DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Lost Shoe
by Walter De La Mare

Poor little Lucy
By some mischance,
Lost her shoe
As she did dance -
'Twas not on the stairs,
Not in the hall;
Not where they sat
At supper at all.
She looked in the garden,
But there it was not;
Henhouse, or kennel,
Or high dovecote.
Dairy and meadow,
And wild woods through
Showed not a trace
Of Lucy's shoe.
Bird nor bunny
Nor glimmering moon
Breathed a whisper
Of where 'twas gone.
It was cried and cried,
Oyez and Oyez!
In French, Dutch, Latin,
And Portuguese.
Ships the dark seas
Went plunging through,
But none brought news
Of Lucy's shoe;
And still she patters
In silk and leather,
O'er snow, sand, shingle,
In every weather;
Spain, and Africa,
Hindustan,
Java, China,
And lamped Japan;
Plain and desert,
She hops-hops through,
Pernambuco
To gold Peru;
Mountain and forest,
And river too,
All the world over
For her lost shoe.
Piltdown Man
by Paul Cameron Brown

Popping out of the dark
reddish "Merry Christmas" haze
twinking blinking land of Nod (or
rather it's Ned, the hefty trucker);
eyes, steel-belted radials,
in a rig big like Santa Claus;
a Stegosaurus
swinging sabre-toothed tail
& flexing padded paws
to gobble night.
Loads so dreary-weary their chrome-plated
swamps are debris after a tank battle
for troglodyte trilobites &
chocolate coloured ooze
belching brown down funnel flaps
to carve deep bellows inside earth.
Such energetic slaves
to cough & sound their
wheezing sandy blasts make for
breaks in a clearing
for I see our trucker,
eons from now,
wedded to sentiment and rock
perfectly preserved (to the dismay
of future inhabitants), a fossilized
remnant complete with
steering wheel embedded in his chest
(forlorn and anatomically correct much as
dolls used in assault cases).
In a vision,
envisage his life
replete to the last Raggetty-Anne detail
- straw-coloured hair, for one,
looms like binder-twine or
horse-hair thread tugged from a dirty mattress
which props a toque or baseball cap,
tobacco staining the resident
gum chewing Neanderthal
with tartan lumberjack shirt.
Contact with Piltdown Man,
soggy Homo Erectus
given to gunning engines,
churning rubber as cavemen
might in the
La Brera tarpits.
Consider a farmer
brief centuries ago
stumbling onto a similar scene
pocketing no cloverleafs
of his own pasture's making
but concrete expressways
looming thru the fog
& damp, then
coming to his senses,
hard-pressed as I.
The Snow Man.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!
Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun
With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run
Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought
Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught
But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire
Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire
Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.
Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,
And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,
'Tis well thou hast no language to decry
Thy poor creator or his vain commands;
No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,
No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!
Portraits Are To Daily Faces
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Portraits are to daily faces
As an evening west
To a fine, pedantic sunshine
In a satin vest.
Upon Prickles. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Prickles is waspish, and puts forth his sting
For bread, drink, butter, cheese; for everything
That Prickles buys puts Prickles out of frame;
How well his nature's fitted to his name!
The Present Time Best Pleaseth Me
by Robert Herrick

Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!
On The Collar Of Tiger, Mrs. Dingley's Lap-Dog
by Jonathan Swift

Pray steal me not; I'm Mrs. Dingley's,
Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.
Upon The Sight Of A Beautiful Picture Painted By Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart
by William Wordsworth

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.
To Astronomers.
by Friedrich Schiller

Prate not to me so much of suns and of nebulous bodies;
Think ye Nature but great, in that she gives thee to count?
Though your object may be the sublimest that space holds within it,
Yet, my good friends, the sublime dwells not in the regions of space.
To The Reader
by Ben Jonson

Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my book in hand,
To read it well - that is, to understand.
Ill Government.
by Robert Herrick

Preposterous is that government, and rude,
When kings obey the wilder multitude.
A Letter To Dr. Helsham
by Jonathan Swift

