DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lake Mahopac Saturday Night.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

"Yes, I'm here, I suppose you're delighted:
You'd heard I was not coming down!
Why I've been here a week! 'rather early' 
I know, but it's horrid in town
A Boston? Most certainly, thank you.
This music is perfectly sweet;
Of course I like dancing in summer;
It's warm, but I don't mind the heat.
The clumsy thing! Oh! how he hurt me!
I really can't dance any more 
Let's walk see, they're forming a Lancers;
These square dances are such a bore.
My cloak oh! I really don't need it 
Well, carry it, so, in the folds 
I hate it, but Ma made me bring it;
She's frightened to death about colds.
This is rather cooler than dancing.
They're lovely piazzas up here;
Those lanterns look sweet in the bushes,
It's lucky the night is so clear.
I am rather tired in this corner? 
Very well, if you like I don't care 
But you'll have to sit on the railing 
You see there is only one chair.
'So long since you've seen me' oh, ages! 
Let's see, why it's ten days ago 
'Seems years' oh! of course don't look spooney 
It isn't becoming, you know.
How bright the stars seem to-night, don't they?
What was it you said about eyes?
How sweet! why you must be a poet 
One never can tell till he tries.
Why can't you be sensible, Harry!
I don't like men's arms on my chair.
Be still! if you don't stop this nonsense
I'll get up and leave you; so there!
Oh! please don't I don't want to hear it 
A boy like you talking of love.
'My answer!' Well, sir, you shall have it 
Just wait till I get off my glove.
See that? Well, you needn't look tragic,
It's only a solitaire ring, 
Of course I am 'proud of it' very 
It's rather an elegant thing.
Engaged! yes why, didn't you know it?
I thought the news must have reached here 
Why, the wedding will be in October 
The 'happy man' Charley Leclear.
Now don't blame me I tried to stop you 
But you would go on like a goose;
I'm sorry it happened forget it 
Don't think of it don't what's the use?
There's somebody coming don't look so 
Get up on the railing again 
Can't you seem as if nothing had happened?
I never saw such geese as men!
Ah, Charley, you've found me! A galop?
The 'Bahn frei?' Yes; take my bouquet 
And my fan, if you will now I'm ready 
You'll excuse me, of course, Mr. Gray."
Art.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Yes, let Art go, if it must be
That with it men must starve - 
If Music, Painting, Poetry
Spring from the wasted hearth.
Pluck out the flower, however fair,
Whose beauty cannot bloom,
(However sweet it be, or rare)
Save from a noisome tomb.
These social manners, charm and ease,
Are hideous to who knows
The degradation, the disease
From which their beauty flows.
So, Poet, must thy singing be;
O Painter, so thy scene;
Musician, so thy melody,
While misery is queen.
Nay, brothers, sing us battle-songs
With clear and ringing rhyme;
Nay, show the world its hateful wrongs,
And bring the better time!
A Coquette Conquered
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Yes, my ha't 's ez ha'd ez stone--
Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone.
No; I ain't gwine change my min'--
Ain't gwine ma'y you--nuffin' de kin'.
Phiny loves you true an' deah?
Go ma'y Phiny; whut I keer?
Oh, you need n't mou'n an' cry--
I don't keer how soon you die.
Got a present! Whut you got?
Somef'n fu' de pan er pot!
Huh! yo' sass do sholy beat--
Think I don't git 'nough to eat?
Whut's dat un'neaf yo' coat?
Looks des lak a little shoat.
'T ain't no possum! Bless de Lamb!
Yes, it is, you rascal, Sam!
Gin it to me; whut you say?
Ain't you sma't now! Oh, go 'way!
Possum do look mighty nice,
But you ax too big a price.
Tell me, is you talkin' true,
Dat 's de gal's whut ma'ies you?
Come back, Sam; now whah 's you gwine?
Co'se you knows dat possum's mine!
Flirtation.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude,
To gaze into her eyes,
To whisper in her ear sweet words,
And low impassioned sighs;
And though she give you glance for glance,
And smile and scheme and plot,
You cannot raise a jealous thought,
I know you love her not.
Now turn to laughing Lulu,
That Witty, gay coquette,
With her teeth of shining pearl,
Her eyes and hair of jet:
With a mirthful smile imprison
Her hand within your own,
And softly press it - what care I?
You love but me alone.
To Ida's chair you wander,
You're bending o'er her now,
Until your own dark curls have brushed
Against her queenly brow;
In vain she strives to bind you
With fascinating spell;
For if sharply now I suffer,
You suffer too as well.
This fit of gay coquetry
Is meant, ah! well I know
To avenge my quiet flirting
At our ball a night ago,
With that winning, handsome stranger, - 
Remember, Harry dear,
'Twas yourself who introduced him,
Yourself who brought him here.
Let us cease this cruel warfare,
Come back to me again!
Ah, what do we reap from flirting
But heartaches, mutual pain?
You'll forgive my past shortcomings - 
Be tender as of yore
And we both will make a promise
To henceforth flirt no more.
Yes, The Weary Earth Shall Brighten.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Yes, the weary earth shall brighten - 
Brighten in the perfect day,
And the fields that now but whiten,
Golden glow beneath the ray!
Slowly swelling in her bosom,
Long the precious seed has lain, - 
Soon shall come the perfect blossom,
Soon, the rich, abundant grain!
Long has been the night of weeping,
But the morning dawns at length,
And, the misty heights o'ersweeping,
Lo, the sun comes forth in strength!
Down the slopes of ancient mountains,
Over plain, and vale, and stream,
Flood, and field, and sparkling fountains,
Speeds the warm rejoicing beam!
Think not God can fail His promise!
Think not Christ can be denied!
He shall see His spirit's travail - 
He shall yet be satisfied!
Soon the "Harvest home" of angels
Shall resound from shore to shore,
And amid Earth's glad evangels,
Christ shall reign for evermore!
Lines On Receiving From The Eight Hon. The Lady Frances Shirley[63] A Standish And Two Pens.
by Alexander Pope

