DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Stanzas To A Lady, On Leaving England.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Tis done - and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
2.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen - 
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest - 
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
3.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
4.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
5.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
6.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one.
7.
I go - but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
8.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe - 
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
9.
And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
10.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
11.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCVI. Games.
by Unknown

Tip, top, tower,
Tumble down in an hour.
Weed Or Flower
by Helen Leah Reed

"'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said,
"Nay, call it not a flower - this little weed,
If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed - 
Better the world were if it lay there dead."
"Ah - rather let it live!" a second cried,
"Weed it may be, and yet it has its use,
Here in its healing essence its excuse
For blooming lies, and here its only pride."
"Destroy it not!" another pled, "Behold
This tapering leaf - this soft and tender green,
Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene - 
This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold."
Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright!
For only flowers in this garden grow, - 
His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow
His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might."
To Edward Fitzgerald
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(MARCH 31ST, 1909)
'Tis a sad fate
To watch the world fighting,
All that is most fair
Ruthlessly blighting,
Blighting, ah! blighting.
When such a thought cometh
Let us not pine,
But gather old friends
Round the red wine--
Oh! pour the red wine!
And there we'll talk
And warm our wits
With Eastern fallacies
Out of old Fitz!
British old Fitz!
See him, half statesman--
Philosopher too--
Half ancient mariner
In baggy blue--
Such baggy blue!
Whimsical, wistful,
Haughty, forsooth:
Indolent always, yet
Ardent in truth,
But indolent, indolent!
There at the table
With us sits he,
Charming us subtly
To reverie,
Magic reverie.
"How sweet is summer's breath,
How sure and swift is death;
Nought wise on earth, save
What the wine whispereth,
Dreamily whispereth.
"At Na'shap'r beneath the sun,
Or here in misty Babylon,
Drink! for the rose leaves while you linger
Are falling, ever falling, one by one."
Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once more
Remould it nearer to the heart's desire!
Proverbs.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

'Tis easier far a wreath to bind,
Than a good owner fort to find.
-
I kill'd a thousand flies overnight,
Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.
-
To the mother I give;
For the daughter I live.
-
A breach is every day,
By many a mortal storm'd;
Let them fall in the gaps as they may,
Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.
-
What harm has thy poor mirror done, alas?
Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!
The Brass Well
by Henry Lawson

