DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Fairy Curate.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Once a fairy
Light and airy
Married with a mortal;
Men, however,
Never, never
Pass the fairy portal.
Slyly stealing,
She to Ealing
Made a daily journey;
There she found him,
Clients round him
(He was an attorney).
Long they tarried,
Then they married.
When the ceremony
Once was ended,
Off they wended
On their moon of honey.
Twelvemonth, maybe,
Saw a baby
(Friends performed an orgie).
Much they prized him,
And baptized him
By the name of Georgie,
Georgie grew up;
Then he flew up
To his fairy mother.
Happy meeting -
Pleasant greeting -
Kissing one another.
"Choose a calling
Most enthralling,
I sincerely urge ye."
"Mother," said he
(Rev'rence made he),
"I would join the clergy.
"Give permission
In addition -
Pa will let me do it:
There's a living
In his giving -
He'll appoint me to it.
Dreams of coff'ring,
Easter off'ring,
Tithe and rent and pew-rate,
So inflame me
(Do not blame me),
That I'll be a curate."
She, with pleasure,
Said, "My treasure,
'T is my wish precisely.
Do your duty,
There's a beauty;
You have chosen wisely.
Tell your father
I would rather
As a churchman rank you.
You, in clover,
I'll watch over."
Georgie said, "Oh, thank you!"
Georgie scudded,
Went and studied,
Made all preparations,
And with credit
(Though he said it)
Passed examinations.
(Do not quarrel
With him, moral,
Scrupulous digestions -
'Twas his mother,
And no other,
Answered all the questions.)
Time proceeded;
Little needed
Georgie admonition:
He, elated,
Vindicated
Clergyman's position.
People round him
Always found him
Plain and unpretending;
Kindly teaching,
Plainly preaching,
All his money lending.
So the fairy,
Wise and wary,
Felt no sorrow rising -
No occasion
For persuasion,
Warning, or advising.
He, resuming
Fairy pluming
(That's not English, is it?)
Oft would fly up,
To the sky up,
Pay mamma a visit.
* * * * * * * *
Time progressing,
Georgie's blessing
Grew more Ritualistic -
Popish scandals,
Tonsures sandals -
Genuflections mystic;
Gushing meetings -
Bosom-beatings -
Heavenly ecstatics -
Broidered spencers -
Copes and censers -
Rochets and dalmatics.
This quandary
Vexed the fairy -
Flew she down to Ealing.
"Georgie, stop it!
Pray you, drop it;
Hark to my appealing:
To this foolish
Papal rule-ish
Twaddle put an ending;
This a swerve is
From our Service
Plain and unpretending."
He, replying,
Answered, sighing,
Hawing, hemming, humming,
"It's a pity -
They're so pritty;
Yet in mode becoming,
Mother tender,
I'll surrender -
I'll be unaffected "
But his Bishop
Into HIS shop
Entered unexpected!
"Who is this, sir, -
Ballet miss, sir?"
Said the Bishop coldly.
"'T is my mother,
And no other,"
Georgie answered boldly.
"Go along, sir!
You are wrong, sir;
You have years in plenty,
While this hussy
(Gracious mussy!)
Isn't two and twenty!"
(Fairies clever
Never, never
Grow in visage older;
And the fairy,
All unwary,
Leant upon his shoulder!)
Bishop grieved him,
Disbelieved him;
George the point grew warm on;
Changed religion,
Like a pigeon, {1}
And became a Mormon!
The Lily-Pond
by Virna Sheard

On this little pool where the sunbeams lie,
This tawny gold ring where the shadows die,
God doth enamel the blue of His sky.
Through the scented dark when the night wind sighs,
He mirrors His stars where the ripples rise,
Till they glitter like prisoned fireflies.
'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl,
And here the lilies uplift and unfurl
Their golden-lined goblets of carven pearl.
When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink,
Through the silver sedge at the pond's low brink
The little lone field-mouse creeps down to drink.
And creatures to whom only God is kind,
The loveless small things, the slow, and the blind,
Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find.
Oh, restless the river, restless the sea!
Where the great ships go, and the dead men be;
The lily-pond giveth but peace to me.
Time, Real and Imaginary
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

An Allegory
On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
A sister and a brother!
This far outstripped the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:
For he, alas! is blind!
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
And knows not whether he be first or last.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXXI
by Alfred Edward Housman

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
Once Agean Welcome.
by John Hartley

