him, dey said,
Well, now I 'll--fin' him--so--mastah is dead.
Yes, suh, I 's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,--
Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit 's lightah agin:
P'omised yo' pappy I 'd allus tek keer
Of you,--yes, mastah,--I 's follerin',--hyeah!
Christmas Carols.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

1.
Whoso hears a chiming for Christmas at the nighest,
Hears a sound like Angels chanting in their glee,
Hears a sound like palm-boughs waving in the highest,
Hears a sound like ripple of a crystal sea.
Sweeter than a prayer-bell for a saint in dying,
Sweeter than a death-bell for a saint at rest,
Music struck in Heaven with earth's faint replying,
"Life is good, and death is good, for Christ is Best."
2.
A holy, heavenly chime
Rings fulness in of time,
And on His Mother's breast
Our Lord God ever-Blest
Is laid a Babe at rest.
Stoop, Spirits unused to stoop,
Swoop, Angels, flying swoop,
Adoring as you gaze,
Uplifting hymns of praise, -
"Grace to the Full of Grace!"
The cave is cold and strait
To hold the angelic state.
More strait it is, more cold,
To foster and infold
Its Maker one hour old.
Thrilled through with awestruck love,
Meek Angels poised above,
To see their God look down.
"What, is there never a Crown
For Him in swaddled gown?
"How comes He soft and weak
With such a tender cheek,
With such a soft, small hand? -
The very Hand which spann'd
Heaven when its girth was plann'd.
"How comes He with a voice
Which is but baby-noise? -
That Voice which spake with might:
'Let there be light!' and light
Sprang out before our sight.
"What need hath He of flesh
Made flawless now afresh?
What need of human heart? -
Heart that must bleed and smart,
Choosing the better part.
"But see: His gracious smile
Dismisses us a while
To serve Him in His kin.
Haste we, make haste, begin
To fetch His brethren in."
Like stars they flash and shoot,
The Shepherds they salute.
"Glory to God" they sing;
"Good news of peace we bring,
For Christ is born a King."
3.
Lo! newborn Jesus,
Soft and weak and small,
Wrapped in baby's bands
By His Mother's hands,
Lord God of all.
Lord God of Mary,
Whom His Lips caress
While He rocks to rest
On her milky breast
In helplessness.
Lord God of shepherds
Flocking through the cold,
Flocking through the dark
To the only Ark,
The only Fold.
Lord God of all things,
Be they near or far,
Be they high or low;
Lord of storm and snow,
Angel and star.
Lord God of all men, -
My Lord and my God!
Thou who lovest me,
Keep me close to Thee
By staff and rod.
Lo! newborn Jesus,
Loving great and small,
Love's free Sacrifice,
Opening Arms and Eyes
To one and all.
To A Motherless Babe.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Why art thou here, little, motherless one, - 
Why art thou here in this bleak world alone?
With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow,
What hath this stern world for such as thou?
Why art thou here in this world of unrest,
Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest? - 
Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime,
Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time!
Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near,
Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?
Rose-Ann
by Thomas Hardy

Why didn't you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?
Why didn't you name it to me,
Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,
So often, so wearifully?
O why did you let me be near 'ee, Rose-Ann,
Talking things about wedlock so free,
And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,
Give a hint that it wasn't to be?
Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes,
Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,
And lavendered linen all ready to use,
A-dreaming that they would be yours.
Mother said: "She's a sport-making maiden, my son";
And a pretty sharp quarrel had we;
O why do you prove by this wrong you have done
That I saw not what mother could see?
Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann,
Never once did I dream it to be;
And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,
As you in your scorning treat me!
Young Love VI - Why Did She Marry Him?
by Richard Le Gallienne

