DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Bookseller
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

My dear Sir, -
"There lies a vale in Ida
Lovelier
Than all the valleys
Of Ionian hills."
I take it
That this is a geographical fact.
Anyway it is Tennyson,
And I quote it
In order that you may perceive
That I have some acquaintance
With the higher walks of Literature,
And am therefore a man
Of entirely different build from yourself.
I was born a poet,
And have stuck to my trade
Unto this last.
Possibly you were born a bookseller.
I am willing to give your credit for it,
But I doubt it all the same,
For I often think the average bookseller
Must have been born a draper.
The other day I had occasion to do a little book-buying.
It was my first essay
In what I now believe to be
An altogether elegant and delightful form
Of intellectual recreation.
Of course, I went into a shop:
From the yawning Cimmerianity at the back of that shop
There came unto me swiftly and in large boots
A fat youth.
He bowed, and he bowed, and he bowed.
"I want a good edition of Shelley," I said.
And he replied straightway
"Ninepenceshillingnetoneandsixpencenethalfacrownnettwoandeightpencethreeandninepencefiveshillingsnethalfaguineaandkindlystepthisway."
I said, "Thank you,
But I want Shelley,
Not egg-whisks."
Whereat he smiled and banged under my nose
A heavy volume,
Bound like a cheap purse,
And murmured, "There you are,
The best line in the market,
Two-and-eight."
And because I opened it,
And looked disconsolately at the stodgy running-titles
And the entrancing red-line border,
He cast upon me eyes of contempt and disgust,
And told me that I could not expect
Kelmscott Press and tree-calf
At the money.
In fact, that fat youth
Annoyed me.
He
Was
A bookseller.
Ah, my dear Sir,
When I reflect that whatever I may write,
No matter how excellent it may be,
Must ultimately pass into the hands
Of that fat youth
And become to him
Something
At ninepenceashillingneteighteenpencetwoandsixnetthreeandninefiveshillingsnetorhalfaguineaandkindlystepthisway
The spirit of my fathers quails within me,
I know that authorship
Is a trade for fools.
Go to!
Ninepence me no ninepences,
Two-and-sixpence me no nets,
Bring yourself at once
To your logical conclusion,
And next time I call upon you
For Shelley,
Sell him to me,
As you appear to sell "Temporal Power."
By the pound
Avoirdupois.
Dolphin
by Robert Lowell

My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Ph'dre.
When I was troubled in mind, you made for my body
caught in its hangman's-knot of sinking lines,
the glassy bowing and scraping of my will....
I have sat and listened to too many
words of the collaborating muse,
and plotted perhaps too freely with my life,
not avoiding injury to others,
not avoiding injury to myself
to ask compassion... this book, half fiction,
an eelnet made by man for the eel fighting
my eyes have seen what my hand did.
In The Firelight.
by John Milton Hay

My dear wife sits beside the fire
With folded hands and dreaming eyes,
Watching the restless flames aspire,
And rapt in thralling memories.
I mark the fitful firelight fling
Its warm caresses on her brow,
And kiss her hands' unmelting snow,
And glisten on her wedding-ring.
The proud free head that crowns so well
The neck superb, whose outlines glide
Into the bosom's perfect swell
Soft-billowed by its peaceful tide,
The cheek's faint flush, the lip's red glow,
The gracious charm her beauty wears,
Fill my fond eyes with tender tears
As in the days of long ago.
Days long ago, when in her eyes
The only heaven I cared for lay,
When from our thoughtless Paradise
All care and toil dwelt far away;
When Hope in wayward fancies throve,
And rioted in secret sweets,
Beguiled by Passion's dear deceits, -
The mysteries of maiden love.
One year had passed since first my sight
Was gladdened by her girlish charms,
When on a rapturous summer night
I clasped her in possessing arms.
And now ten years have rolled away,
And left such blessings as their dower;
I owe her tenfold at this hour
The love that lit our wedding-day.
For now, vague-hovering o'er her form,
My fancy sees, by love refined,
A warmer and a dearer charm
By wedlock's mystic hands entwined, -
A golden coil of wifely cares
That years have forged, the loving joy
That guards the curly-headed boy
Asleep an hour ago upstairs.
A fair young mother, pure as fair,
A matron heart and virgin soul!
The flickering light that crowns her hair
Seems like a saintly aureole.
A tender sense upon me falls
That joy unmerited is mine,
And in this pleasant twilight shine
My perfect bliss myself appals.
Come back! my darling, strayed so far
Into the realm of fantasy, -
Let thy dear face shine like a star
In love-light beaming over me.
My melting soul is jealous, sweet,
Of thy long silence' drear eclipse;
O kiss me back with living lips,
To life, love, lying at thy feet!
From The Arabic: An Imitation.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight
Bore thee far from me;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
Did companion thee.
2.
Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed
Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.
A Farewell:  To C. E. G.
by Charles Kingsley