SIR,
Pray discruciate what follows.
The dullest beast, and gentleman's liquor,
When young is often due to the vicar,[1]
The dullest of beasts, and swine's delight,
Make up a bird very swift of flight.[2]
The dullest beast, when high in stature,
And another of royal nature,
For breeding is a useful creature.[3]
The dullest beast, and a party distress'd,
When too long, is bad at best.[4]
The dullest beast, and the saddle it wears,
Is good for partridge, not for hares.[5]
The dullest beast, and kind voice of a cat,
Will make a horse go, though he be not fat.[6]
The dullest of beasts and of birds in the air,
Is that by which all Irishmen swear.[7]
The dullest beast, and famed college for Teagues,
Is a person very unfit for intrigues.[8]
The dullest beast, and a cobbler's tool,
With a boy that is only fit for school,
In summer is very pleasant and cool.[9]
The dullest beast, and that which you kiss,
May break a limb of master or miss.[10]
Of serpent kind, and what at distance kills,
Poor mistress Dingley oft hath felt its bills.[11]
The dullest beast, and eggs unsound,
Without it I rather would walk on the ground.[12]
The dullest beast, and what covers a house,
Without it a writer is not worth a louse.[13]
The dullest beast, and scandalous vermin,
Of roast or boil'd, to the hungry is charming.[14]
The dullest beast, and what's cover'd with crust,
There's nobody but a fool that would trust.[15]
The dullest beast, and mending highways,
Is to a horse an evil disease.[16]
The dullest beast, and a hole in the ground,
Will dress a dinner worth five pound.[17]
The dullest beast, and what doctors pretend,
The cook-maid often has by the end.[18]
The dullest beast, and fish for lent,
May give you a blow you'll for ever repent.[19]
The dullest beast, and a shameful jeer,
Without it a lady should never appear.[20]
Wednesday Night.
I writ all these before I went to bed. Pray explain them for me, because
I cannot do it.
Upon Prig.
by Robert Herrick

Prig now drinks water, who before drank beer;
What's now the cause? we know the case is clear;
Look in Prig's purse, the chev'ril there tells you
Prig money wants, either to buy or brew.
An Ode For St. Cecilia's Day
by Joseph Addison

I.
Prepare the hallow'd strain, My Muse,
Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbrs chuse;
the bright Cecilia's praise rehearse,
In warbling words,a nd glittering verse,
that smootly run into a song,
and gently die away,and melt upon the tongue.
II.
First let the sprightly violin
The joyful melody begin,
And none of all her strings be mute,
while the sharp sound and shriller lay
In sweet harmonious notes decay,
Soften and mellow'd by the flute.
"The Flute that sweetly can complain,
"Disolve the frozen nymph's disdain;
"Panting sympathy impart,
"Till she partake of her lover's smart."
Chorus
III.
Next, let the solemn organ join
Religious airs, and strains divine,
Such as may lift us to the skies,
And set all heaven before our eyes:
"Such as may lift us to the skies;
"So far at least till they
"Descend with kind surprise.
"And meet our pious harmony half-way."
IV.
Let then the trumpet's piersing sound
Our ravish'd ears with pleasure wound:
The Soul o'er-powering with delight,
As, with a quick uncommon ray,
A streak of lightning clears the day,
And flashes on the sight.
Let echo too perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art,
And in a low expiring strain
Play all the concert o'er again.
V.
Such were the tuneful notes that hung
On bright Cecilia's charming tongue:
Notes that sacred heats inspir'd,
and with religious ardour fir'd:
The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd
His smother'd passion in hisbreast,
No sooner heard the warbling dame,
But, by the secret influence turn'd,
He felt a new diviner flame,
And with devotion burn'd.
With ravish'd soul,a nd looks amaz'd,
Upon her beauteous face he gaz'd;
Nor made his amorous complaint:
In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd.
Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd,
And chang'd the lover to a saint.
Grand Chorus
VI.
And how the choir compleat rejoices,
With trembling strings and melting voices,
The tuneful ferment rises high,
And works with mingled melody:
Quick divisions run their rounds,
A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o'er us fly.
Till wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
And at a distance die.
After Witnessing A Death-Scene.
by George W. Sands