Why did she marry him? Ah, say why!
How was her fancy caught?
What was the dream that he drew her by,
Or was she only bought?
Gave she her gold for a girlish whim,
A freak of a foolish mood?
Or was it some will, like a snake in him,
Lay a charm upon her blood?
Love of his limbs, was it that, think you?
Body of bullock build,
Sap in the bones, and spring in the thew,
A lusty youth unspilled?
But is it so that a maid is won,
Such a maiden maid as she?
Her face like a lily all white in the sun,
For such mere male as he!
Ah, why do the fields with their white and gold
To Farmer Clod belong,
Who though he hath reaped and stacked and sold
Hath never heard their song?
Nay, seek not an answer, comfort ye,
The poet heard their call,
And so, dear Love, will I comfort me -
He hath thy lease, that's all.
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXXIV. - On Being Stranded Near The Harbour Of Boulogne
by William Wordsworth

Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son
Of England, who in hope her coast had won,
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er?
Well, let him pace this noted beach once more,
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror!
Enough: my Country's cliffs I can behold,
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea,
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,
And folly cursed with endless memory:
These local recollections ne'er can cloy;
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!
Farmer's Wife And Raven.
by John Gay

"Why are those tears? Why droops your head?
Say is your swain or husband dead?"
The farmer's wife said: "You know well
The salt was spilt, - to me it fell;
And then to add loss unto loss,
The knife and fork were laid across.
On Friday evening, 'tis too true,
Bounce in my lap a coffin flew.
Some dire misfortune it portends:
I tremble for my absent friends."
"Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not:
Be all these prodigies forgot;
The while, at least, you eat your dinner
Bid the foul fiend avaunt - the sinner!
And soon as Betty clears the table
For a dessert, I'll read a fable.
"Betwixt her panniers rocked, on Dobbin
A matron rode to market bobbing,
Indulging in a trancelike dream
Of money for her eggs and cream;
When direful clamour from her broke:
'A raven on the left-hand oak!
His horrid croak bodes me some ill.'
Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill,
And somehow he with failing legs
Fell, and down fell the cream and eggs.
She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven!
You - nasty - filthy - dirty - raven!'
'Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour,
There nothing here was done by glamour;
Get up again and wipe your gown,
It was not I who threw you down;
For had you laid your market ware
On Dun - the old sure-footed mare - 
Though all the ravens in the Hundred
Had croaked till all the Hundred wondered,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"
Because
by James Whitcomb Riley

Why did we meet long years of yore?
And why did we strike hands and say
"We will be friends and nothing more";
Why are we musing thus to-day?
Because because was just because,
And no one knew just why it was.
Why did I say good-by to you?
Why did I sail across the main?
Why did I love not heaven's own blue
Until I touched these shores again?
Because because was just because,
And you nor I knew why it was.
Why are my arms about you now,
And happy tears upon your cheek?
And why my kisses on your brow?
Look up in thankfulness and speak!
Because because was just because,
And only God knew why it was.
Why Did I Sketch
by Thomas Hardy

Why did I sketch an upland green,
And put the figure in
Of one on the spot with me? -
For now that one has ceased to be seen
The picture waxes akin
To a wordless irony.
If you go drawing on down or cliff
Let no soft curves intrude
Of a woman's silhouette,
But show the escarpments stark and stiff
As in utter solitude;
So shall you half forget.
Let me sooner pass from sight of the sky
Than again on a thoughtless day
Limn, laugh, and sing, and rhyme
With a woman sitting near, whom I
Paint in for love, and who may
Be called hence in my time!
From an old note.
Lalila, to the Ferengi Lover
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Why above others was I so blessed
And honoured? to be chosen one
To hold you, sleeping, against my breast,
As now I may hold your only son.
Twelve months ago; that wonderful night!
You gave your life to me in a kiss;
Have I done well, for that past delight,
In return, to have given you this?
Look down at his face, your face, beloved,
His eyes are azure as yours are blue.
In every line of his form is proved
How well I loved you, and only you.
I felt the secret hope at my heart
Turned suddenly to the living joy,
And knew that your life and mine had part
As golden grains in a brass alloy.
And learning thus, that your child was mine,
Thrilled by the sense of its stirring life,
I held myself as a sacred shrine
Afar from pleasure, and pain, and strife,
That all unworthy I might not be
Of that you had deigned to cause to dwell
Hidden away in the heart of me,
As white pearls hide in a dusky shell.
Do you remember, when first you laid
Your lips on mine, that enchanted night?
My eyes were timid, my lips afraid,
You seemed so slender and strangely white.
I always tremble; the moments flew
Swiftly to dawn that took you away,
But this is a small and lovely you
Content to rest in my arms all day.
Oh, since you have sought me, Lord, for this,
And given your only child to me,
My life devoted to yours and his,
Whilst I am living, will always be.
And after death, through the long To Be,
(Which, I think, must surely keep love's laws,)
I, should you chance to have need of me,
Am ever and always, only yours.
Stanzas - On The Same Occasion.
by Robert Burns

