DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Hymn To Love
by Robert Herrick

I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That, let her lay
On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I,
Now blubb'ring cry,
It, ah!    too late repents me
That I did fall
To love at all
Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll be
In fetters free;
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for pain,
I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine,
And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee;
Which done, no more
I'll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.
Spacious Times, The
by Owen Seaman

[On Drake's return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.]
I wish that I had flourished then,
When ruffs and raids were in the fashion,
When Shakespeare's art and Raleigh's pen
Encouraged patriotic passion;
For though I draw my happy breath
Beneath a Queen as good and gracious,
The times of Great Elizabeth
Were more conveniently spacious.
Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!
When, undeterred by nice conditions,
Good Master Drake would lightly sail
On little privateer commissions;
Careering round with sword and flame
And no pretence of polished manners,
He planted out in England's name
A most refreshing lot of banners.
Blest era, when the reckless tar,
Elated by a sense of duty,
Feared not to face his country's Bar
But freely helped himself to booty;
Returning home with bulging hold
The Queen would meet him, much excited,
Pronounce him worth his weight in gold
And promptly have the hero knighted.
No Extra Special, piping hot,
Broke out in unexpected Pyrrhics;
No Poet Laureate on the spot
Composed apologetic lyrics;
Transpiring slowly by-and-by,
The act was voted one of loyalty;
The nation winked the other eye,
And pocketed the usual royalty.
Ere Reuter yet had found his range,
These trifles done across the ocean
Produced upon the Stock Exchange
No preternatural emotion;
Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM
Made winged words and then repented;
He wrote as yet no telegram,
Nor was, in fact, himself invented.
No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault
Of irresponsible incursions;
The early Hawkins, gallant salt,
Knew well the charm of such diversions;
Men never saw that moving sight
When legal luminaries muster,
And very solemnly indict
A well-conducted filibuster.
No Member had the hardy nerve
To criticise our depredations
As unadapted to preserve
The perfect comity of nations;
No High Commissioner would doubt
If brigandage was quite judicial;
Indeed we mostly did without
This rather eminent Official.
No Ministry would care a rap
For theoretic arbitration;
They simply modified the map
To meet the latest annexation;
And so without appeal to law,
Or other needless waste of tissue,
The Lion, where he put his paw,
Remained and propagated issue.
To-day we wax exceeding fat
On lands our roving fathers raided;
And blush with holy horror at
Their lawless sons who do as they did;
No doubt the age improves a lot,
It grows more honest, more veracious;
But, as I said, the times are not
Quite so conveniently spacious.
O'Bruaidar
by James Stephens

I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang
Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail;
And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang
For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale.
If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause,
Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand,
Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws
Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land?
When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough,
Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those,
And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough,
Not as much as two boots for my feet, or an old suit of clothes.
I ask of the Craftsman that fashioned the fly and the bird,
Of the Champion whose passion will lift me from death in a time,
Of the Spirit that melts icy hearts with the wind of a word,
That my people be worthy, and get, better singing than mine.
I had hoped to live decent, when Ireland was quit of her care,
As a bailiff or steward perhaps in a house of degree,
But my end of the tale is, old brogues and old britches to wear,
So I'll sing no more songs for the men that care nothing for me.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIII.
by Thomas Moore

I will, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned;
And so repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure.
But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow; his shafts of flame,
And proudly summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted, too;
Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.
Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,
And I had just in terror fled--
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And, having now no other dart,
He shot himself into my heart![1]
My heart--alas the luckless day!
Received the God, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length is forced to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
The foe's within, and triumphs there.
The Geraldine's Cloak
by James Stephens

I will not heed the message which you bring:
That lovely lady gave her cloak to us,
And who'd believe she'd give away a thing
And ask it back again?, 'tis fabulous!
My parting from her gave me cause to grieve,
For she, that I was poor, had misty eyes;
If some Archangel blew it I'd believe
The message which you bring, not otherwise.
I do not say this just to make a joke,
Nor would I rob her, but, 'tis verity,
So long as I could swagger in a cloak
I never cared how bad my luck could be.
That lady, all perfection, knows the sting
Of poverty was thrust deep into me:
I don't believe she'd do this kind of thing,
Or treat a poet less than daintily.
A Merrymaking In Question
by Thomas Hardy

