DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Starved
by William Henry Davies

My little Lamb, what is amiss?
If there was milk in mother's kiss,
You would not look as white as this.
The wolf of Hunger, it is he
That takes away thy milk from me,
And I have much to do for thee.
If thou couldst live on love, I know
No babe in all the land could show
More rosy cheeks and louder crow.
Thy father's dead, Alas for thee:
I cannot keep this wolf from me,
That takes thy milk so bold and free.
If thy dear father lived, he'd drive
Away this beast with whom I strive,
And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive.
Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great
I'd swallow common rags for meat, 
If they could make milk rich and sweet.
My little Lamb, what is amiss?
Come, I must wake thee with a kiss,
For Death would own a sleep like this.
Praise Of My Lady
by William Morris

My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow'd a little mournfully.
Beata mea Domina!
Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
Beata mea Domina!
Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisp'd wonderfully:
Beata mea Domina!
Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
Beata mea Domina!
Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
Beata mea Domina!
Beneath her brows the lids fall slow.
The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I would wish my lips to be.
Beata mea Domina!
Her great eyes, standing far apart,
Draw up some memory from her heart,
And gaze out very mournfully;
Beata mea Domina!
So beautiful and kind they are,
But most times looking out afar,
Waiting for something, not for me.
Beata mea Domina!
I wonder if the lashes long
Are those that do her bright eyes wrong,
For always half tears seem to be
Beata mea Domina!
Lurking below the underlid,
Darkening the place where they lie hid:
If they should rise and flow for me!
Beata mea Domina!
Her full lips being made to kiss,
Curl'd up and pensive each one is;
This makes me faint to stand and see.
Beata mea Domina!
Her lips are not contented now,
Because the hours pass so slow
Towards a sweet time: (pray for me),
Beata mea Domina!
Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell?
But this at least I know full well,
Her lips are parted longingly,
Beata mea Domina!
So passionate and swift to move,
To pluck at any flying love,
That I grow faint to stand and see.
Beata mea Domina!
Yea! there beneath them is her chin,
So fine and round, it were a sin
To feel no weaker when I see
Beata mea Domina!
God's dealings; for with so much care
And troublous, faint lines wrought in there,
He finishes her face for me.
Beata mea Domina!
Of her long neck what shall I say?
What things about her body's sway,
Like a knight's pennon or slim tree
Beata mea Domina!
Set gently waving in the wind;
Or her long hands that I may find
On some day sweet to move o'er me?
Beata mea Domina!
God pity me though, if I miss'd
The telling, how along her wrist
The veins creep, dying languidly
Beata mea Domina!
Inside her tender palm and thin.
Now give me pardon, dear, wherein
My voice is weak and vexes thee.
Beata mea Domina!
All men that see her any time,
I charge you straightly in this rhyme,
What, and wherever you may be,
Beata mea Domina!
To kneel before her; as for me,
I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously.
Beata mea Domina!
The Henchman
by John Greenleaf Whittier

My lady walks her morning round,
My lady's page her fleet greyhound,
My lady's hair the fond winds stir,
And all the birds make songs for her.
Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,
And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;
But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird,
Was beauty seen or music heard.
The distance of the stars is hers;
The least of all her worshippers,
The dust beneath her dainty heel,
She knows not that I see or feel.
Oh, proud and calm! she cannot know
Where'er she goes with her I go;
Oh, cold and fair! she cannot guess
I kneel to share her hound's caress!
Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,
I rob their ears of her sweet talk;
Her suitors come from east and west,
I steal her smiles from every guest.
Unheard of her, in loving words,
I greet her with the song of birds;
I reach her with her green-armed bowers,
I kiss her with the lips of flowers.
The hound and I are on her trail,
The wind and I uplift her veil;
As if the calm, cold moon she were,
And I the tide, I follow her.
As unrebuked as they, I share
The license of the sun and air,
And in a common homage hide
My worship from her scorn and pride.
World-wide apart, and yet so near,
I breathe her charmed atmosphere,
Wherein to her my service brings
The reverence due to holy things.
Her maiden pride, her haughty name,
My dumb devotion shall not shame;
The love that no return doth crave
To knightly levels lifts the slave,
No lance have I, in joust or fight,
To splinter in my lady's sight
But, at her feet, how blest were I
For any need of hers to die!
Three Songs In A Garden II
by Theodosia Garrison