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,
For every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel
Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,
One grand sweet song.
February 1, 1856.
The Spoilsport
by Robert von Ranke Graves

My familiar ghost again
Comes to see what he can see,
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,
Spying on our privacy.
Slam the window, bolt the door,
Yet he'll enter in and stay;
In tomorrow's book he'll score
Indiscretions of today.
Whispered love and muttered fears,
How their echoes fly about!
None escape his watchful ears,
Every sigh might be a shout.
No kind words nor angry cries
Turn away this grim spoilsport;
No fine lady's pleading eyes,
Neither love, nor hate, nor ... port.
Critics wears no smile of fun,
Speaks no word of blame nor praise,
Counts our kisses one by one,
Notes each gesture, every phrase.
My familiar ghost again
Stands or squats where suits him best;
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,
Listens, watches, takes no rest.
To The Man With A Gun
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

My dear Sir, -
I suppose you are having an excellent time just now.
There are a large number of counties
In England and Scotland,
And I am not acquainted with one of them
Wherein your bang-bang
And puffs of smoke
And red-faced men with dogs
Are not to be encountered.
You like it;
It is very nice;
And really, when you come to think of it,
It is what the counties were made for.
In the history books
They were wont to say
Of a certain Norman monarch,
That he loved the red deer
As if he were their brother.
Of you it may safely be said
That you love the red grouse
And the brown partridge.
As if you were a poulterer.
You are a sportsman.
The man who first went out with a gun
To shoot game
Probably did it on the sly.
Had he been caught
He would no doubt have been regarded
By the sportsmen of his day
With the same contempt
That you yourself indulge
For the unprincipled blackguard, Sir,
Who shoots foxes.
But time and the gunsmiths
Have changed all that;
And now you are a sportsman,
A shooter of birds
For the London market.
You are also a gunner,
And you kill things.
Oh! why do you not go
And live at Gunners-bury?
Bad joke?
Well, I know it is.
But I assure you, my dear Sir,
That it is not half so bad as I can make them
When I try.
To come now to the region
Of practical politics,
Let me explain to you right off
That, despite all that has been said against you
By people who are mad about the Land
And the Game-laws,
And the feathered kingdom
And so forth,
I,
Who am always on the side of wisdom,
Have discovered a justification for you.
It is this:
There has been a great demand of late
For really competent shots.
In response to that demand
Mr. Kipling has started a village rifle club.
I understand that the members thereof
Are, let us say, five hundred in number.
Now, I put it to you, Sir,
How many sportsmen are there
Shooting in this beautiful country and Scotland
To-day?
Well, we will not compute;
It is dangerous.
But you could make a fairly big rifle club out of them.
They are all good men,
And of course all beautiful shots.
Some day
(When the war is over)
England may want them.
Will they answer to the call?
My dear Sir,
You have your uses.
Go in peace.
My Dove, My Beautiful One
by James Joyce

My dove, my beautiful one,
Arise, arise!
The night-dew lies
Upon my lips and eyes.
The odorous winds are weaving
A music of sighs:
Arise, arise,
My dove, my beautiful one!
I wait by the cedar tree,
My sister, my love,
White breast of the dove,
My breast shall be your bed.
The pale dew lies
Like a veil on my head.
My fair one, my fair dove,
Arise, arise!
The Bath
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

My dreams are bubbles of cool light,
Sunbeams mingled in the light green
Waters of your bath.
Through fretted spaces in the olive wood
My love adventures with the white sun.
I dive into the ice-coloured shadows
Where the water is like light blue flowers
Dancing on mirrors of silver.
The sun rolls under the waters of your bath
Like the body of a strong swimmer.
And now you cool your feet,
Which have the look of apple flowers,
Under the water on the oval marble
Coloured like yellow roses.
Your scarlet nipples
Waver under the green kisses of the water,
Flowers drowned in a mountain stream.
From the Modern Turkish.
Song
by Richard Le Gallienne

My eye upon your eyes - 
So was I born,
One far-off day in Paradise,
A summer morn;
I had not lived till then,
But, wildered, went,
Like other wandering men,
Nor what Life meant
Knew I till then.
My hand within your hand - 
So would I live,
Nor would I ask to understand
Why God did give
Your loveliness to me,
But I would pray
Worthier of it to be,
By night and day,
Unworthy me!
My heart upon your heart - 
So would I die,
I cannot think that God will part
Us, you and I;
The work he did undo,
That summer morn;
I lived, and would die too,
Where I was born,
Beloved, in you.
My Faith
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

