DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Dan O'Sullivan
by James Whitcomb Riley

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your
Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure! -
To be trillin' praise av me,
Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry! -
Not that I'd not have ye sing -
Don't lave off for anything -
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit
Av me head shwells up to it!
Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,
Whilst yer singin', loike ye can,
To cry shtop because ye've blesht
My songs more than all the resht: -
I'll not be the b'y to ax
Any shtar to wane or wax,
Or ax any clock that's woun'
To run up inshtid av down!
Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan! -
Him that made the Irishman
Mixt the birds in wid the dough,
And the dew and mistletoe
Wid the whusky in the quare
Muggs av us - and here we air,
Three parts right, and three parts wrong,
Shpiked with beauty, wit and song!
A Fairy Tale.
by Henry Austin Dobson

"On court, h'las! apr's la v'rit';
Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son m'rite."
Voltaire.
Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,
I find Miss Mary, 'tat six,
Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,
Absorbed in her first fairy book,
From which she scarce can pause to look,
Because it's "so delicious!"
"Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,
In which they cross a magic Moat,
That's smooth as glass to row on--
A Cat that brings all kinds of things;
And see, the Queen has angel wings--
Then OGRE comes"--and so on.
What trash it is! How sad to find
(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant.
Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths and pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!
In merest prudence men should teach
That cats mellifluous in speech
Are painful contradictions;
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings--
E'en angels' wings!--are fictions:
That there's no giant now but Steam;
That life, although "an empty dream,"
Is scarce a "land of Fairy."
"Of course I said all this?" Why, no;
I did a thing far wiser, though,--
I read the tale with Mary.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXCIV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion and sow a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream!
Sonnets. XVIII
by John Milton

Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
The Ass And The Dog.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Dame Nature, our respected mother,
Ordains that we should aid each other.
The ass this ordinance neglected,
Though not a creature ill-affected.
Along the road a dog and he
One master follow'd silently.
Their master slept: meanwhile, the ass
Applied his nippers to the grass,
Much pleased in such a place to stop,
Though there no thistle he could crop.
He would not be too delicate,
Nor spoil a dinner for a plate,
Which, but for that, his favourite dish,
Were all that any ass could wish.
'My dear companion,' Towser said, - 
''Tis as a starving dog I ask it, - 
Pray lower down your loaded basket,
And let me get a piece of bread.'
No answer - not a word! - indeed,
The truth was, our Arcadian steed[2]
Fear'd lest, for every moment's flight,
His nimble teeth should lose a bite.
At last, 'I counsel you,' said he, 'to wait
Till master is himself awake,
Who then, unless I much mistake,
Will give his dog the usual bait.'
Meanwhile, there issued from the wood
A creature of the wolfish brood,
Himself by famine sorely pinch'd.
At sight of him the donkey flinch'd,
And begg'd the dog to give him aid.
The dog budged not, but answer made, - 
'I counsel thee, my friend, to run,
Till master's nap is fairly done;
There can, indeed, be no mistake,
That he will very soon awake;
Till then, scud off with all your might;
And should he snap you in your flight,
This ugly wolf, - why, let him feel
The greeting of your well-shod heel.
I do not doubt, at all, but that
Will be enough to lay him flat.'
But ere he ceased it was too late;
The ass had met his cruel fate.
Thus selfishness we reprobate.
Past And Present
by William Kerr

Daisies are over Nyren, and Hambledon
Hardly remembers any summer gone:
And never again the Kentish elms shall see
Mynn, or Fuller Pilch, or Colin Blythe.
Nor shall I see them, unless perhaps a ghost
Watching the elder ghosts beyond the moon.
But here in common sunshine I have seen
George Hirst, not yet a ghost, substantial,
His off-drives mellow as brown ale, and crisp
Merry late cuts, and brave Chaucerian pulls;
Waddington's fury and the patience of Dipper;
And twenty easy artful overs of Rhodes,
So many stanzas of the Faerie Queen.
The Pile Builder. A Lacustrine Lyric.
by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

