DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXV - The Virgin
by William Wordsworth

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied;
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
Down On Wriggle Crick
by James Whitcomb Riley

"Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat." - Old Saw.
Mostly folks is law-abidin'
Down on Wriggle Crick,
Seein' they's no Squire residin'
In our bailywick;
No grand juries, no suppeenies,
Ner no vested rights to pick
Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef
He's outragin' Wriggle Crick!
Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin',
Ner no suits to beat;
Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin'
Like a County-seat;
Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick,
Ner non-gittin' witness-fees;
Ner no thiefs 'at gits "new heain's,"
By some lawyer slick as grease!
Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit
Is old Johnts Culwell,
Keeps post-office, and right near it
Owns what's called "The Grand Hotel"
(Warehouse now - ) buys wheat and ships it;
Gits out ties, and trades in stock,
And knows all the high-toned drummers
'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk'
Last year comes along a feller -
Sharper 'an a lance -
Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller,
And a boughten all-wool pants,
Tinkerin of clocks and watches:
Says a trial's all he wants -
And rents out the tavern-office
Next to Uncle Johnts.
Well. He tacked up his k'dentials,
And got down to biz.
Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchils
Fer them old wheat-sacks o' his.
Fixed his clock, in the post-office -
Painted fer him, clean and slick,
'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters,
"J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick."
Any kindo' job you keered to
Resk him with, and bring,
He'd fix fer you - jest appeared to
Turn his hand to anything!
Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers -
Glue a cheer er chany doll,
W'y, of all the beatin' fellers,
He Jest beat 'em all!
Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there,
One mistake he learnt,
That was, sleepin' in his shop there.
And one Sund'y night it burnt!
Come in one o' jest a-sweepin'
All the whole town high and dry -
And that feller, when they waked him,
Suffocatin', mighty nigh!
Johnts he drug him from the buildin',
He'pless - 'peared to be,
And the women and the childern
Drenchin' him with sympathy!
But I noticed Johnts helt on him
With a' extry lovin' grip,
And the men-folks gethered round him
In most warmest pardership!
That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'!
Johnt's safe was saved,
But the lock was found sprung open,
And the inside caved.
Was no trial - ner no jury -
Ner no jedge ner court-house-click.
Circumstances alters cases
Down on Wriggle Crick!
Poor Little Children.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("La femelle! elle est morte.")
[Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.]
Mother birdie stiff and cold,
Puss has hushed the other's singing;
Winds go whistling o'er the wold, - 
Empty nest in sport a-flinging.
Poor little birdies!
Faithless shepherd strayed afar,
Playful dog the gadflies catching;
Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar,
Not a friend the fold is watching - 
Poor little lambkins!
Father into prison fell,
Mother begging through the parish;
Baby's cot they, too, will sell, - 
Who will now feed, clothe and cherish?
Poor little children!
The Death-Song.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
Death is darkly drawing near.
Mother, mother! the bitter shame
Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
Burns me away without control.
Mother, mother! upon my brow
The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!
Mother, mother! sing me the song
They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley-fields along,
Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.
Mother, mother!    I do not hear
Your voice - but his, - oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
His clasping arms are round me still.
Mother, mother! unbind my vest,
Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.
Who Ever Felt As I
by Walter Savage Landor

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
The Son
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Mother, don't hold me,
Mother, your caress hurts me,
See through my face,
How I glow and wane.
Give the last kiss.    Let me go.
Send a prayer after me.
That I broke your life,
Mother, forgive me.
Viable
by A. R. Ammons

Motion's the dead giveaway,
eye catcher, the revealing risk:
the caterpillar sulls on the hot macadam
but then, risking, ripples to the bush:
the cricket, startled, leaps the
quickest arc: the earthwrom, casting,
nudges a grassblade, and the sharp robin
strikes: sound's the other
announcement: the redbird lands in
an elm branch and tests the air with
cheeps for an answering, reassuring
cheep, for a motion already cleared:
survival organizes these means down to
tension, to enwrapped, twisting suasions:
every act or non-act enceinte with risk or
prize: why must the revelations be
sound and motion, the point, too, moving and
saying through the scary opposites to death.
To the Virgin Mary
by Mary Hannay Foott

