DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lines To Ellen
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tell me, maiden, dost thou use
Thyself thro' Nature to diffuse?
All the angles of the coast
Were tenanted by thy sweet ghost,
Bore thy colors every flower,
Thine each leaf and berry bore;
All wore thy badges and thy favors
In their scent or in their savors,
Every moth with painted wing,
Every bird in carolling,
The wood-boughs with thy manners waved,
The rocks uphold thy name engraved,
The sod throbbed friendly to my feet,
And the sweet air with thee was sweet.
The saffron cloud that floated warm
Studied thy motion, took thy form,
And in his airy road benign
Recalled thy skill in bold design,
Or seemed to use his privilege
To gaze o'er the horizon's edge,
To search where now thy beauty glowed,
Or made what other purlieus proud.
To His Worthy Friend, M. John Hall, Student Of Gray's Inn.
by Robert Herrick

Tell me, young man, or did the Muses bring
Thee less to taste than to drink up their spring,
That none hereafter should be thought, or be
A poet, or a poet-like but thee?
What was thy birth, thy star that makes thee known,
At twice ten years, a prime and public one?
Tell us thy nation, kindred, or the whence
Thou had'st and hast thy mighty influence,
That makes thee lov'd, and of the men desir'd,
And no less prais'd than of the maids admired.
Put on thy laurel then; and in that trim
Be thou Apollo or the type of him:
Or let the unshorn god lend thee his lyre,
And next to him be master of the choir.
Love's Caution
by William Henry Davies

Tell them, when you are home again,
How warm the air was now;
How silent were the birds and leaves,
And of the moon's full glow;
And how we saw afar
A falling star:
It was a tear of pure delight
Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night.
Our kisses are but love in flower,
Until that greater time
When, gathering strength, those flowers take wing,
And Love can reach his prime.
And now, my heart's delight,
Good night, good night;
Give me the last sweet kiss, 
But do not breathe at home one word of this!
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XI.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
For this little waxen toy,
Image of the Paphian boy?"
Thus I said, the other day,
To a youth who past my way:
"Sir," (he answered, and the while
Answered all in Doric style,)
"Take it, for a trifle take it;
'Twas not I who dared to make it;
No, believe me, 'twas not I;
Oh, it has cost me many a sigh,
And I can no longer keep
Little Gods, who murder sleep!"
"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)
"Here is silver for the boy:
He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!"
Now, young Love, I have thee mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine;
Make me feel as I have felt,
Or thy waxen frame shall melt:
I must burn with warm desire,
Or thou, my boy--in yonder fire.[2]
A Flower Garden - At Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire.
by William Wordsworth

Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,
While fluttering o'er this gay Recess,
Pinions that fanned the teeming mould
Of Eden's blissful wilderness,
Did only softly-stealing hours
There close the peaceful lives of flowers?
Say, when the 'moving' creatures saw
All kinds commingled without fear,
Prevailed a like indulgent law
For the still growths that prosper here?
Did wanton fawn and kid forbear
The half-blown rose, the lily spare?
Or peeped they often from their beds
And prematurely disappeared,
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads
A bosom to the sun endeared?
If such their harsh untimely doom,
It falls not 'here' on bud or bloom.
All summer long the happy Eve
Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind,
Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,
From the next glance she casts, to find
That love for little things by Fate
Is rendered vain as love for great.
Yet, where the guardian fence is wound,
So subtly are our eyes beguiled
We see not nor suspect a bound,
No more than in some forest wild;
The sight is free as air or crost
Only by art in nature lost.
And, though the jealous turf refuse
By random footsteps to be prest,
And feed on never-sullied dews,
'Ye', gentle breezes from the west,
With all the ministers of hope
Are tempted to this sunny slope!
And hither throngs of birds resort;
Some, inmates lodged in shady nests,
Some, perched on stems of stately port
That nod to welcome transient guests;
While hare and leveret, seen at play,
'Appear' not more shut out than they.
Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)
This delicate Enclosure shows
Of modest kindness, that would hide
The firm protection she bestows;
Of manners, like its viewless fence,
Ensuring peace to innocence.
Thus spake the moral Muse her wing
Abruptly spreading to depart,
She left that farewell offering,
Memento for some docile heart;
That may respect the good old age
When Fancy was Truth's willing Page;
And Truth would skim the flowery glade,
Though entering but as Fancy's Shade.
Knee Deep in June
by James Whitcomb Riley