Press close your lips,
And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here!
Mark ye not how across that eye so clear,
Steals his eclipse?
A moment more,
And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease,
Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release,
And all be o'er!
Hush! Seal ye up
Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken
Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken
Grief's bitter cup.
Ye know the dead
Are they who rest secure from care and strife, - 
That they who walk the thorny way of life,
Have tears to shed.
Ye know her pray'r,
Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest, - 
Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast,
Could peace dwell there?
A tale soon told,
Is of her life the story; she had loved,
And he who won her heart to love, had proved
Heartless and cold.
Lay her to rest,
Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew;
For these should shine and fall where lies so true
And fond a breast!
A full release
From every pang is given to the dead, - 
So on the stone ye place above her head,
Write only "Peace."*
When Spring comes back,
With music on her lips, - joy in her eye, - 
Her sunny banner streaming through the sky, - 
Flow'rs in her track - 
Then come ye here,
And musing from the busy world apart,
Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart,
Sweet Pity's tear.
On Poet Prat. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Prat he writes satires, but herein's the fault,
In no one satire there's a mite of salt.
No Assassination.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Laissons le glaive ' Rome.")
[Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.]
Pray Rome put up her poniard!
And Sparta sheathe the sword;
Be none too prompt to punish,
And cast indignant word!
Bear back your spectral Brutus
From robber Bonaparte;
Time rarely will refute us
Who doom the hateful heart.
Ye shall be o'ercontented,
My banished mates from home,
But be no rashness vented
Ere time for joy shall come.
No crime can outspeed Justice,
Who, resting, seems delayed - 
Full faith accord the angel
Who points the patient blade.
The traitor still may nestle
In balmy bed of state,
But mark the Warder, watching
His guardsman at his gate.
He wears the crown, a monarch - 
Of knaves and stony hearts;
But though they're blessed by Senates,
None can escape the darts!
Though shored by spear and crozier,
All know the arrant cheat,
And shun the square of pavement
Uncertain at his feet!
Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding
And secret-leaguers' chief,
And make no pistol-target
Of stars upon the thief.
The knell of God strikes seldom
But in the aptest hour;
And when the life is sweetest,
The worm will feel His power!
The Dancing Family.
by Kate Greenaway

Pray let me introduce you to
This little dancing family;
For morning, afternoon, and night
They danced away so happily.
They twirled round about,
They turned their toes out;
The people wondered what the noise
Could all be about.
They danced from early morning,
Till very late at night;
Both in-doors and out-of-doors,
With very great delight.
And every sort of dance they knew,
From every country far away;
And so it was no wonder that
They should keep dancing all the day.
So dancing--dancing--dancing,
In sunshine or in rain;
And when they all left off,
Why then--they all began again.
The Statue Of Our Queen
by Henry Lawson

Pride, selfishness in every line,
And on its face a frown,
It stands, a sceptre in its hand,
And points forever down.
And who will kneel? The unemployed!
Small homage pay, I ween,
The only men who gather 'neath
The Statue of our Queen.
I'd scarcely wonder if the sun,
That rises with good grace,
Should sink and leave the day undone
At sight of such a face.
But no! The day will still have birth
In all its golden sheen,
When antiquarians unearth
The Statue of our Queen.
Then if you'd have us loyal bide
As we have loyal been,
Great Parkes! for love of England, hide
The Statue of our Queen.
Dream Song II
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Pray, what can dreams avail
To make love or to mar?
The child within the cradle rail
Lies dreaming of the star.
But is the star by this beguiled
To leave its place and seek the child?
The poor plucked rose within its glass
Still dreameth of the bee;
But, tho' the lagging moments pass,
Her Love she may not see.
If dream of child and flower fail,
Why should a maiden's dreams prevail?
Prayer.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Prayer is the little implement
Through which men reach
Where presence is denied them.
They fling their speech
By means of it in God's ear;
If then He hear,
This sums the apparatus
Comprised in prayer.
Summer Dawn
by William Morris

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips;
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips,
Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars,
That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;
They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.
Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.
The New-Year's Gift: Or, Circumcision's Song. Sung To The King In The Presence At Whitehall.
by Robert Herrick