"I will get a new string for my fiddle,
And call to the neighbours to come,
And partners shall dance down the middle
Until the old pewter-wares hum:
And we'll sip the mead, cyder, and rum!"
From the night came the oddest of answers:
A hollow wind, like a bassoon,
And headstones all ranged up as dancers,
And cypresses droning a croon,
And gurgoyles that mouthed to the tune.
I Wish I Knew That Woman's Name,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I wish I knew that woman's name,
So, when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears,
For fear I hear her say
She's 'sorry I am dead,' again,
Just when the grave and I
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, --
Our only lullaby.
Obsession.
by Muriel Stuart

I will not have roses in my room again,
Nor listen to sonnets of Michael Angelo
To-night nor any night, nor fret my brain
With all the trouble of things that I should know.
I will be as other women - come and go
Careless and free, my own self sure and sane,
As I was once ... then suddenly you were there
With your old power ... roses were everywhere
And I was listening to Michael Angelo.
Fair Helen Of Kirconnell
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is taken from Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802), vol. i. pp. 72-79, omitting the tedious Part I. Another of many versions may be found in Sir John Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. xiii. pp. 275-6, about the year 1794; fourteen stanzas, corresponding to most of Scott's two parts.
The Story of the ballad is given in the two above-mentioned books from tradition as follows. Fair Helen, of the clan of Irving or Bell, favoured Adam Fleming (Fleeming) with her love; another suitor, whose name is said to have been Bell, was the choice of the lady's family and friends. The latter lover becoming jealous, concealed himself in the bushes of the banks of the Kirtle, which flows by the kirkyard of Kirconnell, where the true lovers were accustomed to walk. Being discovered lurking there by Helen, he levelled his carbine at Adam Fleming. Helen, however, threw herself into her lover's arms, and received the bullet intended for him: whereupon he slew his rival. He went abroad to Spain and fought against the infidels, but being still inconsolable, returned to Kirconnell, perished on Helen's grave, and was buried beside her. The tombstone, bearing a sword and a cross, with Hic jacet Adamus Fleming, is still (says Scott) shown in the churchyard of Kirconnell.
The Flemings were a family belonging to Kirkpatrick-Fleming, a parish in Dumfries which includes Kirconnell.
Wordsworth's version of the story includes the famous rhyme:--
'Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,--
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
He launch'd a deadly javelin!'
FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL
1.
I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries,
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnell Lee!
2.
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me.
3.
O think na ye my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spak nae mair,
There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirconnell Lee.
4.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell Lee.
5.
I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
6.
O Helen fair, beyond compare,
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Untill the day I die.
7.
O that I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries,
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, 'Haste, and come to me!'
8.
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest
On fair Kirconnell Lee.
9.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirconnell Lee.
10.
I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.
Toomai Of The Elephants
by Rudyard Kipling

I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain,
I will remember my old strength and all my forest-affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugarcane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break,
Out to the winds 'untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress.
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
A Dan Yell
by Henry Lawson

I wish I'd never gone to board
In that house where I met
The touring lady from abroad,
Who mocks my nightmares yet.
I wish, I wish that she had saved
Her news of what she'd seen,
That Dan O'Connor is clean shaved
And parts his hair between.
The ladies down at Manly now,
And widows understood,
No more deplore their marriage vow
Or hopeless widowhood.
For Dan O'Connor is the same
As though he'd never been,
Since Daniel shaved that shave of shame,
And combed his hair between.
No more, Oh Bards, in Danyel tones
He'll voice our several fames,
And nevermore he'll mix our bones
As once he mixed our names.
Let Southern minstrels dree their weird
And lay their sad harps down,
For Dan O'Connor's shorn of beard
And cracked across the crown.
The lobby and refreshment room
Are shorn of half their larks,
A newer ghost now haunts the gloom
That knew the ghost of Parkes:
The brightest joke Australia had
Is but a hopeless grunt,
It went for ever mad and bad
When Daniel shaved his front.
The fair Spotswhoshky weeps indeed,
Frogsleggi and Bung Lung,
With none to greet and none to speed
Them in their native tongue!
By Sucklar Key nor Golden Gate
No Dan is ever seen
Since Dan O'Connor wiped his 'slate'
And notched his top between.
But, Dan O'Connor, (Lord knows best
The thing might be a sell),
You surely will forgive a jest
From one who wished you well,
When we've forgot the face we feared
And Time has deadened pain,
Oh! Dan O'Connor, grow your beard,
And come to us again.
I Wish I Had A Quiet Tomb
by Louisa May Alcott