Mother of Him we call the Christ,
No halo round thy brows we paint,
Incense and prayer we offer not,
Nor mind to title thee as saint.
And yet, no woman's name, of all
With honour from the ages sent,
Mary, is aureoled like thine,
With love and grief and glory blent!
Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.
Thou heard'st the angel's prophecy,
The tidings which the shepherds brought,
Anna and Simeon praising God,
And saw'st that star the Wise Men sought!
Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,
With meekness, God's triumphal light;
Then, still believing, with His Charge,
At midnight take an exile's flight?
Throughout the Son's long helplessness
His good was to thine own preferred;
May we so serve; and still, like Thee,
Stand back to let His voice be heard!
Dispenser once of earthly things,
Thy Best-Beloved thou didst see;
God's hands for others blessing-full,
Could we be poor and glad like thee?
Soul-pierced with sword-like agony,
Not felon's taunt nor soldier's jest;
Beside the God-forsaken Cross,
Could drive thee from it like the rest.
Christ's banner thou alone didst hold
In face of all His foes displayed;
Valiant through all defeat, and but
Heart-stricken that He was betrayed.
Ah, Mary! Could we stand, like thee,
Steadfast; and watch the vowed depart;
And grieve for their defection less
Than for the Saviour's wounded heart?
How must the God, who favour set
On David once and kingly Saul,
And yet foresaw their wanderings,
And loved them through and after all
How must He seal the prophecy,
Declaring thee forever blest,
Whose whole life showed thy worthiness
Of that pure Child thine arms had pressed!
O single-hearted one to kiss
The lifeless and dishonored head,
Fondly as when its baby brow,
By angel wings was canopied!
O self-forgetful, to rejoice
For that Heaven's entrance had been found
By the Beloved: thou content
Thenceforth, alone to close life's round!
In the bright future, sure, though far,
Again, as once, the wide air rings
With praise to Christ! Thy vigil ends,
Meek daughter of a hundred kings!
Virgin, may we partake thy joy,
When Heaven and loyal earth shall lay
At the pierced feet of David's son
A crown He will not put away!
Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel
by Walter Savage Landor

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But Oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
Mother. - Alpha and Omega.
by Alfred Castner King

Mother! Mother!
The startled cry of childish fright
Rang through the silence of the night,
As but the mother's fond caress
Could soothe its infantile distress;
And the mother answered, with loving stroke
Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!
Long years have passed, and the fevered brow
Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,
As through delirium and pain
He cries as a little child, again.
And the mother answered, with loving stroke
Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!
Still time rolls on, and an old man stands
Trembling on life's declining sands;
As memory bridges the flood of years
He cries as a child, with childish tears;
And memory answers, with loving stroke
Of a vanished hand, and an echo spoke:
"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
How Little Red Riding Hood Came To Be Eaten
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

Most worthy of praise
Were the virtuous ways
Of Little Red Riding Hood's Ma,
And no one was ever
More cautious and clever
Than Little Red Riding Hood's Pa.
They never misled,
For they meant what they said,
And would frequently say what they meant,
And the way she should go
They were careful to show,
And the way that they showed her, she went.
For obedience she was effusively thanked,
And for anything else she was carefully spanked.
It thus isn't strange
That Red Riding Hood's range
Of virtues so steadily grew,
That soon she won prizes
Of different sizes,
And golden encomiums, too!
As a general rule
She was head of her school,
And at six was so notably smart
That they gave her a cheque
For reciting "The Wreck
Of the Hesperus," wholly by heart!
And you all will applaud her the more, I am sure,
When I add that this money she gave to the poor.
At eleven this lass
Had a Sunday-school class,
At twelve wrote a volume of verse,
At thirteen was yearning
For glory, and learning
To be a professional nurse.
To a glorious height
The young paragon might
Have grown, if not nipped in the bud,
But the following year
Struck her smiling career
With a dull and a sickening thud!
(I have shed a great tear at the thought of her pain,
And must copy my manuscript over again!)
Not dreaming of harm,
One day on her arm
A basket she hung. It was filled
With jellies, and ices,
And gruel, and spices,
And chicken-legs, carefully grilled,
And a savory stew,
And a novel or two
She'd persuaded a neighbor to loan,
And a hot-water can,
And a Japanese fan,
And a bottle of eau-de-cologne,
And the rest of the things that your family fill
Your room with, whenever you chance to be ill!
She expected to find
Her decrepit but kind
Old Grandmother waiting her call,
But the visage that met her
Completely upset her:
It wasn't familiar at all!
With a whitening cheek
She started to speak,
But her peril she instantly saw:--
Her Grandma had fled,
And she'd tackled instead
Four merciless Paws and a Maw!
When the neighbors came running, the wolf to subdue,
He was licking his chops, (and Red Riding Hood's, too!)
At this terrible tale
Some readers will pale,
And others with horror grow dumb,
And yet it was better,
I fear, he should get her:
Just think what she might have become!
For an infant so keen
Might in future have been
A woman of awful renown,
Who carried on fights
For her feminine rights
As the Mare of an Arkansas town.
She might have continued the crime of her 'teens,
And come to write verse for the Big Magazines!
The Moral: There's nothing much glummer
Than children whose talents appall:
One much prefers those who are dumber,
But as for the paragons small,
If a swallow cannot make a summer
It can bring on a summary fall!
Rhymes On The Road. Extract VI. Venice.
by Thomas Moore