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
How I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
Again in folly's path might go astray;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?
O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!
My Heart Thy Lark
by George MacDonald

Why dost thou want to sing
When thou hast no song, my heart?
If there be in thee a hidden spring,
Wherefore will no word start?
On its way thou hearest no song,
Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
The years of thy life are growing long--
Art still the heart of a boy?--
Father, I am thy child!
My heart is in thy hand!
Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
Of a song in thy high land.
It will answer--but how, my God,
Thou knowest; I cannot say:
It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod--
Thy lark to meet thy day!
Drouth.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Why do we pity those who weep? The pain
That finds a ready outlet in the flow
Of salt and bitter tears is blessed woe,
And does not need our sympathies. The rain
But fits the shorn field for new yield of grain;
While the red, brazen skies, the sun's fierce glow,
The dry, hot winds that from the tropics blow
Do parch and wither the unsheltered plain.
The anguish that through long, remorseless years
Looks out upon the world with no relief
Of sudden tempests or slow-dripping tears - 
The still, unuttered, silent, wordless grief
That evermore doth ache, and ache, and ache - 
This is the sorrow wherewith hearts do break.
Death's Protest
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O Man?
Why dost thou ever flee in fear, and cling
To my false rival, Life?    I do but bring
Thee rest and calm.    Then wherefore dost thou ban
And curse me?    Since the forming of God's plan
I have not hurt or harmed a mortal thing,
I have bestowed sweet balm for every sting,
And peace eternal for earth's stormy span.
The wild mad prayers for comfort sent in vain
To knock at the indifferent heart of Life,
I, Death, have answered.    Knowest thou not 'tis he,
My cruel rival, who sends all thy pain
And wears the soul out in unending strife?
Why dost thou hold to him, then, spurning me?
Why Do Ye Call The Poet Lonely.
by Archibald Lampman

Why do ye call the poet lonely,
Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.
Daphne
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Why do you follow me?--
Any moment I can be
Nothing but a laurel-tree.
Any moment of the chase
I can leave you in my place
A pink bough for your embrace.
Yet if over hill and hollow
Still it is your will to follow,
I am off;--to heel, Apollo!
Upon The Death Of His Sparrow. An Elegy.
by Robert Herrick

Why do not all fresh maids appear
To work love's sampler only here,
Where spring-time smiles throughout the year?
Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers
Nature begets by th' sun and showers,
Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread
The body of the under-dead?
Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear,
O! may no eye distil a tear
For you once lost, who weep not here!
Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but known
This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own:
And for this dead which under lies
Wept out her heart, as well as eyes.
But, endless peace, sit here and keep
My Phil the time he has to sleep;
And thousand virgins come and weep
To make these flowery carpets show
Fresh as their blood, and ever grow,
Till passengers shall spend their doom:
Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb.
Nine Stages Towards Knowing
by Ben Jonson

