DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Emeline.
by Theodore Harding Rand

I would enshrine in silvern song
The charm that bore our souls along,
As in the sun-flushed days of summer
We felt the pulsings of nature's throng;
When flecks of foam of flying spray
Smote white the red sun's torrid ray,
Or wimpling fogs toyed with the mountain,
A'rial spirits of dew at play;
When hovering stars, poised in the blue,
Came down and ever closer drew;
Or, in the autumn air astringent,
Glimmered the pearls of the moonlit dew.
We talked of bird and flower and tree,
Of God and man and destiny.
The years are wise though days be foolish,
We said, as swung to its goal the sea.
Our spirits knew keen fellowship
Of light and shadow, heart and lip;
The veil of M'y' grew transparent,
And hidden things came within our grip.
And then we sang: "In Arcady
All hearts are born, thus happy-free,
Till film of sin shuts out the Vision
That is, and was, and that is to be."
Thus wrought the Seen-Unseen the spell
To which our spirits rose and fell.
As drops of dew throb with the ocean,
We felt ourselves of His tidal swell.
"Nature's enchantment is of Love, - 
Goodness, and truth, and beauty wove;
In Him all things do hold together,
And onward, upward to Him they move."
And as we spake the full moon came,
A splendid globe in silver flame,
From out the dusky waste of waters,
Reposeful sped by His mighty name.
Sweetheart, I dedicate to thee
These Song-Waves from life's voiceful sea.
They ebb and flow with swift occasion,
Bearing rich freight, and perhaps debris.
Each murmuring low its song apart
May hint a symphony of art,
Since under all, within, and over,
Is diapason of Love's great heart.
For thee, as on the bridal day,
(Sweet our November as the May!)
Are joined in one our high communings;
So take them, dear, as thine own, I pray.
TORONTO, 1900.
Bonehead Bill
by Robert William Service