1 Yes, I beheld the Athenian queen
Descend in all her sober charms;
'And take,' she said, and smiled serene,
'Take at this hand celestial arms:
2 'Secure the radiant weapons wield;
This golden lance shall guard desert;
And if a vice dares keep the field,
This steel shall stab it to the heart.'
3 Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
Received the weapons of the sky;
And dipp'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.
4 'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries--
'A standish, steel, and golden pen!
It came from Bertrand's,[64] not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.
5 'But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
You'll bring a house (I mean of peers)
Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L---- and all about your ears.
6 'You'd write as smooth again on glass,
And run, on ivory, so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,[65]
Nor stop at flattery or fib.[66]
7 'Athenian queen! and sober charms!
I tell ye, fool, there's nothing in't:
'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;[67]
In Dryden's Virgil see the print.[68]
8 'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,
That dares tell neither truth nor lies,[69]
I'll list you in the harmless roll
Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'
Jim's Whip
by Barcroft Boake

Yes, there it hangs upon the wall
And never gives a sound,
The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall
Is hidden underground,
There, in that patch of sally shade,
Beneath that grassy mound.
I never take it from the wall,
That whip belonged to him,
The man I singled from them all,
He was my husband, Jim;
I see him now, so straight and tall,
So long and lithe of limb.
That whip was with him night and day
When he was on the track;
I've often heard him laugh. and say
That when they heard its crack,
After the breaking of the drought,
The cattle all came back.
And all the time that Jim was here
A-working on the run
I'd hear that whip ring sharp and clear
Just about set of sun
To let me know that he was near
And that his work was done.
I was away that afternoon,
Penning the calves, when, bang!
I heard his whip, 'Twas rather soon,
A thousand echoes rang
And died away among the hills,
As toward the hut I sprang.
I made the tea and waited, but,
Seized by a sudden whim,
I went and sat outside the hut
Watching the light grow dim,
I waited there till after dark,
But not a sign of Jim.
The evening air was damp with dew;
Just as the clock struck ten
His horse came riderless, I knew
What was the matter then.
Why should the Lord have singled out
My Jim from other men?
I took the horse and found him where
He lay beneath the sky
With blood all clotted on his hair;
I felt too dazed to cry,
I held him to me as I prayed
To God that I might die.
But sometimes now I seem to hear,
Just when the air grows chill,
A single whip-crack, sharp and clear,
Re-echo from the hill.
That's Jim, to let me know he's near
And thinking of me still.
Art.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