'Tis a legend of the bushmen from the days of Cunningham,
When he opened up the country and the early squatters came.
Tis the old tale of a fortune missed by men who did seek,
And, perhaps, you haven't heard it, The Brass Well on Myall Creek.
They were north of running rivers, they were south of Queensland rains,
And a blazing drought was scorching every grass-blade from the plains;
So the stockmen drove the cattle to the range where there was grass,
And a couple sunk a well and found what they believed was brass.
'Here's some bloomin' brass!' they muttered when they found it in the clay,
And they thought no more about it and in time they went away;
But they heard of gold, and saw it, somewhere down by Inverell,
And they felt and weighed it, crying: 'Why! we found it in the well!'
And they worked about the station and at times they took the track,
Always meaning to save money, always meaning to go back,
'Always meanin',' like the bushmen, who go drifting round like wrecks,
And they'd get half way to Myall, strike a pub and blew their cheques.
Then they told two more about it and those other two grew old,
And they never found the brass well and they never found the gold.
For the scrub grows dense and quickly and, though many went to seek,
No one ever struck the lost track to the Well on Myall Creek.
And the story is forgotten and I'm sitting here, alas!
With a woeful load of trouble and a woeful lack of brass;
But I dream at times that I might find what many went to seek,
And my luck might lead my footsteps to the Well at Myall Creek.
The Duel.[583]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
'Tis fifty years, and yet their fray
To us might seem but yesterday.
Tis fifty years, and three to boot,
Since, hand to hand, and foot to foot,
And heart to heart, and sword to sword,
One of our Ancestors was gored.
I've seen the sword that slew him;[584] he,
The slain, stood in a like degree
To thee, as he, the Slayer, stood
(Oh had it been but other blood!)
In kin and Chieftainship to me.
Thus came the Heritage to thee.
2.
To me the Lands of him who slew
Came through a line of yore renowned;
For I can boast a race as true
To Monarchs crowned, and some discrowned,
As ever Britain's Annals knew:
For the first Conqueror gave us Ground,[585]
And the last Conquered owned the line
Which was my mother's, and is mine.
3.
I loved thee - I will not say how,
Since things like these are best forgot:
Perhaps thou may'st imagine now
Who loved thee, and who loved thee not.
And thou wert wedded to another,[586]
And I at last another wedded:
I am a father, thou a mother,
To Strangers vowed, with strangers bedded.
For land to land, even blood to blood -
Since leagued of yore our fathers were -
Our manors and our birthright stood;
And not unequal had I wooed,
If to have wooed thee I could dare.
But this I never dared - even yet
When naught is left but to forget.
I feel that I could only love:
To sue was never meant for me,
And least of all to sue to thee;
For many a bar, and many a feud,
Though never told, well understood
Rolled like a river wide between -
And then there was the Curse of blood,
Which even my Heart's can not remove.
Alas! how many things have been!
Since we were friends; for I alone
Feel more for thee than can be shown.
4.
How many things! I loved thee - thou
Loved'st me not: another was
The Idol of thy virgin vow,
And I was, what I am, Alas!
And what he is, and what thou art,
And what we were, is like the rest:
We must endure it as a test,
And old Ordeal of the Heart.[587]
Venice, Dec. 29, 1818.
Death
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,
To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,
From sin and suffering to cease,
And wake to sinless life on high.
'Tis but to leave the dusty way
Our pilgrim feet so long have pressed,
And passon angel-wings away,
Forever with the Lord to rest.
'Tis but with noiseless step to glide
Behind the curtain's mystic screen
That from our mortal gaze doth hide
The glories of the world unseen.
Tis but to sleep a passing hour,
Serene as cradled infants sleep;
Then wake in glory and in power,
An endless Sabbath day to keep.
To Chloris.
by Robert Burns

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralizing muse.
Since thou in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.
Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lower;
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower.)
Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,
Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,
The comforts of the mind!
Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour's part;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship's truest heart.
The joys refin'd of sense and taste,
With every muse to rove:
And doubly were the poet blest,
These joys could he improve.
The Eyes.
by Robert Herrick

'Tis a known principle in war,
The eyes be first that conquered are.
The Three P's. - The Pratie, The Pig And Poteen.
by A. H. Laidlaw

'Tis daily this baste
Will prosade to the fayste,
The best that Ould Oireland has seen;
The P's are but three,
But they're plenty for me, - 
The Pratie, the Pig, the Poteen.
The Pratie, in place,
Has an iligant face,
That my mouth opens wide to let in,
But, like Widow Machree,
He's so glad to see me,
That he laughs himself out of his shkin.
He's so round and so square,
As he laughs at me there,
That he looks loike my brother, I ween;
Then I put him to cool
On the top of a shtool,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
Then I put him to cool
On the top of a shtool,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
But gourmands, ahoy!
The Pig is the Boy!
Indade he's the girl to my taste;
The form is so nate,
The lip is so swate,
That I kape her quite close to my waist.
But no cannibal I,
When I look in her eye,
The loikes to my sister is seen;
So I piously pause
In the work of my jaws,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
So I piously pause
In the work of my jaws,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
Lave the Pratie to cool
On the top of the shtool,
While we master this question of shtate,
Shall I ate? Shall I swig?
Musht Poteen or the Pig
Be the first or the last on my plate?
Now my grandfather's ghost
Appears at this post,
So solemn, so awful in mien,
To assist and debate
This question of shtate
On the subject of Pork and Poteen.
So he called for his mug,
And I gave him the jug,
Which he placed at his delicate mouth,
And he drank it all down,
Down, down, Derry down,
He had such a terrible drouth.
Then, with jug held on high,
And Poteen in his eye,
He says - this good ghost says to me:
"Hist! Hist! Patrick, hist!
And hould ye your whist
While I shpake out this Scripture to thee.
'Tis Hibernian Law
That, for Oireland's ould jaw,
If, at pig-faystes, you ate, shpake or swig,
If you have a great mind,
You surely will find
The Poteen's the best part of the Pig.
'Tis Hibernian Law
That, for Oireland's ould jaw,
If, at pig-faystes, you ate, shpake or swig,
If you have a great mind,
You surely will find
The Poteen's the best part of the Pig."
So, since that great day, - 
Or that night I may say, - 
I cook nothing else for to ate;
By the hole o' my coat,
It bates Houlahan's goat
In putting Pat off of his fate.
So, for Erin go bragh,
'Tis both Gospel and Law
For to ate, or to shpake or to swig,
If you have a great mind,
You surely will find
The Poteen's the best part of the pig!
The Poteen's the best part of the pig!
No Name
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