My lilies are like nuns in white
That guard me well all day,
But the red, red rose that near them grows
Is wiser far than they.
Oh, red rose, wise rose,
Keep my secret well;
I kiss you twice, I kiss you thrice
To pray you not to tell.
My lilies sleep beneath the moon,
But wide awake are you,
And you have heard a certain word
And seen a dream come true.
Oh, red rose, wise rose,
Silence for my sake,
Nor drop to-night a petal light
Lest my white lilies wake.
To Pope Julius II.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Signor, se vero '.
My Lord! if ever ancient saw spake sooth,
Hear this which saith: Who can, doth never will.
Lo! thou hast lent thine ear to fables still,
Rewarding those who hate the name of truth.
I am thy drudge and have been from my youth--
Thine, like the rays which the sun's circle fill;
Yet of my dear time's waste thou think'st no ill:
The more I toil, the less I move thy ruth.
Once 'twas my hope to raise me by thy height;
But 'tis the balance and the powerful sword
Of Justice, not false Echo, that we need.
Heaven, as it seems, plants virtue in despite
Here on the earth, if this be our reward--
To seek for fruit on trees too dry to breed.
Parting.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
The Wrong Story.
by H. P. Nichols

"My little Edward, how could you
Tell me a thing that was not true?
And make me feel thus grieved and sad
To find I have a child so bad?
"And then, to do a deed so mean,
And wish by that yourself to screen!
Would you have had me blame poor Tray,
And send him from the fire away?
"O! never, when you've disobeyed,
Or by your mischief trouble made,
Think that a wicked act is right
Because you hide it from my sight.
"It will be always seen by One,
Who knows each wrong that you have done;
And I shall know it too, no doubt,
For sin must always find you out.
"I cannot let you here to-day
With me and little sisters stay;
But you must go up stairs alone,
Till you a better boy have grown."
The Aloe
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

My life was like an Aloe flower, beneath an orient sky,
Your sunshine touched it for an hour; it blossomed but to die.
Torn up, cast out, on rubbish heaps where red flames work their will
Each atom of the Aloe keeps the flower-time fragrance still.
Dr. Doddridge's Dog
by George MacDonald

"What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you?"
My little dog, who blessed you
With such white toothy-pegs?
And who was it that dressed you
In such a lot of legs?
Perhaps he never told you!
Perhaps you know quite well,
And beg me not to scold you
For you can't speak to tell!
I'll tell you, little brother,
In case you do not know:--
One only, not another,
Could make us two just so.
You love me?--Quiet!--I'm proving!--
It must be God above
That filled those eyes with loving:
He was the first to love!
One day he'll stop all sadness--
Hark to the nightingale!
Oh blessed God of gladness!--
Come, doggie, wag your tail!
That's--Thank you, God!--He gave you
Of life this little taste;
And with more life he'll save you,
Not let you go to waste!
He says now, Live together,
And share your bite and sup;
And then he'll say, Come hither--
And lift us both high up.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXLVI. Relics.
by Unknown

My little old man and I fell out,
I'll tell you what 'twas all about:
I had money, and he had none,
And that's the way the row begun.
The Thank Offering.
by George MacDonald

My little child receives my gift,
A simple piece of bread;
But to her mouth she doth not lift
The love in bread conveyed,
Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
The morsel first is laid.
This is her grace before her food,
This her libation poured;
Uplift, like offering Aaron good
Heaved up unto the Lord;
More riches in the thanks than could
A thousand gifts afford!
My Father, every gift of thine,
Teach me to lift to Thee;
Not else know I the love divine,
With which it comes to me;
Not else the tenfold gift is mine
Of taking thankfully.
Yea, all my being I would lift,
An offering of me;
Then only truly mine the gift,
When so received by Thee;
Then shall I go, rejoicing, swift,
Through thine Eternity.
The Virgin Mother
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