Once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander,
When years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend?
An what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander,
As mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end?
Yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches;
Yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam;
But tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches,
Yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam.
Pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely,
They'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove,
To fly far away, just to catch a seet only
Ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love.
Hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin,
Bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away,
But it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast heavin,
It's th' hopes ov a welcome back maks us feel gay.
Long miles yo may trudge ovver moor, heath, or mire,
Till yor legs seem to totter, an th' stummack feels faint;
But yor thowts still will dwell o' that breet cottage fire,
Till yo feel quite refreshed bi th' fancies yo paint.
An when yo draw nearer, an ovver th' old palins
Yo see smilin faces 'at welcome yo back,
Ther's an end to being weary! away wi complainin's!
Yo leeave all yor troubles behind on yor track.
Then if ther's sich joy in a welcome receivin,
Let us ivvery one try sich a pleasure to gain;
An bi soothin' fowk's cares, an ther sorrows relievin,
Let us bind em all to us, wi' friendship's strong chain.
Let us love an be loved! let's be kind an forgivin,
An then if fate forces us far from awr hooam,
We shall still throughout life have the joy o' receivin
A tear when we part, an a smile when we come.
A Woman, And Some Men.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Once in a dream of Babylon
I sat with Lilith and Cain
At the world-old drama, "From God to God,"
In the House of Things Profane;
Trumpets and lights, and the players
Swung to the stage, and then
I saw as I looked in their faces
A woman, and some men.
Men with the eyes of the psalmist,
Men with the hearts of Saul,
Strong with the wine of valor,
But faint with the woman's thrall;
Calm were her eyes as she held them
Charmed to her soulless sway,
For she had the face of the Magdalene,
And the heart of Aholiba.
Wine and kisses and gusty words,
Kisses and wine again,
And her lips and brow were red with stains
From the hairy mouths of men,
Red as the stain on the brow of Cain
That burned with his Maker's hate,
Or the lips of the witch that Adam loved
Ere God revealed his mate.
Trumpets and lights and the players
Swung from the stage, and then
The curtain fell on the drama
Of a woman and some men;
While cleaving the dome of the temple
Fell the Avenger's rod,
And lo! when I looked again I saw
We were face to face with God.
And Lilith, the witch, dropped down and prayed
That her child a soul might have,
And the blood red stain on the brow of Cain
Be wiped out in the grave;
And this was my dream of Babylon
When I sat with Lilith and Cain
At the world-old drama, "From God to God,"
In the House of Things Profane.
The Lemmings
by John Masefield

Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come
Westward, in search of food, over the snow;
Westward until the salt sea drowns them dumb;
Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go.
Once, it is thought, there was a westward land
Now drowned where there was food for those starved things,
And memory of the place has burnt its brand
In the little brains of all the Lemming Kings.
Perhaps, long since, there was a land beyond
Westward from death, some city, some calm place
Where one could taste God's quiet and be fond
With the little beauty of a human face;
But now the land is drowned. Yet we still press
Westward, in search, to death, to nothingness.
The Persevering Tortoise And The Pretentious Hare
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

Once a turtle, finding plenty
In seclusion to bewitch,
Lived a dolce far niente
Kind of life within a ditch;
Rivers had no charm for him,
As he told his wife and daughter,
"Though my friends are in the swim,
Mud is thicker far than water."
One fine day, as was his habit,
He was dozing in the sun,
When a young and flippant rabbit
Happened by the ditch to run:
"Come and race me," he exclaimed,
"Fat inhabitant of puddles.
Sluggard! You should be ashamed.
Such a life the brain befuddles."
This, of course, was banter merely,
But it stirred the torpid blood
Of the turtle, and severely
Forth he issued from the mud.
"Done!" he cried. The race began,
But the hare resumed his banter,
Seeing how his rival ran
In a most unlovely canter.
Shouting, "Terrapin, you're bested!
You'd be wiser, dear old chap,
If you sat you down and rested
When you reach the second lap."
Quoth the turtle, "I refuse.
As for you, with all your talking,
Sit on any lap you choose.
I shall simply go on walking."
Now this sporting proposition
Was, upon its face, absurd;
Yet the hare, with expedition,
Took the tortoise at his word,
Ran until the final lap,
Then, supposing he'd outclassed him,
Laid him down and took a nap
And the patient turtle passed him!
Plodding on, he shortly made the
Line that marked the victor's goal;
Paused, and found he'd won, and laid the
Flattering unction to his soul.
Then in fashion grandiose,
Like an after-dinner speaker,
Touched his flipper to his nose,
And remarked, "Ahem! Eureka!"
And THE MORAL (lest you miss one)
Is: There's often time to spare,
And that races are (like this one)
Won not always by a hair.
Songs Of Seventy Horses
by Rudyard Kipling

