DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
My Castle.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

I have a beautiful castle,
With towers and battlements fair;
And many a banner, with gay device,
Floats in the outer air.
The walls are of solid silver;
The towers are of massive gold;
And the lights that stream from the windows
A royal scene unfold.
Ah! could you but enter my castle
With its pomp of regal sheen,
You would say that it far surpasses
The palace of Aladeen.
Could you but enter as I do,
And pace through the vaulted hall,
And mark the stately columns,
And the pictures on the wall;
With the costly gems about them,
That send their light afar,
With a chaste and softened splendor
Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle,
With its rich emblazonings,
Whose pomp so far surpasses
The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning
And lie in the meadow-grass,
And lift your eyes to the ether blue,
And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and high,
Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
And lost in the arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming,
Your castle so stately and fair
Is only a fanciful structure,--
A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not
If a phantom it may be;
But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel
That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?
In Praise Of Contentment
by Eugene Field

(HORACE'S ODES, III, I)
I hate the common, vulgar herd!
Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em!
But pretty girls and nice young men
Observe a proper silence when
I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.
The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r
Excites our homage and our wonder,
Are precious small beside old Jove,
The father of us all, who drove
The giants out of sight, by thunder!
This man loves farming, that man law,
While this one follows pathways martial--
What moots it whither mortals turn?
Grim fate from her mysterious urn
Doles out the lots with hand impartial.
Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports
Delight the heart by care tormented;
The mightiest monarch knoweth not
The peace that to the lowly cot
Sleep bringeth to the swain contented.
On him untouched of discontent
Care sits as lightly as a feather;
He doesn't growl about the crops,
Or worry when the market drops,
Or fret about the changeful weather.
Not so with him who, rich in fact,
Still seeks his fortune to redouble;
Though dig he deep or build he high,
Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh--
Relentless Care, relentless Trouble!
If neither palaces nor robes
Nor unguents nor expensive toddy
Insure Contentment's soothing bliss,
Why should I build an edifice
Where Envy comes to fret a body?
Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer,
But rather sup my rustic pottage,
While that sweet boon the gods bestow--
The peace your mansions cannot know--
Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage.
Anecdote For Fathers
by William Wordsworth

I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautys mold
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me, and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
"Now tell me, had you rather be,"
I said. and took him by the arm,
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?"
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why."
"I cannot tell, I do not know."
"Why, this is strange," said I;
"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
"Why, :Edward, tell me why?"
His head he raised, there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain, 
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reaon why."
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
Banjo, Of The Overflow
by Francis Kenna

I had written him a letter which I had for want of better
Knowledge given to a partner by the name of "Greenhide Jack ",
He was shearing when I met him, and I thought perhaps I'd let him
Know that I was "stiff," and, maybe, he would send a trifle back.
My request was not requited, for an answer came indited
On a sheet of scented paper, in an ink of fancy blue;
And the envelope, I fancy, had an "Esquire" to the Clancy
And it simply read, "I'm busy; but I'll see what I can do!"
* * * * *
To the vision land I can go, and I often think of "Banjo",
Of the boy I used to shepherd in the not so long ago,
He was not the bushman's kidney, and among the crowds of Sydney
He'll be more at home than mooning on the dreary Overflow.
He has clients now to fee him, and has friends to come and see him,
He can ride from morn to evening in the padded hansom cars,
And he sees the beauties blending where the throngs are never ending,
And at night the wond'rous women in the everlasting bars.
* * * * *
I am tired of reading prattle of the sweetly-lowing cattle
Stringing out across the open with the bushmen riding free;
I am sick at heart of roving up and down the country droving,
And of alternating damper with the salt-junk and the tea.
And from sleeping in the water on the droving trips I've caught a
Lively dose of rheumatism in my back and in my knee,
And in spite of verse it's certain that the sky's a leaky curtain,
It may suit the "Banjo" nicely, but it never suited me.
And the bush is very pretty when you view it from the city,
But it loses all its beauty when you face it "on the pad;"
And the wildernesses haunt you, and the plains extended daunt you,
Till at times you come to fancy that the life will drive you mad.
But I somehow often fancy that I'd rather not be Clancy,
That I'd like to be the "Banjo" where the people come and go,
When instead of framing curses I'd be writing charming verses,
Tho' I scarcely think he'd swap me, "Banjo, the Overflow".
This Month the Almonds Bloom at Kandahar
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