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.
I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.
I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack - 
The man I killed last night.
I wonder if account o' me
Some wench will go unwed,
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?
Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.
I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?
I saw up in the giddy sky
The gates o' God agleam;
I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine
Wiv everlastin' light:
And then . . . I knew that I'd got mine,
As 'e got 'is last night.
Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists
Where spawn the mother stars,
I 'ammered wiv me bloody fists
Upon them golden bars;
I 'ammered till a devil's doubt
Fair froze me wiv affright:
To fink wot God would say about
The bloke I corpsed last night.
I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair,
When, like a rosy flame,
I sees a angel standin' there
'Oo calls me by me name.
'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes;
'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled;
And through the gates o' Paradise
'E led me like a child.
'E led me by them golden palms
Wot 'ems that jeweled street;
And seraphs was a-singin' psalms,
You've no ideer 'ow sweet;
Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round
Than peas is in a pod,
'E led me to a shiny mound
Where beams the throne o' God.
And then I 'ears God's werry voice:
"Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.
Stand up and glory and rejoice
For 'im 'oo led you 'ere."
And in a nip I seemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night.
Now, I don't claim to understand - 
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to kill.
Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But . . . be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.
The House Of Clouds
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I would build a cloudy House
For my thoughts to live in;
When for earth too fancy-loose
And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud,
I build it bright to see,
I build it on the moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee.
Cloud-walls of the morning's grey,
Faced with amber column,
Crowned with crimson cupola
From a sunset solemn!
May mists, for the casements, fetch,
Pale and glimmering;
With a sunbeam hid in each,
And a smell of spring.
Build the entrance high and proud,
Darkening and then brightening,
If a riven thunder-cloud,
Veined by the lightning.
Use one with an iris-stain,
For the door within;
Turning to a sound like rain,
As I enter in.
Build a spacious hall thereby:
Boldly, never fearing.
Use the blue place of the sky,
Which the wind is clearing;
Branched with corridors sublime,
Flecked with winding stairs
Such as children wish to climb,
Following their own prayers.
In the mutest of the house,
I will have my chamber:
Silence at the door shall use
Evening's light of amber,
Solemnising every mood,
Softemng in degree,
Turning sadness into good,
As I turn the key.
Be my chamber tapestried
With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless, glorified
When the sunbeams come here;
Wandering harpers, harping on
Waters stringed for such,
Drawing colours, for a tune,
With a vibrant touch.
Bring a shadow green and still
From the chestnut forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,
When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,
Carpet-wove around,
Whereupon the foot shall fall
In light instead of sound.
Bring the fantasque cloudlets home
From the noontide zenith
Ranged, for sculptures, round the room,
Named as Fancy weeneth:
Some be Junos, without eyes;
Naiads, without sources
Some be birds of paradise,
Some, Olympian horses.
Bring the dews the birds shake off,
Waking in the hedges,
Those too, perfumed for a proof,
From the lilies' edges:
From our England's field and moor,
Bring them calm and white in;
Whence to form a mirror pure,
For Love's self-delighting.
Bring a grey cloud from the east,
Where the lark is singing;
Something of the song at least,
Unlost in the bringing:
That shall be a morning chair,
Poet-dream may sit in,
When it leans out on the air,
Unrhymed and unwritten.
Bring the red cloud from the sun
While he sinketh, catch it.
That shall be a couch, with one
Sidelong star to watch it,
Fit for poet's finest Thought,
At the curfew-sounding;
Things unseen being nearer brought
Than the seen, around him.
Poet's thought, not poet's sigh!
'Las, they come together!
Cloudy walls divide and fly,
As in April weather!
Cupola and column proud,
Structure bright to see
Gone except that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with thee!
Let them! Wipe such visionings
From the Fancy's cartel
Love secures some fairer things
Dowered with his immortal.
The sun may darken, heaven be bowed
But still, unchanged shall be,
Here in my soul, that moonlit cloud,
To which I looked with THEE!
Child's Talk In April
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I wish you were a pleasant wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
We'd rise and go to bed at eight
Or it may be not quite so late.
Then you should see the nest I'd build,
The wondrous nest for you and me;
The outside rough perhaps, but filled
With wool and down; ah, you should see
The cosy nest that it would be.
We'd have our change of hope and fear,
Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
Or hop about on active feet,
And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
We'd be so happy by the day,
So safe and happy through the night,
We both should feel, and I should say,
It's all one season of delight,
And we'll make merry whilst we may.
Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
When spring had blossomed from the snow:
I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
To let our little neighbours know.
Next you should sit and I would sing
Through lengthening days of sunny spring;
Till, if you wearied of the task,
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.
Fancy the breaking of the shell,
The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
The untried proud paternal swell;
And you with housewife-matron air
Enacting choicer bills of fare.
Fancy the embryo coats of down,
The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
With virgin warblings in their beak,
They too go forth to soar and seek.
So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew:
Then should we part and live as twain,
Love-time would bring me back to you
And build our happy nest again.
Inexpensive Guests
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

I wonder how 'twould make you feel,
My fellow food providers,
To have as guests at ev'ry meal
Three - count 'em, three - outsiders.
Well, that's the case with me, but still
I don't complain or holler,
For, strange to say, the groc'ry bill
Has not gone up a dollar.
These guests of ours, to make it brief,
Can't really chew or swallow;
They're merely dolls, called Indian Chief,
And Funny Man, and Rollo.
After Many Days
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

I wonder if with you, as it is with me,
If under your slipping words, that easily flow
About you as a garment, easily,
Your violent heart beats to and fro!
Long have I waited, never once confessed,
Even to myself, how bitter the separation;
Now, being come again, how make the best
Reparation?
If I could cast this clothing off from me,
If I could lift my naked self to you,
Or if only you would repulse me, a wound would be
Good; it would let the ache come through.
But that you hold me still so kindly cold
Aloof my flaming heart will not allow;
Yea, but I loathe you that you should withhold
Your pleasure now.
Two In The Campagna
by Robert Browning