1
Tell you what I like the best -
'Long about knee-deep in June,
'Bout the time strawberries melts
On the vine, some afternoon
Like to jes' git out and rest,
And not work at nothin' else!
2
Orchard's where I'd ruther be -
Needn't fence it in fer me!
Jes' the whole sky overhead,
And the whole airth underneath -
Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
Like he ort, and kindo' has
Elbow-room to keerlessly
Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
Where the shadders thick and soft
As the kivvers on the bed
Mother fixes in the loft
Allus, when they's company!
3
Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there -
S'lazy, 'at you peeks and peer
Through the wavin' leaves above,
Like a feller 'ats in love
And don't know it, ner don't keer!
Ever'thing you hear and see
Got some sort o' interest -
Maybe find a bluebird's nest
Tucked up there conveenently
Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be
Up some other apple-tree!
Watch the swallers skootin' past
'Bout as peert as you could ast;
Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
Where some other's whistle is.
4
Ketch a shadder down below,
And look up to find the crow -
Er a hawk, away up there
'Pearantly froze in the air!
Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
Over ever' chick she's got,
Suddent-like! And she knows where
That-air hawk is, well as you!
You jes' bet yer life she do!
Eyes a-glittern' like glass,
Waitin' till he makes a pass!
5
Pee-wees' singin', to express
My opinion, 's second class,
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
In them base-ball clothes o' his,
Sportin' round the orchard jes'
Life he owned the premises!
Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
But flat on yer back, I guess,
In the shade's where glory is!
That's jes' what I'd like to do
Stiddy fer a year er two!
6
Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'
My convictions! 'Long about
Here in June especially!
Under some old apple-tree,
Jes' a-restin' through and through,
I could git along without
Nothin' else at all to do
Only jes' a-wishin' you
Wuz a-gittin' there like me,
And June was eternity!
7
Lay out there and try to see
Jes' how lazy you kin be!
Tumble round and souse yer head
In the clover-bloom, er pull
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes
And peek through it at the skies,
Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
Maybe, smilin' back at you
In betwixt the 'beautiful
Clouds o' gold and white and blue!
Month a man kin railly love
June, you know, I'm talkin' of!
8
March ain't never nothin' new!
Aprile's altogether too
Brash fer me! And May - I jes'
'Bominate its promises,
Little hints o' sunshine and
Green around the timber-land -
A few blossoms, and a few
Chip-birds, and a sprout er two,
Drap asleep, and it turns in
'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!
But when June comes - Clear my th'oat
With wild honey! Rench my hair
In the dew! And hold my coat!
Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat!
June wants me, and I'm to spare!
Spread them shadders anywhere,
I'll git down and waller there,
And obleeged to you at that!
Ghosts in Love
by Vachel Lindsay

"Tell me, where do ghosts in love
Find their bridal veils?"
"If you and I were ghosts in love
We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery,
Above the sea of Wails.
I'd trim your gray and streaming hair
With veils of Fantasy
From the tree of Memory.
'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love
Find their bridal veils."
Temptations.
by Robert Herrick

Temptations hurt not, though they have access:
Satan o'ercomes none, but by willingness.
The Terrace At Berne
by Matthew Arnold