My faith is rooted in no written creed;
And there are those who call me heretic;
Yet year on year, though I be well or sick
Or opulent, or in the slough of need,
If, light of foot, fair Life trips by me pleasuring,
Or, by the rule of pain, old Time stands measuring
The dull, drab moments - still ascends my cry:
'God reigns on high!
He doeth all things well!'
Not much I prize, or one, or any brand
Of theologic lore; nor think too well
Of generally accepted heaven and hell.
But faith and knowledge build at Love's command
A beauteous heaven; a heaven of thought all clarified
Of hate and fear and doubt; a heaven of rarefied
And perfect trust; and from the heaven I cry:
'God reigns on high!
Whatever is, is best.'
My faith refuses to accept the 'fall'!
It sees man ever as a child of God,
Growing in wisdom as new realms are trod,
Until the Christ in him is One with All.
From this full consciousness my faith is borrowing
Light to illuminate Life's darkest sorrowing,
Whatever woes assail me still I cry:
'God reigns on high!
He doeth all things well.'
My faith finds prayer the language of the heart,
Which gives us converse with the host unseen;
And those who linger in the vales between
The Here and Yonder, in these prayers take part.
My dead come near, and say:    'Death means not perishing;
Cherish us in your thoughts, for by that cherishing
Shall severed links be welded by and by.'
'God reigns on high!
Whatever is, is best.'
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio.
HE AWAKES TO A CONVICTION OF THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATH.
My faithful mirror oft to me has told--
My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skin
My failing powers to prove it all begin--
"Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old."
Man is in all by Nature best controll'd,
And if with her we struggle, time creeps in;
At the sad truth, on fire as waters win,
A long and heavy sleep is off me roll'd;
And I see clearly our vain life depart,
That more than once our being cannot be:
Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart.
Who now from her fair earthly frame is free:
She walk'd the world so peerless and alone,
Its fame and lustre all with her are flown.
MACGREGOR.
The mirror'd friend--my changing form hath read.
My every power's incipient decay--
My wearied soul--alike, in warning say
"Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled."
'Tis ever best to be by Nature led,
We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey;
At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay,
The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed.
I wake to feel how soon existence flies:
Once known, 'tis gone, and never to return.
Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling tone
Of her, who now her beauteous shrine defies:
But she, who here to rival, none could learn,
Hath robb'd her sex, and with its fame hath flown.
WOLLASTON.
The Shrine. To .......
by Thomas Moore

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turned, and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,
I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!
To The Motorist
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

My dear Sir, -
When men have nightmares, they dream about you.
I myself have been chased over the tops of pinnacles
By flaming-eyed Panhards and Durkopps
In my sleep.
Nor is this all,
For if one brings oneself
To read reports of the proceedings of police courts
One finds that the average citizen
Gets more or less chased by you sir,
In his waking moments.
The Police I know, sir, seldom speak the truth:
They remember so well the day
When a horseless carriage had to be taken through the street
At the speed of a funeral march,
And with a red flag in front of it,
That the spectacle of an affable motorist
Bowling through a Surrey village
To the tune of six miles an hour
Shocks ther imagination,
And they believe for the rest of their natural lives
That the affable motorist aforesaid
Must have been travelling
At the rate of anything from 60 to 600 miles per minute.
Hence, my dear motorist,
It comes to pass that you are afforded so many opportunities
For airing your eloquence and the fatness of your purse
Before the police magistrates.
In my opinion it seems just possible
That the real trouble lies in the fact
That you, my dear sir, do actually
Go through villages at a very low speed,
And that really the best thing you can do
Would be to make a point of going through them
At the highest speed consistent
With the safety of your own person.
For if you did this,
No policeman of my acquaintance would be able to catch you,
Hence you would never be fined.
I have been out of sympathy with motor cars
Right up to the other night.
The other night I had the felicity to take a small trip on one.
The motorist would fain have driven me to my house,
Which is half an hour's cab drive from Charing Cross.
He offered to do the distance in ten minutes
And started stirring up his petroleum,
But I said "No.    Let us go to the Marble Arch."
We went through the Mall, to Hyde Park Corner,
to South Kensington, to Paddington,
Into the Edgware Road, and so to the Marble Arch;
Time, at the outside, 15 min.
I am willing to admit
That we went down certain streets quite rapidly,
What time the policemen at odd corners stared stupidly,
And fumbled for their note-books.
But, as a result of that trip, my dear sir,
I have become an enthusiastic motorist.
I am convinced that speed and wind and the smell of petroleum mixed
Is the only thing which can be considered worth living for.
And if you happen to know anybody
Who would be willing to take
A typewriter and a pair of skates (not much worn)
In exchange for a Durkopp racer,
Kindly communicate with me.
Waiting For Death.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Di morte certo.
My death must come; but when, I do not know:
Life's short, and little life remains for me:
Fain would my flesh abide; my soul would flee
Heavenward, for still she calls on me to go.
Blind is the world; and evil here below
O'erwhelms and triumphs over honesty:
The light is quenched; quenched too is bravery:
Lies reign, and truth hath ceased her face to show.
When will that day dawn, Lord, for which he waits
Who trusts in Thee? Lo, this prolonged delay
Destroys all hope and robs the soul of life.
Why streams the light from those celestial gates,
If death prevent the day of grace, and stay
Our souls for ever in the toils of strife?
To The Tripper
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