Dichtqualmende Nebel umfeuchten
Ein Pfahlbauger'stwerk im See
Und fern ob der Waldwildniss leuchten
Die Alpen in ewigem Schnee.
Damp smoky-like vapour is streaming
O'er piles in the waters below.
And far o'er the forest are gleaming
The Alps in perpetual snow.
A man on a wood block is sitting
In furs, for the wind-draught is strong:
With a flint chip a deer-horn splitting,
While he mournfully murmurs a song:
'See my face swollen up like the devil!
Remark how in wind, as it spins,
The history of Europe prim'val
With rheumatics and toothache begins!
'It is true that with stone-axe employment,
Or with celts I can hammer my way,
But no rational means of enjoyment
Is known to the world in this day.
'Wild animals, wolfish or beary,
Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown;
And when I build huts on the prairie
The buffaloes batter them down.
'And so, to the beaver a debtor,
I build for myself in the flood;
The further from firm land the better,
A pile-dam in shingle and mud.
'But much I am forced to dispense with
What ages to come will behold;
I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with,
But as yet there's no iron or gold.
'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy,
But exchange is not yet understood:
A good glass of beer would be healthy;
But never a drop has been brewed.
'And then how my horror increases
To think of our cookery rude!
How we crack a pig's bones into pieces,
And suck out the marrow for food.
'And how can the soul be expected
To form an ideal of taste,
When nothing but poles are erected
Around in a watery waste?'
He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,
With rheumatics his temper was grim;
Two wild bears slipped over the poling,
And, climbing, came snapping at him.
Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,
Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,
Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,
And paddled with curses away.
Where once the Lacustrians plying,
Drove many a pillar or stake,
A strata of relics is lying
'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.
And he who this song made for singing,
Himself through those layers has mined,
And the relics to daylight upbringing,
Felt pride as a mortal refined.
Translated From The German Of Joseph Victor Scheffel By Charles G. Leland.
Sonnet XXII: To Cyriack Skinner
by John Milton

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun or moon or star throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, not bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXX. Relics.
by Unknown

Daffy-down-dilly has come up to town,
In a yellow petticoat, and a green gown.
Child-Songs
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
The City Child.
Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells?
'Far and far away,' said the dainty little maiden,
'All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones,
Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells.'
Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours?
'Far and far away,' said the dainty little maiden,
'All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis,
Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers.'
II.
Minnie and Winnie.
Minnie and Winnie
Slept in a shell.
Sleep, little ladies!
And they slept well.
Pink was the shell within,
Silver without;
Sounds of the great sea
Wander'd about.
Sleep, little ladies!
Wake not soon!
Echo on echo
Dies to the moon.
Two bright stars
Peep'd into the shell.
'What are they dreaming of?
Who can tell?'
Started a green linnet
Out of the croft;
Wake, little ladies,
The sun is aloft!
Dissuasions From Idleness.
by Robert Herrick

Cynthius, pluck ye by the ear,
That ye may good doctrine hear;
Play not with the maiden-hair,
For each ringlet there's a snare.
Cheek, and eye, and lip, and chin -
These are traps to take fools in.
Arms, and hands, and all parts else,
Are but toils, or manacles,
Set on purpose to enthral
Men, but slothfuls most of all.
Live employed, and so live free
From these fetters; like to me,
Who have found, and still can prove,
The lazy man the most doth love.
'Long To'Ds Night
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Daih 's a moughty soothin' feelin'
Hits a dahky man,
'Long to'ds night.
W'en de row is mos' nigh ended,
Den he stops to fan,
'Long to'ds night.
De blue smoke f'om his cabin is a-callin' to him "Come;"
He smell de bacon cookin', an' he hyeah de fiah hum;
An' he 'mence to sing, 'dough wo'kin' putty nigh done made him dumb,
'Long to'ds night.
Wid his hoe erpon his shouldah
Den he goes erlong,
'Long to'ds night.
An' he keepin' time a-steppin'
Wid a little song,
'Long to'ds night.
De restin'-time 's a-comin', an' de time to drink an' eat;
A baby's toddlin' to'ds him on hits little dusty feet,
An' a-goin' to'ds his cabin, an' his suppah 's moughty sweet,
'Long to'ds night.
Daih his Ca'line min' de kettle,
Rufus min' de chile,
'Long to'ds night;
An' de sweat roll down his forred,
Mixin' wid his smile,
'Long to'ds night.
He toss his piccaninny, an' he hum a little chune;
De wokin' all is ovah, an' de suppah comin' soon;
De wo'kin' time 's Decembah, but de restin' time is June,
'Long to'ds night.
Dey 's a kin' o' doleful feelin',
Hits a tendah place,
'Long to'ds night;
Dey 's a moughty glory in him
Shinin' thoo his face,
Long to'ds night.
De cabin 's lak de big house, an' de fiah's lak de sun;
His wife look moughty lakly, an' de chile de puttiest one;
W'y, hit 's blessid, jes' a-livin' w'en a body's wo'k is done.
'Long to'ds night.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXI. Natural History.
by Unknown

