DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Ben Jonson
by Thomas Carew

'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand
To their swoll'n pride and empty scribbling due;
It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
Thy comic muse, from the exalted line
Touch'd by thy Alchemist, doth since decline
From that her zenith, and foretells a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall gild the following night.
Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may
Endure the sunny trial, if we say
This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd
With thy tun'd choir of swans? or else who dar'd
To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind
By city-custom, or by gavelkind,
In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
We may distinguish of their sex, and place;
Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike
Souls into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies then of this dull age
Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage
As seems to blast thy else-immortal bays,
When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise?
Such thirst will argue drouth. No, let be hurl'd
Upon thy works by the detracting world
What malice can suggest; let the rout say,
The running sands, that, ere thou make a play,
Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame
To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd name;
Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,
Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd
To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt
Into thy ink, whilst thou growest pale with guilt.
Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,
That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste
Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome
A knotty writer, bring the booty home;
Nor think it theft if the rich spoils so torn
From conquer'd authors be as trophies worn.
Let others glut on the extorted praise
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days;
Thy labour'd works shall live when time devours
Th' abortive offspring of their hasty hours.
Thou are not of their rank, the quarrel lies
Within thine own verge; then let this suffice,
The wiser world doth greater thee confess
Than all men else, than thyself only less.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XLVII.
by Thomas Moore

'Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew,
I'm called to wind the dance's clue,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]
Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhood's prime hath past away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrowed from my wine.
I'll wanton mid the dancing train,
And live my follies o'er again!
At The Hop
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'Tis time to dress.    Dost hear the music surging
Like sobbing waves that roll up from the sea?
Yes, yes, I hear -I yield -no need of urging;
I know your wishes, -send Lisette to me.
I hate the ballroom; hate its gilded pleasure;
I hate the crowd within it, well you know;
But what of that?    I am your lawful treasure -
And when you would display me I must go.
You bought me with a mother's pain and trouble.
I've been a great expense to you alway.
And now, if you can sell me, and get double
The sum I cost -why, what have I to say?
You've done your duty: kept me in the fashion,
And shown me off at every stylish place.
'Twas not your fault I had a heart of passion;
'Twas not your fault I ever saw his face.
The dream was brief, and beautiful, and tender,
(O God! to live those golden hours once more.
The silver moonlight, and his dark eyes' splendour,
The sky above us, and the sea before.)
Come, come, Lisette, bring out those royal laces;
To-night must make the victory complete.
Among the crowd of masked and smiling faces,
I'll move with laughter, and with smiles most sweet.
Make me most fair! with youth and grace and beauty,
I needs must conquer bloated age and gold.
She shall not say I have not done my duty;
I'm ready now -a daughter to be sold!
Poems.
by Thomas Gent

Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood,
When glowing Fancy, innocently gay,
Flings forth, like motes, her bright a'rial brood,
To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray;
'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years
May darkling roll in trials and in tears,
To dress the future in what garb we list,
And shape the thousand joys that never may exist.
But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train,
Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain,
Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings
To trust his weight upon poetic wings;
He, downward looking in his airy ride,
Beholds Elysium bloom on every side;
Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes,
And thus the dreamer with himself communes.
Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set,
That partial nature mark'd me for her pet;
That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire!
To mount his car, and set the world on fire.
Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win,
With a neat pocket volume I'll begin;
And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram,
Shall show mankind how versatile I am.
The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry:
The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh;
The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore
Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before:
Enough--I'll leave them in their soft hysterics,
Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics.
Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews,
And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse,
Assail me with Platonic billet-doux.
From this suburban attic I'll dismount,
With Coutts or Barclays open an account;
Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends,
Shall show the whole nobility my friends;
That happy host with whom I choose to dine,
Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine;
And age and infancy shall gape to see
The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!"
Poor youth! he print--and wakes, to sleep no more--
The world goes on, indifferent, as before;
And the first notice of his metric skill
Comes in the likeness of--his printer's bill;
To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs,
Except his laundress--and who values her's?
None but herself: for though the bard may burn
Her note, she still expects one in return.
The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh;
His pocket tome hath drawn his pockets dry.
His tragedy expires in peals of laughter;
And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter--
Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear,
And far more needful--how to live while here.
Where are ye now, divine illusions all;
Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small!
Changed to two followers, terrible to see,
Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!"
Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint,
Restrain your caco'ths fierce to print.
But hark, my printer's devil's at the door,
My leisure cannot yield one moment more:
Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain
Madman or poet from his bent:--'tis vain
To strive to point out colours to the blind,
Or set men seeking what they will not find.
The Sleepless Jesus
by George MacDonald