1. Prepare for songs; He's come, He's come;
And be it sin here to be dumb,
And not with lutes to fill the room.
2. Cast holy water all about,
And have a care no fire goes out,
But 'cense the porch and place throughout.
3. The altars all on fire be;
The storax fries; and ye may see
How heart and hand do all agree
To make things sweet. Chor. Yet all less sweet than He.
4. Bring Him along, most pious priest,
And tell us then, whenas thou seest
His gently-gliding, dove-like eyes,
And hear'st His whimpering and His cries;
How can'st thou this Babe circumcise?
5. Ye must not be more pitiful than wise;
For, now unless ye see Him bleed,
Which makes the bapti'm, 'tis decreed
The birth is fruitless. Chor. Then the work God speed.
1. Touch gently, gently touch; and here
Spring tulips up through all the year;
And from His sacred blood, here shed,
May roses grow to crown His own dear head.
Chor. Back, back again; each thing is done
With zeal alike, as 'twas begun;
Now singing, homeward let us carry
The Babe unto His mother Mary;
And when we have the Child commended
To her warm bosom, then our rites are ended.
Composed by M. Henry Lawes.
Presentiments
by William Wordsworth

Presentiments! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;
All 'heaven-born' Instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense, and, being such,
Such privilege ye claim.
The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart,
And venture on your praise.
What though some busy foes to good,
Too potent over nerve and blood,
Lurk near you, and combine
To taint the health which ye infuse;
This hides not from the moral Muse
Your origin divine.
How oft from you, derided Powers!
Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 
Builds castles, not of air:
Bodings unsanctioned by the will
Flow from your visionary skill,
And teach us to beware.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift,
Shall vanish, if ye please,
Like morning mist: and, where it lay,
The spirits at your bidding play
In gaiety and ease. 
Star-guided contemplations move
Through space, though calm, not raised above
Prognostics that ye rule;
The naked Indian of the wild,
And haply, too, the cradled Child,
Are pupils of your school.
But who can fathom your intents,
Number their signs or instruments?
A rainbow, a sunbeam,
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds,
An echo, or a dream.
The laughter of the Christmas hearth
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth
Ye feelingly reprove;
And daily, in the conscious breast,
Your visitations are a test
And exercise of love.
When some great change gives boundless scope
To an exulting Nation's hope, 
Oft, startled and made wise
By your low-breathed interpretings,
The simply-meek foretaste the springs
Of bitter contraries.
Ye daunt the proud array of war,
Pervade the lonely ocean far
As sail hath been unfurled;
For dancers in the festive hall
What ghastly partners hath your call
Fetched from the shadowy world. 
'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense,
Emboldened by a keener sense;
That men have lived for whom,
With dread precision, ye made clear
The hour that in a distant year
Should knell them to the tomb.
Unwelcome insight! Yet there are,
Blest times when mystery is laid bare,
Truth shows a glorious face,
While on that isthmus which commands 
The councils of both worlds, she stands,
Sage Spirits! by your grace.
God, who instructs the brutes to scent
All changes of the element,
Whose wisdom fixed the scale
Of natures, for our wants provides
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides,
When lights of reason fail.
God's Part.
by Robert Herrick

Prayers and praises are those spotless two
Lambs, by the law, which God requires as due.
The Sacrifice To Apollo
by Michael Drayton