"Yes, let Art go, if it must be
That with it men must starve - 
If Music, Painting, Poetry
Spring from the wasted hearth!"
Yes, let Art go, till once again
Through fearless heads and hands
The toil of millions and the pain
Be passed from out the lands:
Till from the few their plunder falls
To those who've toiled and earned
But misery's hopeless intervals
From those who've robbed and spurned.
Yes, let Art go, without a fear,
Like autumn flowers we burn,
For, with her reawakening year,
Be sure she will return! - 
Return, but greater, nobler yet
Because her laurel crown
With dew and not with blood is wet,
And as our queen sit down!
Bitterness
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Yes, they were kind exceedingly; most mild
Even in indignation, taking by the hand
One that obeyed them mutely, as a child
Submissive to a law he does not understand.
They would not blame the sins his passion wrought.
No, they were tolerant and Christian, saying, 'We
Only deplore ...' saying they only sought
To help him, strengthen him, to show him love; but he
Following them with unrecalcitrant tread,
Quiet, towards their town of kind captivities,
Having slain rebellion, ever turned his head
Over his shoulder, seeking still with his poor eyes
Her motionless figure on the road. The song
Rang still between them, vibrant bell to answering bell,
Full of young glory as a bugle; strong;
Still brave; now breaking like a sea-bird's cry 'Farewell!'
And they, they whispered kindly to him 'Come!
Now we have rescued you. Let your heart heal. Forget!
She was your lawless dark familiar.' Dumb,
He listened, and they thought him acquiescent. Yet,
(Knowing the while that they were very kind)
Remembrance clamoured in him: 'She was wild and free,
Magnificent in giving; she was blind
To gain or loss, and, loving, loved but me, but me!
'Valiant she was, and comradely, and bold;
High-mettled; all her thoughts a challenge, like gay ships
Adventurous, with treasure in the hold.
I met her with the lesson put into my lips,
'Spoke reason to her, and she bowed her head,
Having no argument, and giving up the strife.
She said I should be free. I think she said
That, for the asking, she would give me all her life.'
And still they led him onwards, and he still
Looked back towards her standing there; and they, content,
Cheered him and praised him that he did their will.
The gradual distance hid them, and she turned, and went.
Midnight Mass For The Dying Year
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last!    O, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!
A Reminiscence
by Anne Bronte

Yes, thou art gone ! and never more
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me ;
But I may pass the old church door,
And pace the floor that covers thee.
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
'Tis still a comfort to have seen ;
And though thy transient life is o'er,
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been ;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
Sonnet XCI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Dell' empia Babilonia, ond' ' fuggita.
LEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNA.
Yes, out of impious Babylon I'm flown,
Whence flown all shame, whence banish'd is all good,
That nurse of error, and of guilt th' abode,
To lengthen out a life which else were gone:
There as Love prompts, while wandering alone,
I now a garland weave, and now an ode;
With him I commune, and in pensive mood
Hope better times; this only checks my moan.
Nor for the throng, nor fortune do I care,
Nor for myself, nor sublunary things,
No ardour outwardly, or inly springs:
I ask two persons only: let my fair
For me a kind and tender heart maintain;
And be my friend secure in his high post again.
NOTT.
From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead,
And every good is banish'd to far climes,
Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes,
Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled:
Alone, at last alone, and here, as led
At Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes,
Self-parleying, and still on better times
Wrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.
Cares for the world or fortune I have none,
Nor much for self, nor any common theme:
Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.
Two friends alone I ask, and that the one
More merciful and meek to me may seem,
The other well as erst, and firm of feet.
MACGREGOR.
Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place
by Emily Bronte

Yes, holy be thy resting place
Wherever thou may'st lie;
The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,
The softest of the sky.
And will not guardian Angles send
Kind dreams and thoughts of love,
Though I no more may watchful bend
Thy longed repose above?
And will not heaven itself bestow
A beam of glory there
That summer's grass more green may grow,
And summer's flowers more fair?
Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to part
Yet, loved one, it must be:
I would not rend another heart
Not even by blessing thee.
Go! We must break affection's chain,
Forget the hopes of years:
Nay, grieve not - willest thou remain
To waken wilder tears
This herald breeze with thee and me,
Roved in the dawning day:
And thou shouldest be where it shall be
Ere evening, far away.
Death.
by George MacDonald