Once again the Steamer at Calais, the tackles
Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her!
Sign-refill, and let me away with my horses.
(Seventy Thundering Horses!)
Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough, it is France!
Whether the throat-closing brick-fields by Lille, or her paves 
Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco;
Or that wind we shave by, the brutal North-Easter,
Rasping the newly dunged Somme.
(Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether the dappled Argonne, the cloud-shadows packing
Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven
Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them
Feeding their never-quenched lights.
(Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether that gale where Biscay jammed in the corner
Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated
Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands
Make themselves dance in the mist.
(Breathe-breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether the broken, honey-hued, honey-combed limestone,
Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom
Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward,
Sleepily noisy, the Sea.
(Yes it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether the Massif in Spring, the multiplied lacets
Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under
Turbaned snow, pushing up the heavens of Summer
Though the stark moors lie black.
(Neigh through the icicled tunnels: "It is enough, it is France!")
The Penalty
by Rudyard Kipling

Once in life I watched a Star;
But I whistled, "Let her go!
There are others, fairer far,
Which my favouring skies shall show
Here I lied, and herein I
Stood to pay the penalty.
Marvellous the Planets shone 
As I ranged from coast to coast,
But beyond comparison
Rode the Star that I had lost.
I had lied, and only I
Did not guess the penalty!...
When my Heavens were turned to blood,
When the dark had filled my day,
Furthest, but most faithful, stood
That lone Star I cast away.
I had loved myself, and I
Have not lived and dare not die!
Written On The Blank Leaf Of A Copy Of My Poems, Presented To An Old Sweetheart, Then Married.
by Robert Burns

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear;
Sweet early object of my youthful vows!
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.
The Return To Ulster
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Once again, but how chang'd since my wand'rings began
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the roar
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.
Alas! My poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn!
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,
That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?
It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown;
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre:
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.
But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn?d from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispers'd in the sunbeam, or melted to dew?
Oh! Would it had been so, O would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice, that was moulded to melody's thrill
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still.
Oh! would it had been so, not then this poor heart
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
"Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again."
Per Bo (1878)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

Once I knew a noble peasant
From a line of men large-hearted.
Light and strength were in his mind,
Lifted like a peak clear-lined
O'er the valley in spring sunshine,
First to feel the morning's beam,
First refreshed by cloud-born stream.
Wide the springtime spread its banner,
Waving in his will illumined,
Bright with promise, color-sound;
Heritage of toil its ground.
Round that mountain music floated,
Songsters sweet of faith and hope
Nestled on its tree-clad slope.
Sometime, sometime all the valley
Like him shall with light be flooded;
Sometime all his faith and truth
Sunward grow in dewy youth,
And the dreams he dreamt too early
Live and make him leader be
For a race as true as he.
Safety-Clutch
by Ambrose Bierce

Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woeful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woeful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.
Songs Set To Music: 14. Set By Mr. Smith
by Matthew Prior