"I wish I had a quiet tomb,
Beside a little rill;
Where birds, and bees, and butterflies,
Would sing upon the hill."
O Lord, I Will Praise Thee. - Isaiah xii.1.
by William Cowper

I will praise thee every day,
Now thine anger's turn'd away!
Comfortable thoughts arise
From the bleeding Sacrifice.
Here in the fair gospel-field,
Wells of free salvation yield
Streams of life, a plenteous store,
And my soul shall thirst no more.
Jesus is become at length
My salvation and my strength;
And his praises shall prolong,
While I live, my pleasant song.
Praise ye then his glorious name,
Publish his exalted fame!
Still his worth your praise exceeds,
Excellent are all his deeds.
Raise again the joyful sound,
Let the nations roll it round!
Zion, shout, for this is he,
God the Saviour dwells in thee!
Song
by John Clare

I wish I was where I would be,
With love alone to dwell,
Was I but her or she but me,
Then love would all be well.
I wish to send my thoughts to her
As quick as thoughts can fly,
But as the winds the waters stir
The mirrors change and fly.
Lassitude.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

I will throw by my book. The weariness
Of too much study presses on my brain,
And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow
Like a distraction, and I must give o'er.
Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;
And midnight with its deep and solemn hush
Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,
With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath
Has driven me to rest - and I can bear
The burden of such weariness no more.
I have foregone society, and fled
From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all
A home's alluring blandishments, and now
When I am thirsting for them, and my heart
Would leap at the approaches of their kind
And gentle offices, they are not here,
And I must feel that I am all alone.
Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world
How much we suffer! Were it all for this - 
Were nothing but the empty praise of men
The guerdon of this sedentary toil - 
Were this world's perishable honors all - 
I'd bound from its confinement as a hart
Leaps from its hunters - but I know, that when
My name shall be forgotten, and my frame
Rests from its labors, I shall find above
A work for the capacities I win,
And, as I discipline my spirit here,
My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.
I Will Not Despair.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

I will not despair while thou rulest the storm,
Though the red lightning stream o'er the cloud's sable-breast,
For I catch through the darkness bright gleams of thy form,
And I know 'tis thy voice lulls the tempest to rest - 
The wild tempest to rest:
Nor yet, though the shadows of deepening night,
Hang over my path like the pall of despair;
For one star through the gloom sends its hallowed light,
And I know 'tis thy love smiling tenderly there,
- Ah! tenderly there.
I will not despair, though the fountain that burst
For me in life's desert be wasted and dry;
For thy love was the fountain that cheered me at first,
And again to its life-giving waters I fly - 
O Holiest, fly!
No; I will not despair while thy hand points me on,
Though flowerless and thorny the path where I roam.
For a calm sunlight rests on the far hills beyond,
And I know 'tis the radiance that streams from my home,
- Home, beautiful home!
The Telegraph Operator
by Robert William Service

I will not wash my face;
I will not brush my hair;
I "pig" around the place - 
There's nobody to care.
Nothing but rock and tree;
Nothing but wood and stone,
Oh, God, it's hell to be
Alone, alone, alone!
Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
Corral me in a ring.
I feel as if I was
The only living thing
On all this blighted earth;
And so I frowst and shrink,
And crouching by my hearth
I hear the thoughts I think.
I think of all I miss - 
The boys I used to know;
The girls I used to kiss;
The coin I used to blow:
The bars I used to haunt;
The racket and the row;
The beers I didn't want
(I wish I had 'em now).
Day after day the same,
Only a little worse;
No one to grouch or blame - 
Oh, for a loving curse!
Oh, in the night I fear,
Haunted by nameless things,
Just for a voice to cheer,
Just for a hand that clings!
Faintly as from a star
Voices come o'er the line;
Voices of ghosts afar,
Not in this world of mine;
Lives in whose loom I grope;
Words in whose weft I hear
Eager the thrill of hope,
Awful the chill of fear.
I'm thinking out aloud;
I reckon that is bad;
(The snow is like a shroud) - 
Maybe I'm going mad.
Say! wouldn't that be tough?
This awful hush that hugs
And chokes one is enough
To make a man go "bugs".
There's not a thing to do;
I cannot sleep at night;
No wonder I'm so blue;
Oh, for a friendly fight!
The din and rush of strife;
A music-hall aglow;
A crowd, a city, life - 
Dear God, I miss it so!
Here, you have moped enough!
Brace up and play the game!
But say, it's awful tough - 
Day after day the same
(I've said that twice, I bet).
Well, there's not much to say.
I wish I had a pet,
Or something I could play.
Cheer up! don't get so glum
And sick of everything;
The worst is yet to come;
God help you till the Spring.
God shield you from the Fear;
Teach you to laugh, not moan.
Ha! ha! it sounds so queer - 
Alone, alone, alone!
Wishes
by Sara Teasdale