I
I wonder do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?
II
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
III
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,
IV
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles, blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!
V
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air,
Rome's ghost since her decease.
VI
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!
VII
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
VIII
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?
IX
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul's springs, your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
X
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak,
Then the good minute goes.
XI
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
XII
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern,
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
The Matrimonial Stakes
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall,
I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat
When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall;
Well, she simply had to have me after that!
It awoke a thrill of int'rest when they pulled me out for dead
From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse;
And although she looked indifferent when I landed, on my head,
In the water, it appealed to her, of course!
When I won the Flappers' Flatrace it was "all Sir Garneo",
For she praised the way I made my final run.
And she thought the riding won it, for how could the poor girl know
That a monkey could have ridden it and won!
Then they "weighed me in" a winner, it's not often that occurs!
So I didn't let my golden chances slip,
For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs,
And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip.
Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk
For a moment so I took her by the head
(So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work
When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red.
She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart,
I could worship every little step she takes;
And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start,
Certain winners of the Matrimonial Stakes!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXIX. Lullabies.
by Unknown

I won't be my father's Jack,
I won't be my mother's Gill,
I will be the fiddler's wife,
And have music when I will.
T'other little tune,
T'other little tune,
Pr'ythee, love, play me
T'other little tune.
Margaret Fuller Slack
by Edgar Lee Masters

I would have been as great as George Eliot
But for an untoward fate.
For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit,
Chin resting on hand, and deep - set eyes - 
Gray, too, and far-searching.
But there was the old, old problem:
Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity?
Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me,
Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel,
And I married him, giving birth to eight children,
And had no time to write.
It was all over with me, anyway,
When I ran the needle in my hand
While washing the baby's things,
And died from lock - jaw, an ironical death.
Hear me, ambitious souls,
Sex is the curse of life.
Sonnet.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee, - 
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony!
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamour'd gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery!
The Gypsying
by Theodosia Garrison

I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young--
On a blue October morning
Beneath a cloudless sky,
When all the world's a vibrant harp
The winds o' God have strung,
And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by;
The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung--
I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young.
I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old--
To step it with the wild west wind
And sing the while we go,
Through far forgotten orchards
Hung with jewels red and gold;
Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show,
To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold--
I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old.
I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care--
The while we've heart for hazarding,
The while we've will to sing,
The while we've wit to hear the call
And youth and mirth to spare,
Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying,
Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare--
I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care.
The Sound Of The Trees
by Robert Lee Frost

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
I Worked No Wile To Meet You (Song)
by Thomas Hardy

I worked no wile to meet you,
My sight was set elsewhere,
I sheered about to shun you,
And lent your life no care.
I was unprimed to greet you
At such a date and place,
Constraint alone had won you
Vision of my strange face!
You did not seek to see me
Then or at all, you said,
Meant passing when you neared me,
But stumblingblocks forbade.
You even had thought to flee me,
By other mindings moved;
No influent star endeared me,
Unknown, unrecked, unproved!
What, then, was there to tell us
The flux of flustering hours
Of their own tide would bring us
By no device of ours
To where the daysprings well us
Heart-hydromels that cheer,
Till Time enearth and swing us
Round with the turning sphere.
To The Unattainable: Lament Of Mahomed Akram
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

I would have taken Golden Stars from the sky for your necklace,
I would have shaken rose-leaves for your rest from all the rose-trees.
But you had no need; the short sweet grass sufficed for your slumber,
And you took no heed of such trifles as gold or a necklace.
There is an hour, at twilight, too heavy with memory.
There is a flower that I fear, for your hair had its fragrance.
I would have squandered Youth for you, and its hope and its promise,
Before you wandered, careless, away from my useless passion.
But what is the use of my speech, since I know of no words to recall you?
I am praying that Time may teach, you, your Cruelty, me, Forgetfulness.
The Dawn
by William Butler Yeats