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented--Former Glory.--Expedition against Constantinople.--Giustinianis.--Republic.--Characteristics of the old Government.--Golden Book.--Brazen Mouths.--Spies.--Dungeons.--Present Desolation.
Mourn not for VENICE--let her rest
In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No--let us keep our tears for them,
Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stained diadem,
Like that which deckt this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
Of human Rights--the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.
Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,
And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish every King and State
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill and only great
By outrage against God and man!
True, her high spirit is at rest,
And all those days of glory gone,
When the world's waters, east and west,
Beneath her white-winged commerce shone;
When with her countless barks she went
To meet the Orient Empire's might.[1]
And her Giustinianis sent
Their hundred heroes to that fight.
Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true,
But mourn them not--for vanisht too
(Thanks to that Power, who soon or late,
Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,
The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That filled each spot, at home, abroad,
Where the Republic's standard stood.
Desolate VENICE! when I track
Thy haughty course thro' centuries back;
Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst--
The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;--
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing SARPI[2] taught;--
Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath
Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]--
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,
Closed against humble Virtue's name,
But opened wide for slaves who sold
Their native land to thee and shame;[4]--
Thy all-pervading host of spies
Watching o'er every glance and breath,
Till men lookt in each others' eyes,
To read their chance of life or death;--
Thy laws that made a mart of blood,
And legalized the assassin's knife;[5]--
Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,
And racks and Leads that burnt out life;--
When I review all this and see
The doom that now hath fallen on thee;
Thy nobles, towering once so proud,
Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,--
A yoke by no one grace redeemed,
Such as of old around thee beamed,
But mean and base as e'er yet galled
Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,--
I feel the moral vengeance sweet.
And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:--
"Thus perish every King and State
"That tread the steps which VENICE trod,
"Strong but in ill and only great,
"By outrage against man and God!"
Hymn To Desire
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers
Breathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,
Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,
Thou comest mysterious,
In beauty imperious,
Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know.
Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,
Helplessly shaken and tossed,
And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,
My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;
Mine eyes are accurst
With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;
And mine ears, in listening lost,
Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.
II
Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,--
Resonant bar upon bar,--
The vibrating lyre
Of the spirit responds with melodious fire,
As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,
With flame and with flake,
The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung.
Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.
III
Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!
Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!
Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,
A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!
Smite every rapturous wire
With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,
Crying--"Awake! awake!
Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,
With its mountains of magic, its fountains of Fa'ry, the spar-sprung,
Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!
Come, oh, come and partake
Of necromance banquets of beauty; and slake
Thy thirst in the waters of art,
That are drawn from the streams
Of love and of dreams."
IV
"Come, oh, come!
No longer shall language be dumb!
Thy vision shall grasp--
As one doth the glittering hasp
Of a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold--
The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.
And out of the stark
Eternity, awful and dark,
Immensity silent and cold,--
Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metals
That cymbal; yet pensive and pearly
And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,
Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,--
The majestic music of Death, where he plays
On the organ of eons and days."
Lonesome
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two,
An', oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew
To other trees to build ag'in; the rooms seem jest so bare
That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair.
The shetters flap more lazy-like 'n what they used to do,
Sence mother 's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
We 've killed the fattest chicken an' we've cooked her to a turn;
We 've made the richest gravy, but I jest don't give a durn
Fur nothin' 'at I drink er eat, er nothin' 'at I see.
The food ain't got the pleasant taste it used to have to me.
They 's somep'n' stickin' in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue,
Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
The hollyhocks air jest ez pink, they 're double ones at that,
An' I wuz prouder of 'em than a baby of a cat.
But now I don't go near 'em, though they nod an' blush at me,
Fur they 's somep'n' seems to gall me in their keerless sort o' glee
An' all their fren'ly noddin' an' their blushin' seems to say:
"You 're purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother 's gone away."
The neighbors ain't so fren'ly ez it seems they 'd ort to be;
They seem to be a-lookin' kinder sideways like at me,
A-kinder feared they 'd tech me off ez ef I wuz a match,
An' all because 'at mother 's gone an' I 'm a-keepin' batch!
I 'm shore I don't do nothin' worse 'n what I used to do
'Fore mother went a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
The sparrers ac's more fearsome like an' won't hop quite so near,
The cricket's chirp is sadder, an' the sky ain't ha'f so clear;
When ev'nin' comes, I set an' smoke tell my eyes begin to swim,
An' things aroun' commence to look all blurred an' faint an' dim.
Well, I guess I 'll have to own up 'at I 'm feelin' purty blue
Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
Grierson's Raid
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Mount to horse mount to horse;
Forward, Battalion!
Gallop the gallant force;
Down with Rebellion!
Over hill, creek and plain
Clatter the fearless 
Dash away splash away 
Led by the Peerless.
Carbines crack foemen fly
Hither and thither;
Under the death-fire
They falter and wither.
Burn the bridge tear the track 
Down with Rebellion!
Cut the wires cut the wires!
Forward, Battalion!
Day and night night and day,
Gallop the fearless 
Swimming the rivers' floods 
Led by the Peerless;
Depots and powder-trains
Blazing and thundering
Masters and dusky slaves
Gazing and wondering.
Eight hundred miles they ride 
Dauntless Battalion 
Down through the Southern Land
Mad with Rebellion.
Into our lines they dash 
Brave Cavaliers 
Greeting our flag with
A thunder of cheers.
To Prince Edward Of York
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