My little love, my darling,
You were a doorway to me;
You let me out of the confines
Into this strange countrie,
Where people are crowded like thistles,
Yet are shapely and comely to see.
My little love, my dearest
Twice have you issued me,
Once from your womb, sweet mother,
Once from myself, to be
Free of all hearts, my darling,
Of each heart's home-life free.
And so, my love, my mother,
I shall always be true to you;
Twice I am born, my dearest,
To life, and to death, in you;
And this is the life hereafter
Wherein I am true.
I kiss you good-bye, my darling,
Our ways are different now;
You are a seed in the night-time,
I am a man, to plough
The difficult glebe of the future
For God to endow.
I kiss you good-bye, my dearest,
It is finished between us here.
Oh, if I were calm as you are,
Sweet and still on your bier!
God, if I had not to leave you
Alone, my dear!
Let the last word be uttered,
Oh grant the farewell is said!
Spare me the strength to leave you
Now you are dead.
I must go, but my soul lies helpless
Beside your bed.
After Apple Picking
by Robert Lee Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and reappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
And I keep hearing from the cellar-bin
That rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall,
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised, or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Isandlwana
by John Alexander McCrae

Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
The grey of a pauper's gown,
A soldier's grave in Zululand,
And a woman in Brecon Town.
My little lad for a soldier boy,
(Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
My eyes for tears and his for joy
When he went from Brecon Town,
His for the flags and the gallant sights
His for the medals and his for the fights,
And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
At home in Brecon Town.
They say he's laid beneath a tree,
(Come back to Brecon Town!)
Shouldn't I know? --    I was there to see:
(It's far to Brecon Town!)
It's me that keeps it trim and drest
With a briar there and a rose by his breast --
The English flowers he likes the best
That I bring from Brecon Town.
And I sit beside him -- him and me,
(We're back to Brecon Town.)
To talk of the things that used to be
(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);
I know the look o' the land and sky,
And the bird that builds in the tree near by,
And times I hear the jackals cry,
And me in Brecon Town.
Golden grey on miles of sand
The dawn comes creeping down;
It's day in far off Zululand
And night in Brecon Town.
How It Fell Calm On Summer Night.
by James Barron Hope

My Lady's rest was calm and deep:
She had been gazing at the moon;
And thus it chanced she fell asleep
One balmy night in June.
Freebooter winds stole richest smells
From roses bursting in the gloom,
And rifled half-blown daffodils,
And lilies of perfume.
These dainty robbers of the South
Found "beauty" sunk in deep repose,
And seized upon her crimson mouth,
Thinking her lips a rose.
The wooing winds made love full fast - 
To rouse her up in vain they tried - 
They kist and kist her, till, at last,
In ecstasy they died.
My Life Is Full Of Weary Days
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
My life is full of weary days,
But good things have not kept aloof,
Nor wander'd into other ways:
I have not lack'd thy mild reproof,
Nor golden largess of thy praise.
And now shake hands across the brink
Of that deep grave to which I go:
Shake hands once more: I cannot sink
So far'far down, but I shall know
Thy voice, and answer from below.
II.
When in the darkness over me
The four-handed mole shall scrape,
Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree,
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape,
But pledge me in the flowing grape.
And when the sappy field and wood
Grow green beneath the showery gray,
And rugged barks begin to bud,
And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with may,
Ring sudden scritches of the jay,
Then let wise Nature work her will,
And on my clay her darnel grow;
Come only, when the days are still,
And at my headstone whisper low,
And tell me if the woodbines blow.
My Lady
by Robert Fuller Murray

My Lady of all ladies!    Queen by right
Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods;
With eyes that look divine beatitudes,
Large eyes illumined with her spirit's light;
Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight,
Breathing such music as the dove, which broods
Within the dark and silence of the woods,
Croons to the mate that is her heart's delight.
Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill,
To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?
A colour, in the sky of morn or of even,
To match that flush?    Ah, let me now be still!
If of her spirit I should strive to speak,
I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.
My Lady's Gown, There's Gairs Upon'T.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Gregg's Pipes."
I.
My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't.
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane;
By Colin's cottage lies his game,
If Colin's Jenny be at hame.
II.
My lady's white, my lady's red,
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude;
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.
III.
Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
IV.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns:
The diamond dew is her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
V.
My lady's dink, my lady's drest,
The flower and fancy o' the west;
But the lassie that a man lo'es best,
O that's the lass to make him blest.
My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't.
September
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

My life's long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide:    nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions.    I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.
A Lyric
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