[The following song is given in Whiter's 'Specimen, or a Commentary on Shakespeare,' 8vo, London, 1794, p. 19, as common in Cambridgeshire and Norfolk. Dr. Farmer gives another version as an illustration of a ditty of Jacques in 'As You Like It,' act ii, sc. 5. See Malone's Shakespeare, ed. 1821, vol. vi, p. 398; Caldecott's 'Specimen,' 1819, note on 'As You Like It,' p. 11; and Douce's 'Illustrations,' vol. i, p. 297.]
Dame, what makes your ducks to die?
What the pize ails 'em? what the pize ails 'em?
They kick up their heels, and there they lie,
What the pize ails 'em now?
Heigh, ho! heigh, ho!
Dame, what makes your ducks to die?
What a pize ails 'em? what a pize ails 'em?
Heigh, ho! heigh, ho!
Dame, what ails your ducks to die?
Eating o' polly-wigs, eating o' polly-wigs.
Heigh, ho! heigh, ho!
The Azra. Translations. After Heine.
by John Milton Hay

Daily walked the fair and lovely
Sultan's daughter in the twilight, -
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the sparkling waters plash.
Daily stood the young slave silent
In the twilight by the fountain,
Where the plashing waters sparkle,
Pale and paler every day.
Once by twilight came the princess
Up to him with rapid questions:
"I would know thy name, thy nation,
Whence thou comest, who thou art."
And the young slave said, "My name is
Mahomet, I come from Yemmen.
I am of the sons of Azra,
Men who perish if they love."
Curly Locks
by James Whitcomb Riley

Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine, -
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream.
Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
The throb of my heart is in every line,
And the pulse of a passion as airy and glad
In its musical beat as the little Prince had!
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine! -
O I'll dapple thy hands with these kisses of mine
Till the pink of the nail of each finger shall be
As a little pet blush in full blossom for me.
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And thou shalt have fabric as fair as a dream, -
The red of my veins, and the white of my love,
And the gold of my joy for the braiding thereof.
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream
From a service of silver, with jewels agleam, -
At thy feet will I bide, at thy beck will I rise,
And twinkle my soul in the night of thine eyes!
Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine. -
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream.
Verses - Written Under The Portrait Of Fergusson, The Poet, In A Copy Of That Author's Works Presented To A Young Lady.
by Robert Burns

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stellaes eyes
That from her locks thy day-nets none scapes free
That those lips sweld so full of thee they be
That her sweet breath makes oft thy flames to rise
That in her breast thy pap well sugred lies
That her grace gracious makes thy wrongsthat she,
What words soere shee speake, perswades for thee
That her clere voice lifts thy fame to the skies,
Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose pow'rs
Hauing got vp a breach by fighting well,
Crie Victorie, this faire day all is ours!
O no; her heart is such a cittadell,
So fortified with wit, stor'd with disdaine,
That to win it is all the skill and paine.
Drawing Water.
by George MacDonald

Dark, as if it would not tell,
Lies the water, still and cool:
Dip the bucket in the well,
Lift it from the precious pool!
Up it comes all brown and dim,
Telling of the twilight sweet:
As it rises to the brim
See the sun and water meet!
See the friends each other hail!
"Here you are!" cries Master Sun;
Mistress Water from the pail
Flashes back, alive with fun!
Have you not a tale to tell,
Water, as I take you home?
Tell me of the hidden well
Whence you, first of all, did come.
Of it you have kept some flavour
Through long paths of darkling strife:
Water all has still a savour
Of the primal well of life!
Could you show the lovely way
Back and up through sea and sky
To that well? Oh, happy day,
I would drink, and never die!
Jesus sits there on its brink
All the world's great thirst to slake,
Offering every one to drink
Who will only come and take!
Lord of wells and waters all,
Lord of rains and dewy beads,
Unto thee my thirst doth call
For the thing thou know'st it needs!
Come home, water sweet and cool,
Gift of God thou always art!
Spring up, Well more beautiful,
Rise in mine straight from his heart.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXI. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Dance, little baby, dance up high,
Never mind, baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go;
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground.
Backwards and forwards, round and round;
Dance, little baby, and mother will sing,
With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding!
On The Wall Top.
by Kate Greenaway

