DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Gardener
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text of this pretty little song is taken from Kinloch's MSS., where it is in James Beattie's handwriting. In Five Excellent New Songs, printed at Edinburgh in 1766, there is an older but much corrupted version of this song, confused with two other songs, a 'Thyme' song and the favourite 'I sowed the seeds of love.' It is printed as two songs, The New Lover's Garland and The Young Maid's Answer, both with the following refrain:--
'Brave sailing here, my dear,
And better sailing there,
And brave sailing in my love's arms,
O if I were there!'
The Story is so slight that the song can scarcely be counted as a narrative. But it is one of the lyrical dialogues covered by the word 'ballad,' and was not ruled out by Professor Child. There seems to be a loss of half a verse in 7, which should doubtless be two stanzas.
THE GARDENER
1.
The gardener stands in his bower-door,
With a primrose in his hand,
And by there came a leal maiden,
As jimp's a willow wand.
And by, etc.
2.
'O lady, can you fancy me,
For to be my bride?
You'll get a' the flowers in my garden
To be to you a weed.
3.
'The lily white shall be your smock,
Becomes your body neat;
And your head shall be deck'd with jelly-flower,
And the primrose in your breast.
4.
'Your gown shall be o' the sweet-william,
Your coat o' camovine,
And your apron o' the salads neat,
That taste baith sweet and fine.
5.
'Your stockings shall be o' the broad kail-blade,
That is baith broad and long;
And narrow, narrow at the coot,
And broad, broad at the brawn.
6.
'Your gloves shall be the marygold,
All glittering to your hand,
Well spread o'er wi' the blue blaewort,
That grows in corn-land.'
7.
'O fare you well, young man,' she says,
'Farewell, and I bid adieu;
Since you've provided a weed for me,
Among the summer flowers,
Then I'll provide another for you,
Among the winter showers.
8.
'The new-fallen snow to be your smock,
Becomes your body neat;
And your head shall be deck'd with the eastern wind,
And the cold rain on your breast.'
A Gem
by Joseph Horatio Chant

The gem is not this ode itself;
Hardly can it aspire so high.
Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,
Increased by thousands, cannot buy
Man's soul, the gem of priceless worth,
Made in God's image at its birth;
Ordained to live for evermore;
Redeemed by blood from sin and hell;
Transformed by grace, God's love to tell;
And at His feet its homage pour.
Lordly are its endowments, too;
Superb its destiny, if true;
Only below, said one who knew,
Unfallen angels round God's throne.
Lord, may this gem be Thine alone.
The Geese & The Cranes
by Walter Crane

The Geese joined the Cranes in some wheat;
All was well, till, disturbed at their treat,
Light-winged, the Cranes fled,
But the slow Geese, well fed,
Couldn't rise, and were caught in retreat.
Beware Of Enterprizes Where The Risks Are Not Equal
Winter In The Boulevard
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

The frost has settled down upon the trees
And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies
Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old
Romantic stories now no more to be told.
The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.
Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?
Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch? -
It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,
Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.
The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.
Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all
Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought
Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.
The Gentlemen Of Dickens
by Henry Lawson