Yes, there is one who makes us all lay down
Our mushroom vanities, our speculations,
Our well-set theories and calculations,
Our workman's jacket or our monarch's crown!
To him alike the country and the town,
Barbaric hordes or civilized nations,
Men of all names and ranks and occupations,
Squire, parson, lawyer, Jones, or Smith, or Brown!
He stops the carter: the uplifted whip
Falls dreamily among the horses' straw;
He stops the helmsman, and the gallant ship
Holdeth to westward by another law;
No one will see him, no one ever saw,
But he sees all and lets not any slip.
The Phoebe-Bird
by George Parsons Lathrop

(A REPLY)
Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird.
Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard:
I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow
Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow
Strength from the other, making one more brave
And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave.
But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens:
One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence.
Our voices vary with the changing seasons
Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons.
Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered,
If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered.
We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain,
Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane,
With love and hate, or good and evil - all,
At separate times, in separate accents call;
Yet 't is the same heart-throb within the breast
That gives an impulse to our worst and best.
I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended,
The Listener finds them in one music blended.
Yes Thou Art Gone
by Anne Bronte

Yes, thou art gone! and never more
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door,
And pace the floor that covers thee,
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
'Tis still a comfort to have seen;
And though thy transient life is o'er,
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form, so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XIX - The Liturgy
by William Wordsworth

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear
Attract us still, and passionate exercise
Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies
Distinct with signs, through which in set career,
As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year
Of England's Church; stupendous mysteries!
Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes,
As he approaches them, with solemn cheer.
Upon that circle traced from sacred story
We only dare to cast a transient glance,
Trusting in hope that Others may advance
With mind intent upon the King of Glory,
From his mild advent till his countenance
Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary.
To Laura In Death. Ballata I.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor, quando fioria.
HIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEART.
Yes, Love, at that propitious time
When hope was in its bloomy prime,
And when I vainly fancied nigh
The meed of all my constancy;
Then sudden she, of whom I sought
Compassion, from my sight was caught.
O ruthless Death! O life severe!
The one has sunk me deep in care,
And darken'd cruelly my day,
That shone with hope's enlivening ray:
The other, adverse to my will,
Doth here on earth detain me still;
And interdicts me to pursue
Her, who from all its scenes withdrew:
Yet in my heart resides the fair,
For ever, ever present there;
Who well perceives the ills that wait
Upon my wretched, mortal state.
NOTT.
Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride,
While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh,
She, upon whom for mercy I relied,
Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye.
O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! this
Plunged me in deepest woe,
And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss;
Against my will that keeps me here below,
Who else would yearn to go,
And join the sainted fair who left us late;
Yet present every hour
In my heart's core there wields she her old power,
And knows, whate'er my life, its every state!
MACGREGOR.
Blossom-time.
by Hattie Howard

Yes, it is drawing nigh - 
The time of blossoming;
The waiting heart beats stronger
With every breath of Spring,
The days are growing longer;
While happy hours go by
As if on zephyr wing.
A wealth of mellow light
Reflected from the skies
The hill and vale is flooding;
Still in their leafless guise
The Jacqueminots are budding,
Creating new delight
By promise of surprise.
The air is redolent
As ocean breezes are
From spicy islands blowing,
Or groves of Malabar
Where sandal-wood is growing;
Or sweet, diffusive scent,
From fragrant attar-jar.
Just so is loveliness
Renewed from year to year;
And thus emotions tender,
Born of the atmosphere,
Of bloom, and vernal splendor
That words cannot express,
Make Spring forever dear.
Can mortal man behold
So beautiful a scene,
Without the innate feeling
That thus, like dying sheen
The sunset hues revealing,
Glints pure, celestial gold
On fields of living green?
Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo
by William Wordsworth

Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like but oh, how different!
Hears not also mortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife
Voices of two different natures?
Have not 'we' too? yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!
Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God, of God they are.
Gipsies
by William Wordsworth

Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest; 
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible God
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them but they
Regard not her: oh better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not; they are what their birth
And breeding suffer them to be;
Wild outcasts of society!
Work.
by Emma Lazarus

Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer,
But stubborn work; she may not shun her task.
After the first compassion, none will spare
Her portion and her work achieved, to ask.
She pleads for respite, - she will come ere long
When, resting by the roadside, she is strong.
Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-by
Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream.
Much must be done before the brief light die;
She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream.
With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet,
She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet.
But when she fills her days with duties done,
Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health.
New aims, new interests rise with each new sun,
And life still holds for her unbounded wealth.
All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small,
And naught may daunt her, - she hath strength for all.