(On the Return of the "Ophir")
Most well-behaved little Prince, -
As the small boy
Who will one day be the Sovereign Lord
Of certain other small boys
In whom I am interested
I hasten to assure you
Of my loyalty to the Imperial House
Of which you are the joy and hope,
And of my respect for your own podgy little person.
To-day, I need scarcely tell you, my dear little Prince,
Is a very big day for you,
Inasmuch as
To-day your excellent parents -
Their Royal Highnesses
The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, KG. -
Return from their wanderings,
Laden, I am given to understand,
With presents for his Royal Highness
Prince Edward of York,
Who, I am given to understand,
Has been a very good boy
During these long weeks of separation.
I am quite sure
That you deserve these presents,
And that your Grandmama
Will be able to give your parents a very good account of you,
And that your Grandpapa,
With that tact which is only one of many of his excellent qualities,
Will refrain from making reports
Which might lead to parental chastisement,
I remember quite well
That when my own Mama and Papa
Returned once from a little jaunt
They brought back with them,
As a present for me,
A tin cylinder with a spike to it,
Which you set on a piece of wood
And spun round;
Then you looked through some holes in the tin cylinder
And beheld many wonderful things,
Such as a little girl skipping,
And jockeys riding a steeplechase on tigers.
If your Papa, my dear little Prince,
Has not brought you one of those,
Be sure you ask for it.
It is not rude to ask for what you do not see in the window,
Providing you say "Please."
And now before I go
Let me add a few words
Of kindly admonition.
I hope you will grow up to be a good and great man,
And that you will never give your parents
Cause for sorrow,
By turning Socialist,
Or newspaper editor,
Or attempting to imitate these Odes.
To your infant mind
This last crime
May appear to be the most innocent in the world,
Because these odes
(God wot)
Are so easy to imitate;
Diplomats, Members of Parliament, publishers' assistants,
Cabmen, poets, peers of the realm,
Nay, even the very crowned heads of Europe,
Have, at time and time,
Been consumed with a desire to do them for me;
Because, as I have said,
It is so easy.
Well, my dear little Prince,
Let us draw our moral.
The easy thing is not always the wisest thing.
I feel that in my inmost heart.
And if you blossom into manhood
With the same conviction,
More or less,
I make no doubt whatever
That you will be an immense success
As a king.
I wish you the best of luck.
Summer Song
by George MacDonald

"Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan,
Many a tune in a single tone,
For every ear with a secret true--
The sea-shell wants to whisper to you."
"Yes--I hear it--far and faint,
Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint;
Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain;
Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain."
"By smiling lip and fixed eye,
You are hearing a song within the sigh:
The murmurer has many a lovely phrase--
Tell me, darling, the words it says."
"I hear a wind on a boatless main
Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain;
On the dreaming waters dreams the moon--
But I hear no words in the doubtful tune."
"If it tell thee not that I love thee well,
'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell:
If it be not of love, why sigh or sing?
'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!"
"It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice
Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice;
It says not a word of your love to me,
But it tells me I love you eternally."
Nursery Rhyme. CXVI. Scholastic.
by Unknown

Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad;
The Rule of Three doth puzzle me,
And Practice drives me mad.
Sonet 44
by Michael Drayton

Muses which sadly sit about my chayre,
Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines,
With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre,
Paynting my passions in these sad dissignes,
Since she disdaines to blesse my happy verse,
The strong built Trophies to her liuing fame,
Euer hence-forth my bosome be your hearse,
Wherein the world shal now entombe her name,
Enclose my musick you poor sencelesse walls,
Sith she is deafe and will not heare my mones,
Soften your selues with euery teare that falls,
Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones:
Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued,
Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.