Dancing and prancing to town we go,
On the top of the wall of the town we go.
Shall we talk to the stars, or talk to the moon,
Or run along home to our dinner so soon?
So high so high on the wall we run,
The nearer the sky why, the nearer the sun,
If you give me one penny, I'll give you two,
For that's the way good neighbours do.
Elegiac
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor
Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud;
Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,
Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.
Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean;
With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep,
Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings,
Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.
Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean;
Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea!
AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboring roadstead,
Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist.
Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings;
Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams;
While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor,
Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust!
To The Dannebrog
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(WHEN DYBB'L WAS CAPTURED)
(See Note 25)
Dannebrog of old was seeming
Snow-white, rosy red,
Through the mists of ages beaming,
Heaven's gift outspread,
Rich as fruits of Denmark's planting,
Grand as song of heroes chanting,
Spirit-winged to deeds of daring
O'er the wide world faring.
Dannebrog, thou now art seeming
Death-pale, bloody red,
Like a dying sea-gull gleaming
White with blood o'erspread.
Purple tides the wounds are showing
From thy faith in justice flowing;
Denmark, bear the cross, thy burden
Honor is thy guerdon!
The Shade
by Walter De La Mare

Darker than night; and oh, much darker, she,
Whose eyes in deep night darkness gaze on me.
No stars surround her; yet the moon seems hid
Afar somewhere, beneath that narrow lid.
She darkens against the darkness; and her face
Only by adding thought to thought I trace,
Limned shadowily: O dream, return once more
To gloomy Hades and the whispering shore!
The Fish
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Dark the sea was: but I saw him,
One great head with goggle eyes,
Like a diabolic cherub
Flying in those fallen skies.
I have heard the hoarse deniers,
I have known the wordy wars;
I have seen a man, by shouting,
Seek to orphan all the stars.
I have seen a fool half-fashioned
Borrow from the heavens a tongue,
So to curse them more at leisure--
--And I trod him not as dung.
For I saw that finny goblin
Hidden in the abyss untrod;
And I knew there can be laughter
On the secret face of God.
Blow the trumpets, crown the sages,
Bring the age by reason fed!
(He that sitteth in the heavens,
'He shall laugh'--the prophet said.)
Winter Dusk
by Walter De La Mare

Dark frost was in the air without,
The dusk was still with cold and gloom,
When less than even a shadow came
And stood within the room.
But of the three around the fire,
None turned a questioning head to look,
Still read a clear voice, on and on,
Still stooped they o'er their book.
The children watched their mother's eyes
Moving on softly line to line;
It seemed to listen too - that shade,
Yet made no outward sign.
The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,
No cold wind moved the wintry tree;
The children both in Fa'rie dreamed
Beside their mother's knee.
And nearer yet that spirit drew
Above that heedless one, intent
Only on what the simple words
Of her small story meant.
No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind,
No memory her bosom stirred,
Nor dreamed she, as she read to two,
'Twas surely three who heard.
Yet when, the story done, she smiled
From face to face, serene and clear,
A love, half dread, sprang up, as she
Leaned close and drew them near.
The Clouds Return After The Rain.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Dark and yet darker my day's clouded o'er;
Are its bright joys all fled, and its sunshine no more?
I look to the skies for the bright bow in vain,
For constantly "clouds return after the rain."
Must it always be thus, peace banished forever,
And joy to this sad heart returned again never?
I long for the rest that I cannot obtain,
For the clouds, so much dreaded, return after rain.
Is there not in this wide world one spot that is blessed
With exemption from suffering, where one may find rest;
Where sickness and sorrow no entranpe can gain,
And the clouds do not return after the rain?
Ah! deceive not thyself by a vain hope like this,
Nor expect in this world to enjoy lasting peace:
But bow with submission to God's holy will,
For the hand that afflicts is thy kind Father's still.
If my days are dark here, there are brighter above,
In those pure realms of light, peace, joy, and of love;
Where the air is all balm, and the skies ever fair,
And the river of life, clear as crystal flows there.
There also, for healing the nations, are found
The leaves of the tree on which rich fruits abound;
There is no need of candle, for God is their light,
There never is darkness, for "there is no night."
Oh! may I there find, when this brief life is past,
By my Saviour prepared, a sweet home at last;
Where sin never enters, death, sorrow, nor care,
And clouds are not feared, for it never rains there.
August 19, 1852.