'A stone upon her heart and head,
But no name written on that stone;
Sweet neighbours whisper low instead,
This sinner was a loving one.'
- Mrs. Browning.
'Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head,
The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirl
Brown leaves and red till they cover your bed,
Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross'd
From your garden gate to your cottage door,
'What does it matter for one soul lost?
Millions of souls have been lost before.'
Yet I warn'd you, ah! but my words came true,
'Perhaps some day you will find him out.'
He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe,
Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt.
You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice,
Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof,
You have had your chance, you have taken your choice
How could I help you, standing aloof?
He has prosper'd well with the world, he says
I am mad, if so, and if he be sane,
I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise
That there lies between us one difference plain.
-    -    -    -    -    -
You in your beauty above me bent
In the pause of a wild west country ball,
Spoke to me, touched me without intent,
Made me your servant for once and all.
Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip,
And you swept my cheek with a shining curl,
That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip,
Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
From a long way off to look at your charms
Made my blood run redder in every vein,
And he, he has held you long in his arms,
And has kiss'd you over and over again.
Is it well that he keeps well out of my way?
If we met, he and I, we alone, we two,
Would I give him one moment's grace to pray?
Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew.
A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'd
With the hand of fate for a battledore;
But it matters much for your sweet soul lost,
As much as a million souls and more.
And I know that if, here or there, alone,
I found him, fairly and face to face,
Having slain his body, I would slay my own,
That my soul to Satan his soul might chase.
He hardens his heart in the public way,
Who am I? I am but a nameless churl;
But God will put all things straight some day,
Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl!
The Sonnets CXXI - 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd
by William Shakespeare

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing:
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad and in their badness reign.
Cruelty.
by Robert Herrick

'Tis but a dog-like madness in bad kings,
For to delight in wounds and murderings:
As some plants prosper best by cuts and blows,
So kings by killing do increase their foes.
Evening
by John Clare

'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
The Old Homestead
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Tis an old deserted homestead
On the outskirts of the town,
Where the roof is all moss-covered,
And the walls are tumbling down;
But around that little cottage
Do my brightest mem'ries cling,
For 'twas there I spent the moments
Of my youth,--life's happy spring.
I remember how I used to
Swing upon the old front gate,
While the robin in the tree tops
Sung a night song to his mate;
And how later in the evening,
As the beaux were wont to do,
Mr. Perkins, in the parlor,
Sat and sparked my sister Sue.
There my mother--heaven bless her!--
Kissed or spanked as was our need,
And by smile or stroke implanted
In our hearts fair virtue's seed;
While my father, man of wisdom,
Lawyer keen, and farmer stout,
Argued long with neighbor Dobbins
How the corn crops would turn out.
Then the quiltings and the dances--
How my feet were wont to fly,
While the moon peeped through the barn chinks
From her stately place on high.
Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy,
Ever backward o'er me roll;
Still the music of that farm life
Rings an echo in my soul.
Now the old place is deserted,
And the walls are falling down;
All who made the home life cheerful,
Now have died or moved to town.
But about that dear old cottage
Shall my mem'ries ever cling,
For 'twas there I spent the moments
Of my, youth,--life's happy spring.
Answer To The Following Question Of Mrs Howe.
by Alexander Pope