The gentlemen of Dickens
Were mostly very poor,
And innocent of grammar,
And of parentage obscure;
But rich or poor or thriving,
Of high or lowly birth,
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were the grandest on the earth.
The gentlemen of Dickens,
They wore no fancy names,
Like Reginald or Percy
Fitzgerald or FitzJames;
But names for fools to laugh at,
That sound like hob-nailed boots,
Like Newman Noggs and Knubbles,
Toodles and Mr Toots.
They'd little save their kindness,
Their honesty and truth;
They mostly came embarrassed,
And stammering and uncouth;
But the gentlemen of Dickens,
Their women and their girls,
Could speak their minds if need be
To ladies and to earls.
But one who wore a title
A lesson, too, could teach:
Lord Feenix, Cousin Feenix
Of wandering legs and speech.
O he might teach a lesson
A gentleman could give,
Where he stands by his 'lovely
And accomplished relative'.
The gentlemen of Dickens
Were gamblers now and then
(And looked upon the ladies,
No doubt, like other men);
And some of them were drunkards,
It cannot be denied;
But one washed all their sins away
When Sidney Carton died.
The gentlemen of Dickens
Are round us here to-day,
For their self-sacrificing
Brave spirits live for aye.
They cheer my heart and lift it,
They set my blood aglow,
For I was once a gentleman,
Though it was years ago.
Summer's Obsequies.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The gentian weaves her fringes,
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness,
An hour to prepare;
And one, below this morning,
Is where the angels are.
It was a short procession, --
The bobolink was there,
An aged bee addressed us,
And then we knelt in prayer.
We trust that she was willing, --
We ask that we may be.
Summer, sister, seraph,
Let us go with thee!
In the name of the bee
And of the butterfly
And of the breeze, amen!
The Ghost Of Miltiades.
by Thomas Moore

ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator.
OVID.
The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame,
"If ever the sound of Marathon's name
Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow,
"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"
The Benthamite yawning left his bed--
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye,
And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose--so much per cent.
(As we see in a glass that tells the weather
The heat and the silver rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again;--
He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost--how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then melting away like a night-dream fled!
The Benthamite hears--amazed that ghosts
Could be such fools--and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no--
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under par,
The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps and swears and prays.
And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross,
Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss.
They quote him the Stock of various nations,
But, spite of his classic associations,
Lord! how he loathes the Greek quotations!
"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?"
Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,
As he runs to tell how hard his lot is
To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,
And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,
"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break
"Those dark, unholy bonds of thine--
"If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;--
His brow like the night was lowering o'er,
And he said, with a look that flasht dismay,
"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they,
"Who turn to a trade her cause divine,
"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"
Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry--
And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!
The Duel
by Eugene Field

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)
The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)
The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw -
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don't fancy I exaggerate -
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)
Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)
Sonnet CLXI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.
JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.
The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,
And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,
I know; its breathings such impression made,
Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:
My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu
To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;
And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,
I seek this day my cheering sun to view,
Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,
That Love again compels me to its light;
Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.
Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fate
I ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,
When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.
NOTT.
The gentle air, which brightens each green hill,
Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,
I recognise it by its soft breath still,
My sorrow and renown which long has made:
Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,
From my dear native Tuscan air I flee:
That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,
I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.
That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,
That Love compels me to his beams again,
Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:
I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:
Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,
Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.
MACGREGOR.
Summer Evening
by John Clare

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
Transposed Seasons
by Madison Julius Cawein

The gentian and the bluebell so
Can change my calendar,
I know not how the year may go,
Or what the seasons are:
The months, in some mysterious wise,
Take their expression from her eyes.
The gentian speaks to memory
Of autumns long since gone,
When her blue eyes smiled up at me,
And heaven was flushed with dawn:
'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,
But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.
The bluebell says a message too
Of springs long passed away,
When in my eyes her eyes of blue
Gazed and 't was close of day:
Spring spread around her fragrant chart,
But it was autumn in my heart.
The Old Creek
by Madison Julius Cawein

The frogs still cry, "Knee-deep! knee-deep!"
Among its starlit pools,
When dark the woodland lies asleep,
And dusk its water cools:
The fireflies round its bank of ferns
Hang will-o'-wisps for lamps,
Where in a place no eye discerns
Enchantment's host encamps.
The bats above it go and come
In reeling rigadoons,
While Elfland beats a beetle-drum,
Or cricket-fiddle tunes;
And in and out, and all about,
The pixy people dance
To katydid song and green-frog gong
That hold the woods in trance.
The moon looks, listening, through its trees
As if to hear its calls,
Or with long arms of light to seize
Its twinkling waterfalls
With Witchcraft who, a foam-white hand,
Its glimmering banks between,
Beckons from sand to riffled sand,
To something far, unseen.
A ghost, that leans beside it still;
The phantom of a boy,
Who followed once its wildwood will
With barefoot troops of joy:
The soul of him who yearns afar
To see, in dusk and dew,
If still it dances with the star
That once his boyhood knew.
The Convalescent Gripster
by Eugene Field