My dear Sir, or Madam, -
When James Watt,
Or some such person,
Had the luck
To see a kettle boil,
He little dreamed
That he was discovering you,
Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil
For a million million years
Without saying anything about it.
However,
James Watt
Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble,
And here you are.
And here, alas! you will stay,
Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares,
And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest.
"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran"
(Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth)
Your goings to and fro upon the earth,
And walkings up and down thereon,
Were limited by the day trip.
For half-a-crown
You went to Brighton,
Or to Buxton and Matlock,
Or Stratford-on-Avon,
As the case may be.
A special tap of ale
And a special cut of 'am
Were put on for your delectation;
You sang a mixture of hymns
And music-hall songs
On your homeward journey,
And there was an end of the matter.
But nowadays there is no escape from you.
The trip that was over and done
In twenty-four hours at most
Has become a matter
Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn,"
"Ten days in Lovely Lucerne,"
And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas."
Wherever one goes
On this wide globe
There shall one find
Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper;
The devastations,
Fence-breakings,
And flower-pot maraudings
Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats
Are now extended to the Rigi,
The Bridge of Sighs,
Mount Everest,
And the deserts of Gobi
And Shamo.
Indeed, I question whether it would be possible
For one to traverse
The trackless forests of Mexico
Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia,"
Or to put one's nose
Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie
(Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made
And which may not be properly spelled)
Without coming upon you
Picnicking in a spinny,
And prepared to greet all and sundry
With that time-honoured remark,
"There's 'air,"
Or some other
Equally objectionable ribaldry.
Well, my dear Tripper,
Time is short,
And poets fill their columns easily,
So that I must not abuse you any more.
You are part of the Cosmos,
And as such I am bound to respect you;
But, by Day and Night,
I wish
That James Watt
Had taken no notice
Of his boiling kettle!
Comic Miseries
by John Godfrey Saxe I

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks, - 
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes, - 
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain - 
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!
You're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse, - 
You think you've got him - when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!
You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!
By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While everybody marvels why
Your mirth is under ban, - 
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!
You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine),
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of
And why you don't begin!
You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose - 
solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
John G. Saxe.
Amour 4
by Michael Drayton

My faire, had I not erst adorned my Lute
With those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre,
Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute,
Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire.
Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,
Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,
My soule had ne'er felt thy Diuinitie,
Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.
But thy diuine perfections, by their skill,
This miracle on my poore Muse haue tried,
And, by inspiring, glorifide my quill,
And in my verse thy selfe art deified:
Thus from thy selfe the cause is thus deriued,
That by thy fame all fame shall be suruiued.
Sonnets: Idea LV
by Michael Drayton

My fair, if thou wilt register my love,
A world of volumes shall thereof arise;
Preserve my tears, and thou thyself shall prove
A second flood down raining from mine eyes;
Note but my sighs, and thine eyes shall behold
The sunbeams smothered with immortal smoke;
And if by thee my prayers may be enrolled,
They heaven and earth to pity shall provoke.
Look thou into my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vows for my soul's sacrifice,
That soul, sweet maid, which so hath honoured thee,
Erecting trophies to thy sacred eyes,
Those eyes to my heart shining ever bright,
When darkness hath obscured each other light.
A Wooing Song.
by Jean Ingelow

My fair lady's a dear, dear lady - 
I walked by her side to woo.
In a garden alley, so sweet and shady,
She answered, "I love not you,
John, John Brady,"
Quoth my dear lady,
"Pray now, pray now, go your way now,
Do, John, do!"
Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady,
For I passed another day;
While making her moan, she sat all alone,
And thus, and thus did she say:
"John, John Brady,"
Quoth my dear lady,
"Do now, do now, once more woo now.
Pray, John, pray!"