Ten years! and to my waking eye
Once more the roofs of Berne appear;
The rocky banks, the terrace high,
The stream, and do I linger here?
The clouds are on the Oberland,
The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar,
And from the blue twin lakes it comes,
Flows by the town, the church-yard fair,
And 'neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house and is my Marguerite there?
Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,
And clap thy hands, and cry: 'Tis thou!
Or hast thou long since wander'd back,
Daughter of France! to France, thy home;
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?
Doth riotous laughter now replace
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,
Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace
The kerchief that enwound thy hair?
Or is it over? art thou dead?
Dead? and no warning shiver ran
Across my heart, to say thy thread
Of life was cut, and closed thy span!
Could from earth's ways that figure slight
Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight
Fail from earth's air, and I not know?
Or shall I find thee still, but changed,
But not the Marguerite of thy prime?
With all thy being re-arranged,
Pass'd through the crucible of time;
With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned,
And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture, anything retain'd
Of all that was my Marguerite's own?
I will not know! for wherefore try
To things by mortal course that live
A shadowy durability
For which they were not meant, to give?
Like driftwood spars which meet and pass
Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.
I knew it when my life was young,
I feel it still, now youth is o'er!
The mists are on the mountains hung,
And Marguerite I shall see no more.
Matinal Musings.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Ten o'clock! Well, I'm sure I can't help it!
I'm up go away from the door!
Now, children, I'll speak to your mother
If you pound there like that any more.
How tired I do feel? Where's that cushion? 
I don't want to move from this chair;
I wish Marie'd make her appearance!
I really can't do my own hair.
I wish I'd not danced quite so often 
I knew I'd feel tired! but it's hard
To refuse a magnificent dancer
If you have a place left on your card.
I was silly to wear that green satin,
It's a shame that I've spotted it so 
All down the front breadth it's just ruined 
No trimming will hide that, I know.
That's me! Have a costume imported,
And spoil it the very first night! 
I might make an overskirt of it,
That shade looks so lovely with white.
How horrid my eyes look! Good gracious!
I hope that I didn't catch cold
Sitting out on the stairs with Will Stacy;
If Ma knew that, wouldn't she scold!
She says he's so fast well, who isn't? 
Dear! where is Marie? how it rains! 
I don't care; he's real nice and handsome.
And his talk sounds as if he'd some brains.
I do wonder what is the reason,
That good men are all like Joe Price,
So poky, and stiff, and conceited,
And fast ones are always so nice. 
Just see how Joe acted last evening!
He didn't come near me at all,
Because I danced twice with Will Stacy
That night at the Charity ball.
I didn't care two pins to do it;
But Joe said I mustn't, and so 
I just did he isn't my master,
Nor sha'n't be, I'd like him to know.
I don't think he looked at me even,
Though just to please him I wore green, 
And I'd saved him three elegant dances, 
I wouldn't have acted so mean.
The way he went on with Nell Hadley;
Dear me! just as if I would care!
I'd like to see those two get married,
They'd make a congenial pair!
I'm getting disgusted with parties; 
I think I shall stop going out;
What's the use of this fussing for people
I don't care the least bit about.
I did think that Joe had some sense once;
But, my, he's just like all the men!
And the way that I've gone on about him, 
Just see if I do it again!
Only wait till the next time I see him,
I'll pay him back; wont I be cool!
I've a good mind to drop him completely 
I'll yes I will go back to school.
The bell! who can that be, I wonder! 
Let's see I declare! why, it's Joe! 
How long they are keeping him waiting!
Good gracious! why don't the girl go! 
Yes say I'll be down in a minute 
Quick, Marie, and do up my hair! 
Not that bow the green one Joe likes it 
How slow you are! I'll pin it there!
Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 ' II - Tenderly Do We Feel By Nature's Law
by William Wordsworth

Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law
For worst offenders: though the heart will heave
With indignation, deeply moved we grieve,
In after thought, for Him who stood in awe
Neither of God nor man, and only saw,
Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned
On proud temptations, till the victim groaned
Under the steel his hand had dared to draw.
But oh, restrain compassion, if its course,
As oft befalls, prevent or turn aside
Judgments and aims and acts whose higher source
Is sympathy with the unforewarned, who died
Blameless, with them that shuddered o'er his grave,
And all who from the law firm safety crave.
The End
by Arthur Conan Doyle

"Tell me what to get and I will get it."
"Then get that picture that the girl in white."
"Now tell me where you wish that I should set it."
"Lean it where I can see it in the light."
"If there is more, sir, you have but to say it."
"Then bring those letters those which lie apart."
"Here is the packet! Tell me where to lay it."
"Stoop over, nurse, and lay it on my heart."
"Thanks for your silence, nurse! You understand me!
And now I'll try to manage for myself.
But, as you go, I'll trouble you to hand me
The small blue bottle there upon the shelf.
"And so farewell! I feel that I am keeping
The sunlight from you; may your walk be bright!
When you return I may perchance be sleeping,
So, ere you go, one hand-clasp and good night!"
The World's Wanderers.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
2.
Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray
Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now?
3.
Weary Wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?
From Eclogue ix
by Michael Drayton

Motto.    Tell me thou skilfull shepheards swayne,
Who's yonder in the vally set?
Perkin. O it is she whose sweets do stayne,
The Lilly, Rose, or violet.
Motto.    Why doth the Sunne against his kind,
Stay his bright Chariot in the skies,
Perkin. He pawseth almost stroken blind,
With gazing on her heauenly eies:
Motto.    Why doe thy flocks forbeare their foode,
Which somtyme was their chiefe delight,
Perkin. Because they neede no other good,
That liue in presence of her sight:
Motto.    How com those flowers to florish still,
Not withering with sharpe winters breath?
Perkin. She hath robd nature of her skill,
And comforts all things with her breath:
Motto.    Why slide these brookes so slow away,
As swift as the wild Roe that were,
Perkin. O muse not shepheard that they stay,
When they her heauenly voice do heare.
Motto.    From whence com all these goodly swayns
And lonely nimphs attir'd in greene,
Perkin. From gathering garlands on the playnes,
To crowne thy Siluia shepheards queen.
Motto.    The sun that lights this world below,
Flocks, Brooks and flowers, can witnesse bear,
Perkin. These shepheards, and these nymphs do know,
Thy Syluia is as chast, as fayre.
April.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Tell me, eyes, what 'tis ye're seeking;
For ye're saying something sweet,
Fit the ravish'd ear to greet,
Eloquently, softly speaking.
Yet I see now why ye're roving;
For behind those eyes so bright,
To itself abandon'd quite,
Lies a bosom, truthful, loving, 
One that it must fill with pleasure
'Mongst so many, dull and blind,
One true look at length to find,
That its worth can rightly treasure.
Whilst I'm lost in studying ever
To explain these cyphers duly, 
To unravel my looks truly
In return be your endeavour!
The Dreamer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Temples he built and palaces of air,
And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow,
His fancy saw his vague ideals grow
Into creations marvellously fair;
He set his foot upon Fame's nether stair.
But ah, his dream,--it had entranced him so
He could not move. He could no farther go;
But paused in joy that he was even there!
He did not wake until one day there gleamed
Thro' his dark consciousness a light that racked
His being till he rose, alert to act.
But lo! what he had dreamed, the while he dreamed,
Another, wedding action unto thought,
Into the living, pulsing world had brought.
A Psalm Of Life. What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real!    Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
To His Muse; Another To The Same.
by Robert Herrick

Tell that brave man, fain thou would'st have access
To kiss his hands, but that for fearfulness;
Or else because th'art like a modest bride,
Ready to blush to death, should he but chide.
Widowed Love.[1]
by Thomas Gent

Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light,
Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest,
So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright--
Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd!
Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again
The long lost object of my only love!
--This hope but mine, death were release from pain;
Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above!
The Hillside Grave
by Madison Julius Cawein