The gods let slip that fiendish grip
Upon me last week Sunday--
No fiercer storm than racked my form
E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;
But now, good-by
To drugs, say I--
Good-by to gnawing sorrow;
I am up to-day,
And, whoop, hooray!
I'm going out to-morrow!
What aches and pain in bones and brain
I had I need not mention;
It seemed to me such pangs must be
Old Satan's own invention;
Albeit I
Was sure I'd die,
The doctor reassured me--
And, true enough,
With his vile stuff,
He ultimately cured me.
As there I lay in bed all day,
How fair outside looked to me!
A smile so mild old Nature smiled
It seemed to warm clean through me.
In chastened mood
The scene I viewed,
Inventing, sadly solus,
Fantastic rhymes
Between the times
I had to take a bolus.
Of quinine slugs and other drugs
I guess I took a million--
Such drugs as serve to set each nerve
To dancing a cotillon;
The doctors say
The only way
To rout the grip instanter
Is to pour in
All kinds of sin--
Similibus curantur!
'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget
Those ills and cures distressing;
One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies
When one is convalescing!
So now, good-by
To drugs say I--
Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow!
I am up to-day,
And, whoop, hooray!
I'm going out to-morrow.
Her Face.
by Madison Julius Cawein

The gladness of our Southern spring; the grace
Of summer; and the dreaminess of fall
Are parts of her sweet nature. Such a face
Was Ruth's, methinks, divinely spiritual.
Sunset
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

The glorious sun, behind the western hills,
Slowly, in gorgeous majesty, retires,
Flooding the founts and forests, fields and rills,
With the reflection of his golden fires.
How beauteous all, how calm, how still!
Yon star that trembles on the hill,
Yon crescent moon that raises high
Her beamy horns upon the sky,
Seem bending down a loving glance
From the unclouded skies,
On the green Earth that far away
In solemn beauty lies; - 
And, like sweet Friendship in affliction's hour,
Grow brighter still the more the shadows lower.
Pagan
by Madison Julius Cawein

The gods, who could loose and bind
In the long ago,
The gods, who were stern and kind
To men below,
Where shall we seek and find,
Or, finding, know?
Where Greece, with king on king,
Dreamed in her halls;
Where Rome kneeled worshiping,
The owl now calls,
And whispering ivies cling
To mouldering walls.
They have served, and have passed away
From the earth and sky,
And their Creed is a record gray,
Where the passer-by
Reads, "Live and be glad to-day,
For to-morrow ye die."
And shall it be so, indeed,
When we are no more,
That nations to be shall read, - 
As we have before, - 
In the dust of a Christian Creed,
But pagan lore?
Wild Strawberries.
by Jean Blewett

The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways - 
Ho! for the fields and the wildwood!
The scents, the sights, and the dear delights - 
Ho! for our care-free childhood!
Heavy the air with a fragrance rare,
Strawberries ripe in the meadow,
Luscious and red where the vines are spread
Thickly in sun and shadow.
The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways,
Chorus of wild birds calling:
"Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!"
From dawn till the dew is falling.
Improvisations: Light And Snow: 01
by Conrad Potter Aiken

The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
At The Turn Of The Road
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume,
The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom
The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red,
The maples like torches aflame overhead.
But what if the joy of the summer is past,
And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast?
For me dull November is sweeter than May,
For my love is its sunshine, - she meets me to-day!
Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest?
Will the needle swing back from the east or the west?
At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate;
A friend may prove laggard, - love never comes late.
Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.
Too early! Too early! She could not forget!
When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed,
She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.
I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines;
I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines;
I haste by the boulder that lies in the field,
Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.
Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood?
Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood?
The minute draws near, - but her watch may go wrong;
My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?
Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do!
Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true?
She would come to the lover who calls her his own
Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!
I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed.
I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last.
Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed,
As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!
Jewels
by Unknown