I would be ignorant as the dawn
That has looked down
On that old queen measuring a town
With the pin of a brooch,
Or on the withered men that saw
From their pedantic Babylon
The careless planets in their courses,
The stars fade out where the moon comes,
And took their tablets and did sums;
I would be ignorant as the dawn
That merely stood, rocking the glittering coach
Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses;
I would be'for no knowledge is worth a straw'
Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
I Worked For Chaff, And Earning Wheat
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?
I tasted wheat, -- and hated chaff,
And thanked the ample friend;
Wisdom is more becoming viewed
At distance than at hand.
Dead And Gone.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
I wot well o' his going
To think in flowers fair; - 
His a right kind heart, my dear,
To give the grass such hair.
II.
I wot well o' his lying
Such nights out in the cold, - 
To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,
To see the glow-worm's gold.
III.
An mine eyes be laughterful,
Well may they laugh, I trow, - 
Since two dead eyes a yesternight
Gazed in them sad enow.
IV.
An my heart make moan and ache,
Well may it dree, I'm sure; - 
He is dead and gone, my love,
And it is beggar poor.
Weary In Well-Doing
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I would have gone; God bade me stay:
I would have worked; God bade me rest.
He broke my will from day to day,
He read my yearnings unexpressed
And said them nay.
Now I would stay; God bids me go:
Now I would rest; God bids me work.
He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,
My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk
And vex it so.
I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;
Day after day I plod and moil:
But, Christ my God, when will it be
That I may let alone my toil
And rest with Thee?
Snow-Flakes.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

I wonder what they are,
These pretty, wayward things,
That o'er the gloomy earth
The wind of heaven flings.
Each one a tiny star,
And each a perfect gem;
What magic in the art
That thus has fashioned them.
What beauty in the flake
That falls upon my hand;
And yet this tiny thing
My will cannot command.
No two are just alike,
And yet they are the same;
I wonder if my thought
Could give to each a name.
Unlike the fragile flowers
That love the sun's warm rays,
These snow-flakes love the cold,
And die on sunny days!
So dainty and so pure,
How beautiful they are;
And yet the slightest touch
Their purity may mar.
They must be gazed upon,
Not handled or caressed;
And thus we hold afar
The things we love the best.
On The Moon
by Jonathan Swift

I with borrow'd silver shine
What you see is none of mine.
First I show you but a quarter,
Like the bow that guards the Tartar:
Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever dancing round the pole.
What will raise your admiration,
I am not one of God's creation,
But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,)
Like Pallas, from my father's brain.
And after all, I chiefly owe
My beauty to the shades below.
Most wondrous forms you see me wear,
A man, a woman, lion, bear,
A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,
All figures Heaven or earth can yield;
Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;
Yet am not one of all you see.
Debriefing
by Paul Cameron Brown

1
I won't envy the heat this August.
The fall (English say autumn)
burrowing like urinating dogs
thru trees,
carrying winter woolies
with sniff of air
crisscrossing the lion's tamer's
path I must trod
when snow hits.
2
No, I won't envy searing blasts
be they inclement
weather or lost souls
bargaining with rain.
Acceptance . . . they say
is the key
and the word clangs like chimes
into my biology, a grandfather clock
to my own chamber music, a
little something to cheer and
serenade the buffeted spirit.
3
Think still thoughts in gloomy houses
when petals cry burst in springtime.
This is done in preparation
for brighter moments
ecstatically greeting
November chill,
devouring the last chestnut,
cursing wheat-cakes over
winter's fire.
4
A pleasant page
crammed in the tumbler briefcase
carrying my life's thimble,
rocketing toward
a brilliant destiny
all 4 seasonal planets
orchestrating mood;
the patch quilt procupine
quill emotion tapestry
working overtime like
a fish hook thru
brain's inner eye, ocular
hair shirt pulled on
at warning's glance
to trigger the way I boil eggs;
devour slivers of wood
on learning another day
kicks ass from
the horizontal pillow.
Translation From Anacreon. Ode 1. To His Lyre.
by George Gordon Byron

[Greek: Thelo legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1]
Ode 1.
To His Lyre.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre, 
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of War's alarms! 
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
I Wonder If The Sepulchre
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I wonder if the sepulchre
Is not a lonesome way,
When men and boys, and larks and June
Go down the fields to hay!