Priests of APOLLO, sacred be the Roome,
For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome,
How braue soe'r he bee,
Attempt to enter;
But of the Muses free,
None here may venter;
This for the Delphian Prophets is prepar'd:
The prophane Vulgar are from hence debar'd.
And since the Feast so happily begins,
Call vp those faire Nine, with their Violins;
They are begot by IOVE,
Then let vs place them,
Where no Clowne in may shoue,
That may disgrace them:
But let them neere to young APOLLO sit;
So shall his Foot-pace ouer-flow with Wit.
Where be the Graces, where be those fayre Three?
In any hand they may not absent bee:
They to the Gods are deare,
And they can humbly
Teach vs, our Selues to beare,
And doe things comely:
They, and the Muses, rise both from one Stem,
They grace the Muses, and the Muses them.
Bring forth your Flaggons (fill'd with sparkling Wine)
Whereon swolne BACCHVS, crowned with a Vine,
Is grauen, and fill out,
It well bestowing,
To eu'ry Man about,
In Goblets flowing:
Let not a Man drinke, but in Draughts profound;
To our God PHOEBVS let the Health goe Round.
Let your Iests flye at large; yet therewithall
See they be Salt, but yet not mix'd with Gall:
Not tending to disgrace,
But fayrely giuen,
Becomming well the place,
Modest, and euen;
That they with tickling Pleasure may prouoke
Laughter in him, on whom the Iest is broke.
Or if the deeds of HEROES ye rehearse,
Let them be sung in so well-ord'red Verse,
That each word haue his weight,
Yet runne with pleasure;
Holding one stately height,
In so braue measure,
That they may make the stiffest Storme seeme weake,
And dampe IOVES Thunder, when it lowd'st doth speake.
And if yee list to exercise your Vayne,
Or in the Sock, or in the Buskin'd Strayne,
Let Art and Nature goe
One with the other;
Yet so, that Art may show
Nature her Mother;
The thick-brayn'd Audience liuely to awake,
Till with shrill Claps the Theater doe shake.
Sing Hymnes to BACCHVS then, with hands vprear'd,
Offer to IOVE, who most is to be fear'd;
From him the Muse we haue,
From him proceedeth
More then we dare to craue;
'Tis he that feedeth
Them, whom the World would starue; then let the Lyre
Sound, whilst his Altars endlesse flames expire.
"Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
Translations. - A Song of Praise for the Birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Praised be thou, O Jesus Christ,
That a man on earth thou liest!
Born of a maiden--it is true--
In this exults the heavenly crew.
Kyrioleis.[1]
[Footnote 1: (Greek) kurie elxaeson: Lord, have mercy.]
The Father's only son begot
In the manger has his cot,
In our poor dying flesh and blood
Doth mask itself the eternal Good.
Kyrioleis.
Whom all the world could not enwrap
Lieth he in Mary's lap;
A little child he now is grown
Who everything upholds alone.
Kyrioleis.
In him the eternal light breaks through,
Gives the world a glory new;
A great light shines amid the night,
And makes us children of the light.
Kyrioleis.
The Father's son, so God his name,
A guest into this world he came;
And leads us from the vale of tears:
He in his palace make us heirs.
Kyrioleis.
Poor to the earth he cometh thus,
Pity so to take on us;
And makes us rich in heaven above,
And like the angels of his love.
Kyrioleis.
All this for us hath Jesus done,
And his great love to us hath shown:
Let Christendom rejoice therefore,
And give him thanks for evermore!
Kyrioleis.
To My Wife (With A Set Of Roman Pearls)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 12)
Pray, take these pearls! - and my thanks for them
You lavished, the home of my youth to gem!
The thousands of hours of peaceful luster
Your spirit has filled, are pearls that cluster
With beauty blest
On my happy breast,
And softly shining
My brow are entwining
With thoughts whence the truth gleams: Thus gave his wife,
Who jeweled with tenderest love his life!
A War Song To Englishmen
by William Blake

Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
Th' Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
Prepare, prepare!
Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth;
Prepare your arms for glorious victory;
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
Prepare, prepare!
Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine!
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause,
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
Prepare, prepare!
The arrows of Almighty God are drawn!
Angels of Death stand in the louring heavens!
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light,
And walk together on the clouds of heaven!
Prepare, prepare!
Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause;
Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause:
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky:
Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day!
Prepare, prepare!
Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice;
The Norman William, and the learn'd Clerk,
And Lion Heart, and black-brow'd Edward, with
His loyal queen, shall rise, and welcome us!
Prepare, prepare!
Upon Prigg.
by Robert Herrick

Prigg, when he comes to houses, oft doth use,
Rather than fail, to steal from thence old shoes:
Sound or unsound be they, or rent or whole,
Prigg bears away the body and the sole.