The girl with the ruby lips we like,
The lass with teeth of pearl,
The maid with the eyes like diamonds,
The cheek-like-coral girl;
The girl with the alabaster brow,
The lass from the Emerald Isle.
All these we like, but not the jade
With the sardonyx smile.
An East Wind
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The glitter of wheels far down the street
(Ah me, and alack a day.)
And I heard the thud of his horse's feet
Beating a roundelay.
And I felt a little song coming, coming
Over my lips as humming, humming,
I turned my eyes that way.
Somebody passed, who was wont to pause:
(Ah me, and alack a day.)
He bowed and smiled; yet for some cause
The mirth went out of my lay.
A wind from the east rose, sighing, sighing,
I felt my little song dying, dying,
She laughed as they rode away.
Aristomenes.[608]
by George Gordon Byron

Canto First.
1.
The Gods of old are silent on the shore.
Since the great Pan expired, and through the roar
Of the Ionian waters broke a dread
Voice which proclaimed "the Mighty Pan is dead."
How much died with him! false or true - the dream
Was beautiful which peopled every stream
With more than finny tenants, and adorned
The woods and waters with coy nymphs that scorned
Pursuing Deities, or in the embrace
Of gods brought forth the high heroic race
Whose names are on the hills and o'er the seas.
Cephalonia, Sept^r^ 10^th^ 1823.
[From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester, now for the first time printed.]
Obedience In Subjects.
by Robert Herrick

The gods to kings the judgment give to sway:
The subjects only glory to obey.
Barefooted
by John Charles McNeill

The girls all like to see the bluets in the lane
And the saucy johnny-jump-ups in the meadow,
But, we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again,
Throwin' a sort of summer-lookin' shadow;
For the very first mild mornin' when the woods are white
(And we needn't even ask a soul about it)
We leave our shoes right where we pulled them off at night,
And, barefooted once again, we run and shout it:
You may take the country over--
When the bluebird turns a rover,
And the wind is soft and hazy,
And you feel a little lazy,
And the hunters quit the possums--
It's the time for dogwood blossoms.
We feel so light we wish there were more fences here;
We'd like to jump and jump them, all together!
No sleds for us, no guns, nor even 'simmon beer,
No nothin' but the blossoms and fair weather!
The meadow is a little sticky right at first,
But a few short days 'll wipe away that trouble.
To feel so good and gay, I wouldn't mind the worst
That could be done by any field o' stubble.
O, all the trees are seemin' sappy!
O, all the folks are smilin' happy!
And there's joy in every little bit of room;
But the happiest of them all
At the Shanghai rooster's call
Are we barefoots when the dogwoods burst abloom!
Ex Anima.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

The gloomy hours of silence wake
Remembrance and her train,
And phantoms through the fancies chase
The mem'ries that remain;
And hidden in the dark embrace
Of days that now are gone,
I see a form, a fairy form,
And fancy hurries on!
I see the old familiar smile,
I hear the tender tone,
I greet the softness of the glance
That cheered me when alone;
The ruby chains of rich romance
That bound our bosoms o'er,
I still can know, I still can feel,
As they were felt before.
I name the vows, the fresh young vows,
That we together said;
What matters it? She can not know;
She slumbers with the dead!
Again the fields of fate I sow,
As she and I have sown;
I dream again the same old dreams,
But I am left alone!
The twining grasses verdant wreathe
Above her silent grave;
The rose and violet over all
Their purest blossoms wave;
Unbidden from their fountains fall
The tender tides of tears;
A sorrow winds among the days,
And chains the passing years.
My life commingles shine with shade,
The lily with the rose,
And in my heart a loathsome weed
Beside each lily grows;
Through every thought, through every deed,
The somber shadows play;
And I am sad, alone and sad,
And life is never gay.