'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:
Why gaze thy bright eyes so?
At night our children, for new joy
Home to thy father go,
But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child;
The moon and stars are gone;
The wind is up and raving wild,
But thou art smiling on!
My child, thou hast immortal eyes
That see by their own light;
They see the children's blood--it lies
Red-glowing through the night!
Thou hast an ever-open ear
For sob or cry or moan:
Thou seemest not to see or hear,
Thou only smilest on!
When first thou camest to the earth,
All sounds of strife were still;
A silence lay about thy birth,
And thou didst sleep thy fill:
Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not?
Thy earth is woe-begone;
Both babes and mothers wail their lot,
But still thou smilest on!
I read thy face like holy book;
No hurt is pictured there;
Deep in thine eyes I see the look
Of one who answers prayer.
Beyond pale grief and wild uproars,
Thou seest God's will well done;
Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors,
Thou hear'st--and smilest on.
Men say: "I will arise and go;"
God says: "I will go meet:"
Thou seest them gather, weeping low,
About the Father's feet;
And each for each begin to bear,
And standing lonely none:
Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer!
Smile, Son of God, smile on.
The Voice Of The Lobster
by Lewis Carroll

"'Tis the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound."
"I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie:
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Old had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by [eating the owl.]
The Men Who Made Bad Matches
by Henry Lawson

'Tis the song of many husbands, and you all must understand
That you cannot call me coward now that women rule the land;
I have written much for women, where I thought that they were right,
But the men who made bad matches claim a song from me to-night.
Oh, the men who made bad matches are of every tribe and clime,
And, if Adam was the first man, then they date from Adam's time.
They shall live and they shall suffer, until married life is past,
And the last sad son of Adam stands alone, at peace at last.
Oh, the men who made bad matches, and the Great Misunderstood,
Are through all the world a mighty and a silent brotherhood.
If a wife is discontented, every other woman knows,
But the men who made bad matches keep the cruel secret close.
You may say that you can tell them, by their clothing, if you will,
But a man may seem neglected, and his home be happy still.
You may tell by their assumption of conventional disguise,
But, the men who made bad matches, I can tell them by their eyes!
I have seen them by the camp-fire, where a child's voice never comes,
I have seen them by the fireside, in their seeming happy homes,
Seen their wives' false arms go round them, and the kisses that were lies,
Oh, the men who made bad matches! I can tell them by their eyes.
I have seen them bad in prison, seen them sullen, seen them sad;
I have seen them (in the mad-house), I have seen them raving mad.
Watched them fight the battle bravely, for the children's sake alone,
Like a father who has wronged them, and who lives but to atone.
But it's cruel, oh! it's cruel, for the husband and the wife,
Who have not one thought in common, and are yoked for weary life.
They must see it through and suffer, for the children they must rear,
Oh, the folk who made bad matches have a heavy cross to bear.
There is not a ray of comfort, in the future's gloomy sky,
For the children of bad matches will make trouble by-and-bye.
And though second wives be angels, while the first wives were the worst,
No second wife yet wedded makes a man forget the first.
Ah! the men who made bad matches think more often than we know,
Of the girls they should have married, in the glorious long ago,
And there's many a wife and mother thinks with bitter pain to-day,
Of her giddy, silly girlhood, and the man she sent away.
Life is sad for men and women, but the thoughts are bitter sad
Of the girls we should have married, and the boys we should have had.
But we'll part now with a handshake, if we cannot with a kiss,
And bad matches may be mended in a better world than this.
An Autumn Treasure-Trove.
by Eugene Field

'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame
Hangs on the maple bough;
And June is the faded flower of a name;
The thin hedge hides not a singer now.
Yet rich am I; for my treasures be
The gold afloat in my willow-tree.
Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,
Girded with blue and pearl,
Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;
As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,
She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.
All day pure white and saffron at eve,
Clouds awaiting the sun
Turn them at length to ghosts that leave
When the moon's white path is slowly run
Till the morning comes, and with joy for me
O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.
The lilacs that blew on the breast of May
Are an old and lost delight;
And the rose lies ruined in his careless way
As the wind turns the poplars underwhite,
Yet richer am I for the autumn; see
All my misty gold in the willow-tree.
The Father's Worshippers
by George MacDonald

'Tis we, not in thine arms, who weep and pray;
The children in thy bosom laugh and play.
Summer.
by H. P. Nichols

Tis Summer, I know by the blue of the sky;
By the trees' deeper green, as beneath them I lie;
And more than all these, by the lovely wild rose
That now in the woodland its pink blossom shows.
Now ring the sharp scythes of the mowers all day,
And they spread to the air the sweet-scented hay;
They pile up the wagon ere daylight is done,
And singing come home with the set of the sun.
I feel the warm west wind fan gently my cheek
As I sit on the grass, far too happy to speak;
And then in the twilight I see the faint spark
Of the fire-fly, flitting alone in the dark.
Oh! long happy days, when 'tis full of delight
To roam in the meadows from morning till night!
Oh! summer, sweet summer! glide slowly away,
For I love in your warmth and your fragrance to stay.
The Primrose. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,
Yet beautiful, it looks;
As just a lesson it may teach
As that we read in books.
While gardens show in flowering pride
The lily's stately ranks,
It loves its modest head to hide
Beneath the bramble banks.
And so the little cottage maid
May bloom unseen and die;
But she, when transient flowerets fade,
Shall live with Christ on high.
To The Honourable Admiral Lord Radstock.
by John Clare