What is prudery?
'Tis a bledam,
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise;
Yet plays the fool before she dies.
'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and you.
The Cracked Bell - (Twelve Translations From Charles Baudelaire)
by John Collings Squire, Sir

'Tis bitter-sweet, when winter nights are long,
To watch, beside the flames which smoke and twist,
The distant memories which slowly throng,
Brought by the chime soft-singing through the mist.
Happy the sturdy, vigorous-throated bell
Who, spite of age alert and confident,
Cries hourly, like some strong old sentinel
Flinging the ready challenge from his tent.
For me, my soul is cracked; when sick with care,
She strives with songs to people the cold air
It happens often that her feeble cries
Mock the harsh rattle of a man who lies
Wounded, forgotten, 'neath a mound of slain
And dies, pinned fast, writhing his limbs in pain.
Youth And Calm
by Matthew Arnold

'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
There's nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow.
But is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth,
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes;
Because it hath the hope to come,
One day, to harbour in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath,
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.
Thoughts At A Railway Station.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

'Tis but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal -
Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
"With care."
I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words "With care"
Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I rather like the change
Of air.
Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase - "With care"
Or "This side uppermost" - and cry
Like children? No? No more have I.
Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
A bear.
But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear?
A ring perhaps - a rosy wreath -
A photograph by Vernon Heath -
Some matron's temporary teeth
Or hair!
Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stow'd herein a rare
Cargo of birds' eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he'll be true,
And many a hint that she is too,
Too fair.
Perhaps - but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that's folded there?
I shall be better by and by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass - I wonder why
They stare!
Wentworth
by Mary Hannay Foott

'Tis a new thing for Australia that the waters to her bear
One who seeks not strength of sunshine, or the breath of healing air;
One who reeks not of her riches, nor remembers she is fair;
One who land and houses, henceforth, holdeth not, for evermore;
Coming for such narrow dwelling as the dead need, to the shore
Named aforetime by the spirit to receive the garb it wore.
'Tis a strange thing for Australia that her name should be the name
Breathed ere death by one who loved her, claiming, with a patriot's claim,
Earth of her as chosen grave-place; rather than the lands of fame;
Rather than the Sacred City where a sepulchre was sought
For the noblest hearts of Europe; rather than the Country fraught
With the incense of the altars whence our household gods were brought.
'Tis a proud thing for Australia, while the funeral-prayers are said,
To remember loving service, frankly rendered by the dead;
How he strove, amid the nations, evermore to raise her head.
How in youth he sang her glory, as it is, and is to be,
Called her 'Empress,' while they held her yet as base-born, over sea,
Owned her 'Mother,' when her children scarce were counted with the free!
How he claimed of King and Commons that his birthland should be used
As a daughter not an alien; till the boon, so oft refused,
Was withheld, at last, no longer; and the former bonds were loosed.
How the scars of serfdom faded. How he led within the light
Of her fireside Earth's Immortals; chrism-touched from Olympus' height;
Whom gods loved; for whom the New Faith, too, has guest-rooms garnished bright.
'Tis a great thing for Australia; that her child of early years,
Shared her path of desert-travel, bread of sorrow, drink of tears,
Holding by her to these hill-tops, whence her Promised Place appears.
Titles were not hers to offer as the meed of service done;
Rank of peer or badge of knighthood, star or ribbon, she had none;
But she breathes a mother's blessing o'er the ashes of her son.
6th May, 1873
At The Telephone.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Ting-ling--"South, please, 1085;
Why hello, Jim--Oh, Saints alive!
It's south, I told you--hello; no,
I said once that I could not go.
"Say, can you meet me there tonight?
Confound it, Jim, you must be tight.
What are you saying anyhow,
I've got the wrong ear by the sow?
"Not pretty? Why, she's out o'sight,
Oh, shut up; that will be all right.
You can't walk there? Why it ain't far;
We get there on a 'lectric car.
"Well, Great Scott, man, don't talk all day,
But let me know now right away.
Miss B----, Oh, let the old girl wait;
We won't be out so very late.
"You will? All right then--eight o'clock;
Be sure and meet me on the block,
Remember now, don't get it wrong;
All right, old man (Ting-ling), so long."