My lady love lives far away,
And oh my heart is sad by day,
And ah my tears fall fast by night,
What may I do in such a plight.
Why, miles grow few when love is fleet,
And love, you know, hath flying feet;
Break off thy sighs and witness this,
How poor a thing mere distance is.
My love knows not I love her so,
And would she scorn me, did she know?
How may the tale I would impart
Attract her ear and storm her heart?
Calm thou the tempest in my breast,
Who loves in silence loves the best,
But bide thy time, she will awake,
No night so dark but morn will break.
But though my heart so strongly yearn,
My lady loves me not in turn,
How may I win the blest reply
That my void heart shall satisfy.
Love breedeth love, be thou but true,
And soon thy love shall love thee, too;
If Fate hath meant you heart for heart,
There's naught may keep you twain apart.
Sonnet CCXXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira.
HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.
My lord and friend! thoughts, wishes, all inclined
My heart to visit one so dear to me,
But Fortune--can she ever worse decree?--
Held me in hand, misled, or kept behind.
Since then the dear desire Love taught my mind
But leads me to a death I did not see,
And while my twin lights, wheresoe'er I be,
Are still denied, by day and night I've pined.
Affection for my lord, my lady's love,
The bonds have been wherewith in torments long
I have been bound, which round myself I wove.
A Laurel green, a Column fair and strong,
This for three lustres, that for three years more
In my fond breast, nor wish'd it free, I bore.
MACGREGOR.
The Little Joys
by Theodosia Garrison

My little joys went by me
As little children run
Across the fields at sunset
When playing time is done.
And now alone at twilight
What is there may content
The heart that loved their laughter
And frolic merriment?
Ah well, who knows but still may dawn
Another fairer day
Wherein my little joys may come
A-dancing out to play.
Sonnets From The Portuguese XXVIII
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said, he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it! this, . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine, and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
Words
by George Pope Morris

Adapted to a Spanish Melody.
My lady hath as soft a hand
As any queen in fairy-land;
And, hidden in her tiny boot,
As dainty and as light a foot.
Her foot!
Her little hand and foot!
No star that kindles in the sky
Burns brighter than my lady's eye;
And ne'er before did beauty grace
So fair a form, so sweet a face!
Her face!
Her gentle form and face!
My lady hath a golden heart,
Free from the dross of worldly art;
Which, in the sight of heaven above,
Is mine with all its hoarded love!
Her love!
Her boundless wealth of love!
The Romaunt Of Margret (Excerpts)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

IX
'My lips do need thy breath,
My lips do need thy smile,
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile:
Yet go with light and life
If that thou lovest one
In all the earth who loveth thee
As truly as the sun.
Margret, Margret.'
XIV
'But better loveth he
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted song,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.'
XVII
'But better loveth she
Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.'
XXII
'We brake no gold, a sign
Of stronger faith to be,
But I wear his last look in my soul,
Which said, I love but thee!'
Margret, Margret.
XXVI
A knight's bloodhound and he
The funeral watch did keep;
With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face
As it howled to see him weep.
A fair child kissed the dead,
But shrank before its cold.
And alone yet proudly in his hall
Did stand a baron of old.
Margret, Margret.
My Lady in her White Silk Shawl
by Vachel Lindsay

My lady in her white silk shawl
Is like a lily dim,
Within the twilight of the room
Enthroned and kind and prim.
My lady!    Pale gold is her hair.
Until she smiles her face
Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
With thoughts that find no place
In our harsh village of the West
Wherein she lives of late,
She's distant as far-hidden stars,
And cold - (almost!) - as fate.
But when she smiles she's here again
Rosy with comrade-cheer,
A Puritan Bacchante made
To laugh around the year.
The merry gentle moon herself,
Heart-stirring too, like her,
Wakening wild and innocent love
In every worshipper.
Verses On I Know Not What
by Jonathan Swift

My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end.
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.
Blind Sorrow
by George MacDonald

"My life is drear; walking I labour sore;
The heart in me is heavy as a stone;
And of my sorrows this the icy core:
Life is so wide, and I am all alone!"
Thou did'st walk so, with heaven-born eyes down bent
Upon the earth's gold-rosy, radiant clay,
That thou had'st seen no star in all God's tent
Had not thy tears made pools first on the way.
Ah, little knowest thou the tender care
In a love-plenteous cloak around thee thrown!
Full many a dim-seen, saving mountain-stair
Toiling thou climb'st--but not one step alone!
Lift but thy languid head and see thy guide;
Let thy steps go in his, nor choose thine own;
Then soon wilt thou, thine eyes with wonder wide,
Cry, Now I know I never was alone!