'Tis sweet to recollect life's past controls,
And turn to days of sorrow when they're bye,
And think of gentle friends and feeling souls
That offered shelter when the storm was high,--
It thrills one's heart:--As mariners have turn'd,
When 'scap'd from shipwreck 'mid the billows' roar,
To look on fragments that the tempest spurn'd,
On which they clung, and struggled to the shore,
So sweet it is to turn.--And, hour by hour,
Reflection muses on the good and great,
That lent a portion of their wealthy power,
And sav'd a wormling from destruction's fate.
Oft to the patron of her first essays
The rural muse, O Radstock, turns her eye,
Not with the fulsome noise of fawning praise,
But soul's deep gushings in a silent sigh;
As drooping blossoms, dwindling deep in shade,
Should e'er a sunbeam to their lot be given,
Perk up in hopeful bloom their feeble head,
And seemly offer silent thanks to heaven.
A Song Of Roses
by Virna Sheard

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.
One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red,
Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled,
And for the white rose sing a song - the white rose for the dead.
And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold,
King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old,
Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.
And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee
And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee,
You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.
'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow!
They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago.
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.
The Shaven And Shorn Goat.
by John Gay

'Tis strange to see a new-launched fashion
Lay on the soul and grow a passion.
To illustrate such folly, I
Proffer some beast to the mind's eye.
Now I select the goat. What then?
I never said goats equal men.
A goat of singularity - 
Not vainer than a goat need be - 
Lay on a thymy bank, and viewed
Himself reflected in the flood.
"Confound my beard!" he thought, and said;
"How badly it becomes my head;
Upon my honour! women might
Take me to be some crazy wight."
He sought the barber of the place, - 
A monkey 'twas, of Moorish race,
Who shaved mankind, drew teeth, and bled.
A pole diagonal - striped red,
Teeth in their row in order strung,
And pewter bason by them slung,
Far in the street projecting stood - 
The pole with bandage symboled blood.
Pug shaved our friend and took his penny,
And hoped to shave him oft and many;
Goatee, impatient of applause,
Then sought his native hills and shaws.
"Heigh-day! how now? whoever heard - 
What gone and shaven off your beard?"
The fop replied: "All realms polite,
From Roman to the Muscovite,
Now trim their beards and shave their chins;
Shall we, like Monkish Capuchins,
Alone be singular and hairy?
One walks amidst the cities cheery,
And men and boys all cease to poke
Fun at the beard by way of joke - 
In days of old, so Romans jeered
Stoic philosophers with beard."
"Friend," said a bearded chieftain, "you
At Rome may do as Romans do;
But if you refuge with our herd,
I counsel you to keep your beard:
For if you dread the jeers of others,
How will you bear it from your brothers?"
Tis Sweet To Think.
by Thomas Moore

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear.
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
Two Seanichies
by Michael Earls

(For Aedh)
'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about,
I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,--
The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.
Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is,
Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song;
Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is,
Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong.
Far and broad our journeyin' , up and down the land we go,
Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea;
Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go,
Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be.
Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now,
Great she was afore the Danes and all her Saxon foes,
After that the sorrows came, sure your eyes will glisten now,
Up, my lad, and sing for them "The Dark Little Rose."
Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Hall to them,
All the deeds of valor and a thousand scenes of joy,
Wicklow hills and Derry fields where Killarney calls to them.
Come, my lad, it's Ninety-Eight and sing "The Croppy Boy."
Long ago the stranger came and learned to love the ways of her,
Irish more than Irish the Norman foe became;
Sure and here across the sea you give your hearts to praise of her,
The tear and smile within her eyes that ever are the same.
Not for gold or little fame the two of us to go about,
I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
We to win your love for her, the Land you're glad to know about,
The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.
Tis The Last Rose Of Summer.
by Thomas Moore

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping.
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Arnold Bennett
by Oliver Herford

'Tis very comforting to know
That every other day or so
A Book by Bennett will appear
To charm the Western Hemisphere.
I see him now, with zeal sublime,
Pounding from dawn to dinner-time
Four typewriters, with hands and feet.
When the four novels are complete,
He'll fold, and send ' grande vitesse
His Quadrumanuscript to press.
P. S.
Just think how much we'd have to read
If Bennett were a centipede
O. H.
In Sickness
by Jonathan Swift

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714
Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's death.[1] - Swift.
'Tis true - then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art, but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit, or his fee.
Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay,
Can act as decently as they:
But no obliging, tender friend,
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burthen grown
To others, ere it be my own.
Ye formal weepers for the sick,
In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expired to-day, entomb'd to-morrow,
When known, will save a double sorrow.
Epigram. On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.
by George Pope Morris

'Tis the opinion of the town
That Grim's a silly elf:
In trying to write Clinton down,
He went RIGHT DOWN HIMSELF.