I hate this City, seated on the Plain,
The clang and clamour of the hot Bazar,
Knowing, amid the pauses of my pain,
This month the Almonds bloom in Kandahar.
The Almond-trees, that sheltered my Delight,
Screening my happiness as evening fell.
It was well worth - that most Enchanted Night - 
This life in torment, and the next in Hell!
People are kind to me; one More than Kind,
Her lashes lie like fans upon her cheek,
But kindness is a burden on my mind,
And it is weariness to hear her speak.
For though that Kaffir's bullet holds me here,
My thoughts are ever free, and wander far,
To where the Lilac Hills rise, soft and clear,
Beyond the Almond Groves of Kandahar.
He followed me to Sibi, to the Fair,
The Horse-fair, where he shot me weeks ago,
But since they fettered him I have no care
That my returning steps to health are slow.
They will not loose him till they know my fate,
And I rest here till I am strong to slay,
Meantime, my Heart's Delight may safely wait
Among the Almond blossoms, sweet as they.
That cursed Kaffir! Well, he won by day,
But I won, what I so desired, by night,
My arms held what his lack till Judgment Day!
Also, the game is not yet over - quite!
Wait, Amir Ali, wait till I come forth
To kill, before the Almond-trees are green,
To raze thy very Memory from the North,
So that thou art not, and thou hast not been!
Aha! Friend Amir Ali! it is Duty
To rid the World from Shiah dogs like thee,
They are but ill-placed moles on Islam's beauty,
Such as the Faithful cannot calmly see!
Also thy bullet hurts me not a little,
Thy Shiah blood might serve to salve the ill.
Maybe some Afghan Promises are brittle;
Never a Promise to oneself, to kill!
Now I grow stronger, I have days of leisure
To shape my coming Vengeance as I lie,
And, undisturbed by call of War or Pleasure,
Can dream of many ways a man may die.
I shall not torture thee, thy friends might rally,
Some Fate assist thee and prove false to me;
Oh! shouldst thou now escape me, Amir Ali,
This would torment me through Eternity!
Aye, Shuffa-Jan, I will be quiet indeed,
Give here the Hakim's powder if thou wilt,
And thou mayst sit, for I perceive thy need,
And rest thy soft-haired head upon my quilt.
Thy gentle love will not disturb a mind
That loves and hates beneath a fiercer Star.
Also, thou know'st, my Heart is left behind,
Among the Almond-trees of Kandahar!
The Stone Fleet
by Herman Melville

An Old Sailor's Lament
December, 1861
I have a feeling for those ships,
Each worn and ancient one,
With great bluff bows, and broad in the beam:
Ay, it was unkindly done.
But so they serve the Obsolete--
Even so, Stone Fleet!
You'll say I'm doting; do you think
I scudded round the Horn in one--
The Tenedos, a glorious
Good old craft as ever run--
Sunk (how all unmeet!)
With the Old Stone Fleet.
An India ship of fame was she,
Spices and shawls and fans she bore;
A whaler when the wrinkles came--
Turned off! till, spent and poor,
Her bones were sold (escheat)!
Ah! Stone Fleet.
Four were erst patrician keels
(Names attest what families be),
The Kensington, and Richmond too,
Leonidas, and Lee:
But now they have their seat
With the Old Stone Fleet.
To scuttle them--a pirate deed--
Sack them, and dismast;
They sunk so slow, they died so hard,
But gurgling dropped at last.
Their ghosts in gales repeat
Woe's us, Stone Fleet!
And all for naught. The waters pass--
Currents will have their way;
Nature is nobody's ally; 'tis well;
The harbor is bettered--will stay.
A failure, and complete,
Was your Old Stone Fleet.
The Mother's Son
by Rudyard Kipling

I have a dream, a dreadful dream,
A dream that is never done.
I watch a man go out of his mind,
And he is My Mother's Son.
They pushed him into a Mental Home,
And that is like the grave:
For they do not let you sleep upstairs,
And you aren't allowed to shave.
And it was not disease or crime
Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother's Son
More than a man could bear.
What with noise, and fear of death,
Waking, and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother's Son
Fuller than it could hold.
They broke his body and his mind
And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother's Son
Than any man could give.
For, just because he had not died,
Nor been discharged nor sick,
They dragged it out with My Mother's Son
Longer than he could stick....
And no one knows when he'll get well,
So, there he'll have to be:
And, 'spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
I know that man is me!
Grit.
by Edwin C. Ranck

I hate the fellow who sits around
And knocks the livelong day--
Who tells of the work he might have done;
If things had come his way.
But I love the fellow who pushes ahead
And smiles at his work or play--
You can wager when things do come around,
They will come his way--and stay.
I Hae Laid A Herring In Saut
by James Tytler