Once I was unconfined and free,
Would I had been so still!
Enjoying sweetest liberty,
And roving at my will.
But now, not master of my heart,
Cupid does so decide,
That two she tyrants shall it part,
And so poor me divide.
Victoria's will I must obey,
She acts without control;
Phillis has such a taking way
She charms my very soul.
Deceived by Phillis' looks and smiles,
Into her snares I run;
Victoria shows me all her wiles,
Which yet I dare not shun.
From one I fancy every kiss
Has something in't divine,
And awful taste the balmy bliss
That joins her lips with mine.
But when with th' other I embrace,
Though she be not a queen,
Methinks 'tis sweet with such a lass
To tumble on the green.
Thus here you see a shared heart,
But I meanwhile the fool;
Each in it has an equal part,
But neither yet the whole.
Nor will it, if I right forecast,
To either wholly yield;
I find the time approaches fast
When both must quit the field.
Old Snake-Doctor
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Once I found an ant-lion's hole
And an ant-lion in it: nippers
Like a pair of rusty clippers.
And I saw a red ant roll
In its pit, and, quick as Ned,
This old ant-lion fanged its head,
Held it till the ant was dead.
II.
And I told my father: he
Smiled and said, "He beats the dickens,
With his pinchers; even chickens
Have n't his voracity.
Think now what he would have done
Had you been an ant, my son,
Fallen in that pit like one.
III.
"Daniel in the lion's den!
Guess you'd come home good and gory.
But now here's another story:
You should see these ant-lions when
They have wings; and, blue and green,
Ponds and pools they fly between:
Prettiest things I've ever seen.
IV.
"Look just like the dragonflies;
And perhaps they are snake-feeders;
Name you'll never find in Readers
Read at school: but, I surmise,
Dragonflies are not the same
As these old snake-doctors; name
For which I am not to blame.
V.
"Who's to blame then? If it's not
I or, say, the dictionary,
Since we two seem so contr'ry,
Must be that old ant-lion what
Can't content itself, that's plain,
With its bug-estate; remain
Just a bug in sun and rain.
VI.
"Has to get himself new clothes!
Gauzy wings that shine and glitter;
Something that he thinks is fitter
His profession, I suppose,
Doctoring things, like water-snakes;
Finery that often takes
Eyes of hungry ducks and drakes:
VII.
"And of fishes, too, the fool.
Who his coat so bright and brassy,
Mirrored in the waters glassy,
Leap for, drag into the pool.
Old snake-doctor, flaunt your fill!
Feed the snakes or cure or kill
In the end you pay the bill."
The Hare And The Frogs.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Once in his bed deep mused the hare,
(What else but muse could he do there?)
And soon by gloom was much afflicted; - 
To gloom the creature's much addicted.
'Alas! these constitutions nervous,'
He cried, 'how wretchedly they serve us!
We timid people, by their action,
Can't eat nor sleep with satisfaction;
We can't enjoy a pleasure single,
But with some misery it must mingle.
Myself, for one, am forced by cursed fear
To sleep with open eye as well as ear.
"Correct yourself," says some adviser.
Grows fear, by such advice, the wiser?
Indeed, I well enough descry
That men have fear, as well as I.'
With such revolving thoughts our hare
Kept watch in soul-consuming care.
A passing shade, or leaflet's quiver
Would give his blood a boiling fever.
Full soon, his melancholy soul
Aroused from dreaming doze
By noise too slight for foes,
He scuds in haste to reach his hole.
He pass'd a pond; and from its border bogs,
Plunge after plunge, in leap'd the timid frogs,
'Aha! I do to them, I see,'
He cried, 'what others do to me.
The sight of even me, a hare,
Sufficeth some, I find, to scare.
And here, the terror of my tramp
Hath put to rout, it seems, a camp.
The trembling fools! they take me for
The very thunderbolt of war!
I see, the coward never skulk'd a foe
That might not scare a coward still below.'
On The Wing. - Sonnet.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
Again I Sing my Songs
by Morris Rosenfeld

Once again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing;--
Summer not a song would borrow--
Winter sets me singing.
O when life turns sad and lonely,
When our joys are dead;
When are heard the ravens only
In the trees o'erhead;
When the stormwind on the bowers
Wreaks its wicked will,
When the frost paints lying flowers,
How should I be still?
When the clouds are low descending,
And the sun is drowned;
When the winter knows no ending,
And the cold is crowned;
When with evil gloom oppressed
Lie the ruins bare;
When a sigh escapes the breast,
Takes us unaware;
When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams
Of its summer gladness,
When the wood is stripped and seems
Full of care and sadness;
When the songs are growing still
As in Death's repose,
And the heart is growing chill,
And the eyelids close;
Then, O then I can but sing
For I dream her coming--
May, sweet May! I see her bring
Buds and wild-bee humming!
Through the silence heart-appalling,
As I stand and listen,
I can hear her song-birds calling,
See her green leaves glisten!
Thus again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Of my love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing,--
Summer not a song would borrow!--
Winter sets me singing.
God's Answer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Once in a time of trouble and of care
I dreamed I talked with God about my pain;
With sleepland courage, daring to complain
Of what I deemed ungracious and unfair.
'Lord, I have grovelled on my knees in prayer
Hour after hour,' I cried; 'yet all in vain;
No hand leads up to heights I would attain,
No path is shown me out of my despair.'
Then answered God:    'Three things I gave to thee - 
Clear brain, brave will, and strength of mind and heart,
All implements divine, to shape the way.
Why shift the burden of thy toil on Me?
Till to the utmost he has done his part
With all his might, let no man DARE to pray.'
The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly
by Vachel Lindsay

Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
To educate young spiders
She took me all apart.
My ghost came back to haunt her.
I saw her eat my heart.