I wish for such a lot of things
That never will come true,
And yet I want them all so much
I think they might, don't you?
I want a little kitty-cat
That's soft and tame and sweet,
And every day I watch and hope
I'll find one in the street.
But nursie says, "Come, walk along,
"Don't stand and stare like that",
I'm only looking hard and hard
To try to find my cat.
And then I want a blue balloon
That tries to fly away,
I thought if I wished hard enough
That it would come some day.
One time when I was in the park
I knew that it would be
Beside the big old clock at home
A-waiting there for me,
And soon as we got home again,
I hurried thro' the hall,
And looked beside the big old clock,
It wasn't there at all.
I think I'll never wish again,
But then, what shall I do?
The wishes are a lot of fun
Altho' they don't come true.
A Hymn To Love
by Robert Herrick

I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That, let her lay
On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I,
Now blubb'ring cry,
It, ah! too late repents me
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll be
In fetters free;
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for pain,
I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine,
And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee;
Which done, no more
I'll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.
I Will Take An Egg Out Of The Robin's Nest
by Walt Whitman

I will take an egg out of the robin's nest in the orchard,
I will take a branch of gooseberries from the old bush in the garden, and go and preach to the world;
You shall see I will not meet a single heretic or scorner,
You shall see how I stump clergymen, and confound them,
You shall see me showing a scarlet tomato, and a white pebble from the beach.
The Evenlode
by Hilaire Belloc

I will not try to reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes,
And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
And passed into a wandering mist
Along the perfect Evenlode.
The tender Evenlode that makes
Her meadows hush to hear the sound
Of waters mingling in the brakes,
And binds my heart to English ground.
A lovely river, all alone,
She lingers in the hills and holds
A hundred little towns of stone,
Forgotten in the western wolds.
Afternoon On A Hill
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!
Mowgli's Song Against People
by Rudyard Kipling

I will let loose against you the fleet-footed vines,
I will call in the Jungle to stamp out your lines!
The roofs shall fade before it,
The house-beams shall    fall;
And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall cover it all!
In the gates of these your councils my people shall sing.
In the doors of these your garners the Bat-folk shall cling;
And the snake shall be your watchman,
By a hearthstone unswept;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall fruit where ye slept!
Ye shall not see my strikers; ye shall hear them and guess.
By night, before the moon-rise, I will send for my cess,
And the wolf shall be your herdsman
By a landmark removed;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall seed where ye loved!
I will reap your fields before you at the hands of a host.
Ye shall glean behind my reapers for the bread that is lost;
And the deer shall be your oxen
On a headland untilled;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall leaf where ye build!
I have untied against you the club-footed vines,
I have sent in the Jungle to swamp out your lines!
The trees, the trees are on you!
The house-beams shall fall;
And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall cover you all!
When I Was Young (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)
by James Stephens

I will not know when I am dead
If sun or moon is overhead;
I'll stretch out flat without a sound
Inside a box beneath the ground,
And never rise again to see
Branches lifting on a tree,
Nor hear the song the finches sing
In the spring.
I'll not, while sunny ages go,
Lift a hand or wag a toe;
But in a wooden box will be
Hidden for eternity
From sea and sun, from sight and sound,
From touch of people, voice of friend,
From all that makes my heart to bound,
Denying such an end:
It is so strange, I wonder why
People die!
The Signboard
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him - 
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard - 
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labelled with one word - "Lost"
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.