I hae laid a herring in saut,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a calf that will soon be a cow,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a house upon yon moor,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
Three sparrows may dance upon the floor,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a but, and I hae a ben,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
A penny to keep, and a penny to spen',
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
That ilka day lays me an egg,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a cheese upon my skelf,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself,
And I canna come ilka day to woo.
Nursery Rhyme. DXLIV. Natural History.
by Unknown

I had two pigeons bright and gay,
They flew from me the other day;
What was the reason they did go?
I cannot tell for I do not know.
My Boy
by Morris Rosenfeld

I have a little boy at home,
A pretty little son;
I think sometimes the world is mine
In him, my only one.
But seldom, seldom do I see
My child in heaven's light;
I find him always fast asleep...
I see him but at night.
Ere dawn my labor drives me forth;
'Tis night when I am free;
A stranger am I to my child;
And strange my child to me.
I come in darkness to my home,
With weariness and--pay;
My pallid wife, she waits to tell
The things he learned to say.
How plain and prettily he asked:
"Dear mamma, when's 'Tonight'?
O when will come my dear papa
And bring a penny bright?"
I hear her words--I hasten out--
This moment must it be!--
The father-love flames in my breast:
My child must look at me!
I stand beside the tiny cot,
And look, and list, and--ah!
A dream-thought moves the baby-lips:
"O, where is my papa!"
I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes;
I kiss them not in vain.
They open,--O they see me then!
And straightway close again.
"Here's your papa, my precious one;--
A penny for you!"--ah!
A dream still moves the baby-lips:
"O, where is my papa!"
And I--I think in bitterness
And disappointment sore;
"Some day you will awake, my child,
To find me nevermore."
Ye Carpette Knyghte
by Lewis Carroll

I have a horse, a ryghte good horse,
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys, a horse of clothes.
I have a saddel, "Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?"
I sayde not that, I answere "Noe",
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.
I have a bytte, a ryghte good bytte,
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys, thys bytte of rhyme.
Shake, Mulleary And Go-Ethe
by Henry Cuyler Bunner

I
I have a bookcase, which is what
Many much better men have not.
There are no books inside, for books,
I am afraid, might spoil its looks.
But I've three busts, all second-hand,
Upon the top. You understand
I could not put them underneath - 
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
II
Shake was a dramatist of note;
He lived by writing things to quote,
He long ago put on his shroud:
Some of his works are rather loud.
His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose.
I know there's dust upon his nose.
I'll have to give each nose a sheath - 
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
III
Mulleary's line was quite the same;
He has more hair, but far less fame.
I would not from that fame retrench - 
But he is foreign, being French.
Yet high his haughty head he heaves,
The only one done up in leaves,
They're rather limited on wreath - 
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
IV
Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue:
He must have learned it very young.
His nose is quite a butt for scoff,
Although an inch of it is off.
He did quite nicely for the Dutch;
But here he doesn't count for much.
They all are off their native heath - 
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
V
They sit there, on their chests, as bland
As if they were not second-hand.
I do not know of what they think,
Nor why they never frown or wink,
But why from smiling they refrain
I think I clearly can explain:
They none of them could show much teeth - 
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
H. C. Bunner.
My Madonna
by Robert William Service

I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model's seat,
And I painted her sitting there.
I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.
She laughed at my picture, and went away.
Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say:
"'Tis Mary, the Mother of God."
So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her, and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hilaire,
Where you and all may see.
The Dream
by Lola Ridge

I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day....
(Air
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium...
domes
fired in sulphurous mist...
sea
quiescent as a gray seal...
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water - 
where shall I pour my dream?
A Dream Pang
by Robert Lee Frost

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
you shook your pensive head as who should say,
'I dare not, to far in his footsteps stray-
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'
Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.
My Antipathy.
by Friedrich Schiller