Ten-hundred deep the drifted daisies break
Here at the hill's foot; on its top, the wheat
Hangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat,
The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake.
And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake,
And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweet
The shaded hush, low in the honeyed heat,
The wild-bees hum; as if afraid to wake
One sleeping there; with no white stone to tell
The story of existence; but the stem
Of one wild-rose, towering o'er brier and weed,
Where all the day the wild-birds requiem;
Within whose shade the timid violets spell
An epitaph, only the stars can read.
Upon Julia's Hair Bundled Up In A Golden Net.
by Robert Herrick

Tell me, what needs those rich deceits,
These golden toils, and trammel nets,
To take thine hairs when they are known
Already tame, and all thine own?
'Tis I am wild, and more than hairs
Deserve these meshes and those snares.
Set free thy tresses, let them flow
As airs do breathe or winds do blow:
And let such curious net-works be
Less set for them than spread for me.
Hymn to Contrition.
by William Hayley

Tenderest Herald of the sky,
Nature's safeguard from perdition,
Friend of sweet, tho' tearful eye,
Call'd by angels meek Contrition--
Bid me with a due concern
Sigh for recollected error,
And to purer conduct turn,
Full of hope, and free from terror!
All, who have thy succour tried.
Near to Heaven's expanding portal,
Blessing Thee, their chosen guide,
Joy, in ceasing to be mortal.
Hand-maid of the Saviour's throne,
Sent by Him to check depression,
Make my chasten'd soul thy own,
Guarding it from all transgression.
Day That I Have Loved
by Rupert Brooke

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,
And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.
The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.
I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,
Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making
Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned.
There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking;
And over the unmoving sea, without a sound,
Faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight,
Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming
And marble sand. . . .
Beyond the shifting cold twilight,
Further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming,
There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands! But the drear
Waste darkening, and, at length, flame ultimate on the deep.
Oh, the last fire, and you, unkissed, unfriended there!
Oh, the lone way's red ending, and we not there to weep!
(We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers,
Lovely and secret as a child. You came with us,
Came happily, hand in hand with the young dancing hours,
High on the downs at dawn!) Void now and tenebrous,
The grey sands curve before me. . . .
From the inland meadows,
Fragrant of June and clover, floats the dark, and fills
The hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows,
And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.
Close in the nest is folded every weary wing,
Hushed all the joyful voices; and we, who held you dear,
Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering . . .
Day that I loved, day that I loved, the Night is here!
The Nameless Grave.
by Susanna Moodie

WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.
"Tell me, thou grassy mound,
What dost thou cover?
In thy folds hast thou bound
Soldier or lover?
Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping
Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--
"The sun's westward ray
A dark shadow has thrown
On this dwelling of clay,
And the shade is thine own!
From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow--
Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"
Upon Julia's Unlacing Herself
by Robert Herrick

Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum,
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells
Sweet as the Vestry of the Oracles.
I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice but a breathing space,
The passive air such odour then assumed
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfumed,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.
Nursery Rhyme. CXCI. Riddles.
by Unknown

Ten and ten and twice eleven,
Take out six and put in seven;
Go to the green and fetch eighteen,
And drop one a coming.
Magrady Graham
by Edgar Lee Masters

Tell me, was Altgeld elected Governor?
For when the returns began to come in
And Cleveland was sweeping the East
It was too much for you, poor old heart,
Who had striven for democracy
In the long, long years of defeat.
And like a watch that is worn
I felt you growing slower until you stopped.
Tell me, was Altgeld elected,
And what did he do?
Did they bring his head on a platter to a dancer,
Or did he triumph for the people?
For when I saw him
And took his hand,
The child-like blueness of his eyes
Moved me to tears,
And there was an air of eternity about him,
Like the cold, clear light that rests at dawn
On the hills!
Tell The Dear Old Body
by Louisa May Alcott

'Tell the dear old body
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.'"