Why do we lie
'Why do we lie,' she questioned, her warm eyes
on the grey Autumn wind and its coursing,
'all afternoon wasted in bed like this?'
'Because we cannot lie all night together.'
'Yes,' she said, satisfied at my reasoning,
but going on to search her cruel mind
for better excuses to leave my narrow bed.
Too many flesh suppers
Abstracted in art,
in architecture,
in scholars' detail;
absorbed by music,
by minutiae,
by sad trivia;
all to efface her,
whom I can forget
no more than breathing.
Theatregoer
Somewhere some nights she sees
curtains rise on those rites
we also knew and felt
I sit here desolate
in spite of company
Love is between people
And should she die?
And should she die tonight,
with this three years' difference
as well between us now?
Or no, be maimed perhaps
and bearing pain, to live
on damages for life?
In any case, I wish
her no good, whom I loved
as Brunel loved iron.
All this Sunday long
All this Sunday long it has snowed,
and I weighted with the old grief
struggling to unseat her from my mind.
Yet winnowing our past I cannot find
a snow-gilded scene however brief:
thus do I wilfully increase my load.
Spatial Definition
Razed the room in which
we made so much love:
I try to re-place
it in space against
the windracked planetrees:
my eyes quarter air.
Able at last
'Able at last,' she writes,
'to see things as they were,
I wonder we were so blind
to think our trust could bind
instead of just defer.'
I shudder at her fall,
for that was, from the heights,
not how it was at all.
Arrived at the place
Arrived at the place
to which I always
said I was going:
comfortless for lack
of her who chose not
to travel with me:
too aware of my way
to wherever next
is also alone.
Knowledge
Knowledge of her was
earned like miners' pay:
afterwards I sought
friends' knowledge of her:
now I need to know
nothing of this girl:
she whom once I knew
as my tongue my mouth.
The Memorial Brass: 186-
by Thomas Hardy

"Why do you weep there, O sweet lady,
Why do you weep before that brass? -
(I'm a mere student sketching the mediaeval)
Is some late death lined there, alas? -
Your father's? . . . Well, all pay the debt that paid he!"
"Young man, O must I tell! - My husband's! And under
His name I set mine, and my DEATH! -
Its date left vacant till my heirs should fill it,
Stating me faithful till my last breath."
- "Madam, that you are a widow wakes my wonder!"
"O wait! For last month I - remarried!
And now I fear 'twas a deed amiss.
We've just come home. And I am sick and saddened
At what the new one will say to this;
And will he think - think that I should have tarried?
"I may add, surely, - with no wish to harm him -
That he's a temper - yes, I fear!
And when he comes to church next Sunday morning,
And sees that written . . . O dear, O dear!
- "Madam, I swear your beauty will disarm him!"
Horatian Lyrics. Odes I, 23.
by Eugene Field

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?
Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites--
Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake;
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.
I do not follow with a tigerish thought
Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.
Why Does She So Long Delay? By Paul, The Silentiary.
by Thomas Moore

Why does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
Watching here in solitude,
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay?
Vainly now have two lamps shone;
See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.
Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,--
No, neither doth she fear.
The Sonnets XXXIV - Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
by William Shakespeare

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
The Wolf And The Fox In The Well (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

Why does 'sop give to the fox the reputation of excelling in all tricks of cunning? I have sought for a reason, but cannot find one. Does not the wolf, when he has need to defend his life or take that of another, display as much knowingness as the fox? I believe he knows more, and I dare, perhaps with some reason, to contradict my master in this particular.
Nevertheless, here is a case where undoubtedly all the honour fell to the dweller in burrows.
One evening a fox, who was as hungry as a dog, happened to see the round reflection of the moon in a well, and he believed it to be a fine cheese. There were two pails which alternately drew up the water. Into the uppermost of these the fox leapt, and his weight caused him to descend the well, where he at once discovered his mistake about the cheese. He became extremely worried and fancied his end approaching, for he could see no way to get up again but by some other hungry one, enticed by the same reflection, coming down in the same way that he had.
Two days passed without any one coming to the well. Time, which is always marching onward, had, during two nights, hollowed the outline of the silvery planet, and Reynard was in despair.
At last a wolf, parched with thirst, drew near, to whom the fox called from below, "Comrade, here is a treat for you! Do you see this? It is an exquisite cheese, made by Faunus[1] from milk of the heifer Io.[2] If Jupiter were ill and lost his appetite he would find it again by one taste of this. I have only eaten this piece out of it; the rest will be plenty for you. Come down in the pail up there. I put it there on purpose for you."
A rigmarole so cleverly told was easily believed by the fool of a wolf, who descended by his greater weight, which not only took him down, but brought the fox up.
We ought not to laugh at the wolf, for we often enough let ourselves be deluded with just as little cause. Everybody is ready to believe the thing he fears and the thing he desires.