I have a heartfelt aversion for crime, a twofold aversion,
Since 'tis the reason why man prates about virtue so much.
"What! thou hatest, then, virtue?" I would that by all it were practised,
So that, God willing, no man ever need speak of it more.
Nursery Rhyme. CCI. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A star.]
I have a little sister, they call her peep, peep;
She wades the waters deep, deep, deep;
She climbs the mountains high, high, high;
Poor little creature she has but one eye.
Whistling Sam
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I has hyeahd o' people dancin' an' I 's hyeahd o' people singin'.
An' I 's been 'roun' lots of othahs dat could keep de banjo ringin';
But of all de whistlin' da'kies dat have lived an' died since Ham,
De whistlin'est I evah seed was ol' Ike Bates's Sam.
In de kitchen er de stable, in de fiel' er mowin' hay,
You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' pu'ty nigh a mile erway,--
Puck'rin' up his ugly features 'twell you could n't see his eyes,
Den you 'd hyeah a soun' lak dis un f'om dat awful puckah rise:
[Illustration: Musical score.]
When dey had revival meetin' an' de Lawd's good grace was flowin'
On de groun' dat needed wat'rin' whaih de seeds of good was growin',
While de othahs was a-singin' an' a-shoutin' right an' lef,
You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' kin' o' sof beneaf his bref:
[Illustration: Musical score.]
At de call fu' colo'ed soldiers, Sam enlisted 'mong de res'
Wid de blue o' Gawd's great ahmy wropped about his swellin' breas',
An' he laffed an' whistled loudah in his youfful joy an' glee
Dat de govament would let him he'p to mek his people free.
Daih was lots o' ties to bin' him, pappy, mammy, an' his Dinah,--
Dinah, min' you, was his sweet-hea't, an' dey was n't nary finah;
But he lef 'em all, I tell you, lak a king he ma'ched away,
Try'n' his level bes' to whistle, happy, solemn, choky, gay:
[Illustration: Musical score.]
To de front he went an' bravely fought de foe an' kep' his sperrit,
An' his comerds said his whistle made 'em strong when dey could hyeah it.
When a saber er a bullet cut some frien' o' his'n down,
An' de time 'u'd come to trench him an' de boys 'u'd gethah 'roun',
An' dey could n't sta't a hymn-tune, mebbe none o' dem 'u'd keer,
Sam 'u'd whistle "Sleep in Jesus," an' he knowed de Mastah 'd hyeah.
In de camp, all sad discouraged, he would cheer de hea'ts of all,
When above de soun' of labour dey could hyeah his whistle call:
[Illustration: Musical score.]
When de cruel wah was ovah an' de boys come ma'chin' back,
Dey was shouts an' cries an' blessin's all erlong dey happy track,
An' de da'kies all was happy; souls an' bodies bofe was freed.
Why, hit seemed lak de Redeemah mus' 'a' been on earf indeed.
Dey was gethahed all one evenin' jes' befo' de cabin do',
When dey hyeahd somebody whistlin' kin' o' sof' an' sweet an' low.
Dey could n't see de whistlah, but de hymn was cleah and ca'm,
An' dey all stood daih a-listenin' ontwell Dinah shouted, "Sam!"
An' dey seed a little da'ky way off yandah thoo de trees
Wid his face all in a puckah mekin' jes' sich soun's ez dese:
[Illustration: Musical score.]
I Have a Rendezvous with Death . . .
by Alan Seeger

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air - 
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath - 
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
Poverty
by Henry Lawson

I hate this grinding poverty,
To toil, and pinch, and borrow,
And be for ever haunted by
The spectre of to-morrow.
It breaks the strong heart of a man,
It crushes out his spirit,
Do what he will, do what he can,
However high his merit!
I hate the praise that Want has got
From preacher and from poet,
The cant of those who know it not
To blind the men who know it.
The greatest curse since man had birth,
An everlasting terror:
The cause of half the crime on earth,
The cause of half the error.
Naebody.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Naebody."
I.
I hae a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There, thanks to naebody;
I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.
II.
I am naebody's lord,
I'll be slave to naebody;
I hae a guid braid sword,
I'll tak dunts frae naebody.
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I'll care for naebody.
Grace Jennings Carmicheal
by Henry Lawson

I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,
The poet's corner, and the page,
For Grief and Death are written there,
In every land and every age.
The poets sing and play their parts,
Their daring cheers, their humour shines,
But, ah! my friends! their broken hearts
Have writ in blood between the lines.
They fought to build a Commonwealth,
They write for women and for men,
They give their youth, we give their health
And never prostitute the pen.
Their work in other tongues is read,
And when sad years wear out the pen,
Then they may seek their happy dead
Or go and starve in exile then.
A grudging meed of praise you give,
Or, your excuse, the ready lie, 
(O! God, you don't know how they live!
O! God, you don't know how they die!)
The poetess, whose gentle tone
Oft cheered your mothers' hearts when down;
A lonely woman, fought alone
The bitter fight in London town.
Your rich to lilac lands resort,
And old-world luxuries they buy;
You pour out gold to Cant and Sport
And give a million to a lie.
You give to cheats who rant and rave
With eyes that glare and arms that whirl,
But not a penny that might save
The children of the Gippsland girl.