DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
In Hospital - V - Operation
by William Ernest Henley

You are carried in a basket,
Like a carcase from the shambles,
To the theatre, a cockpit
Where they stretch you on a table.
Then they bid you close your eyelids,
And they mask you with a napkin,
And the anaesthetic reaches
Hot and subtle through your being.
And you gasp and reel and shudder
In a rushing, swaying rapture,
While the voices at your elbow
Fade - receding - fainter - farther.
Lights about you shower and tumble,
And your blood seems crystallising -
Edged and vibrant, yet within you
Racked and hurried back and forward.
Then the lights grow fast and furious,
And you hear a noise of waters,
And you wrestle, blind and dizzy,
In an agony of effort,
Till a sudden lull accepts you,
And you sound an utter darkness . . .
And awaken . . . with a struggle . . .
On a hushed, attentive audience.
To The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmoreland.
by Robert Herrick

You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man
Who writes sweet numbers well as any can;
If so, why then are not these verses hurled,
Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world?
What is a jewel if it be not set
Forth by a ring or some rich carcanet?
But being so, then the beholders cry:
See, see a gem as rare as Belus' eye.
Then public praise does run upon the stone,
For a most rich, a rare, a precious one.
Expose your jewels then unto the view,
That we may praise them, or themselves prize you.
Virtue concealed, with Horace you'll confess,
Differs not much from drowsy slothfulness.
Yonder see the morning blink:
by Alfred Edward Housman

Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
A Safe Investment.
by John Hartley

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest,
Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce!
Aw'll gie yo a tip, - one o'th' best,
Whear ther's profit an safety for once.
Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust,
Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait, - 
Depend on't its one yo can trust,
For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.
Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar, - 
But mooast fowk are apt to forget; - 
Yet yo know if yo give to the poor,
At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt.
Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face,
An its true too, - believe it or net, - 
It's a bargain God made i' this case,
An He'll nivver back aght on't, - yo bet.
All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent
Grim Deeath commin to yo some day;
An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent,
When yor time comes for gooin away.
But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart,
An for what yo leeav care net a straw,
Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart,
If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw.
Its useless to pray an to praich, - 
Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd;
Put summat to ait i' ther raich,
An then lectur em all yo've a mind;
Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand,
Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry; - 
A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land,
Which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye.
Yo can't expect chaps who have wives,
An childer at's clammin i'th' cold,
To be patient an quiet all ther lives,
When they see others rollin i' gold.
When th' workers are beggin for jobs,
An th' helpless are starvin to deeath,
It's just abaat time some o'th' nobs
Wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth.
If ther duties they still will neglect,
An ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue,
They may find when they little expect,
'At they've getten thersen in a stew.
Yo may trample a worm wol it turns, - 
An ther's danger i' starvin a rat; - 
A man's passion inflamed wol it burns,
Is a danger mooar fearful nor that.
But why should ther be sich distress,
When ther's plenty for all an to spare?
Sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less
Nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share.
Rich harvests yo'll win from the seed
When theas welcome words fall on yor ear, - 
"What yo did to th' leeast brother i' need,
Yo did unto Me; - Come in here."
That Night
by James Whitcomb Riley

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! -
The scent of the locusts - the light of the moon;
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story,
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune,
Till their shadows uncertain
Reeled round on the curtain,
While under the trellis we drank in the June.
Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping,
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leaping
Forever, forever burst, full with delight;
And its lisp on my spirit
Fell faint as that near it
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.
O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!
The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses! -
And the music! - in fancy I hear it to-day,
As I sit here, confessing
Our secret, and blessing
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.
Sonnet LXXXIX. Subject Continued.
by Anna Seward

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece
Rests; - but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase
The wild disorder of this troubled Night.
Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite
The roaring Winds and Waters! - Ah! why cease
Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,
And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish! - I shudder! - stretch my longing arms
O'er the steep cliff! - My swelling spirits brave
The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on the stormy wave!
But Oh! what roots my feet? - what spells, what charms
The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?
A Meditation For His Mistress
by Robert Herrick

You are a tulip seen today,
But (Dearest) of so short a stay;
That where you grew, scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, (and in an hour.)
You are a sparkling Rose i'th'bud,
Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew, or stood.
You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,
And can with Tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried, ere you distill your Wine.
You are like Balm enclosed (well)
In Amber, or some Crystal shell,
Yet lost, ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty Violet,
Yet withered, ere you can be set
Within the Virgin's Coronet.
You are the Queen all flowers among,
But die you must (fair Maid) ere long,
As He, the maker of this song.
Sonnet LXI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Io non fu' d' amar voi lassato unquanco.
UNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HER.
Yet was I never of your love aggrieved,
Nor never shall while that my life doth last:
But of hating myself, that date is past;
And tears continual sore have me wearied:
I will not yet in my grave be buried;
Nor on my tomb your name have fix'd fast,
As cruel cause, that did the spirit soon haste
From the unhappy bones, by great sighs stirr'd.
Then if a heart of amorous faith and will
Content your mind withouten doing grief;
Please it you so to this to do relief:
If otherwise you seek for to fulfil
Your wrath, you err, and shall not as you ween;
And you yourself the cause thereof have been.
WYATT.
Weary I never was, nor can be e'er,
Lady, while life shall last, of loving you,
But brought, alas! myself in hate to view,
Perpetual tears have bred a blank despair:
I wish a tomb, whose marble fine and fair,
When this tired spirit and frail flesh are two,
May show your name, to which my death is due,
If e'en our names at last one stone may share;
Wherefore, if full of faith and love, a heart
Can, of worst torture short, suffice your hate,
Mercy at length may visit e'en my smart.
If otherwise your wrath itself would sate,
It is deceived: and none will credit show;
To Love and to myself my thanks for this I owe.
MACGREGOR.
Sonnets From The Portuguese X
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee, in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
To Mrs. Houghton Of Bourmont, On Praising Her Husband To Dr. Swift
by Jonathan Swift

You always are making a god of your spouse;
But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows;
Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due,
And you adore him, because he adores you.
Your argument's weak, and so you will find;
For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.
Moral.
by John Hartley

Yo fowk 'ats tempted to goa buy
Be careful what yo do;
Dooant be persuaded coss "its cheap,"
For if yo do yo'll rue;
Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen
To ax a friend's advice,
Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be
Bowt dear at ony price.
Prayer
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

You are all that is lovely and light,
Aziza whom I adore,
And, waking, after the night,
I am weary with dreams of you.
Every nerve in my heart is tense and sore
As I rise to another morning apart from you.
I dream of your luminous eyes,
Aziza whom I adore!
Of the ruffled silk of your hair,
I dream, and the dreams are lies.
But I love them, knowing no more
Will ever be mine of you
Aziza, my life's despair.
I would burn for a thousand days,
Aziza whom I adore,
Be tortured, slain, in unheard of ways
If you pitied the pain I bore.
You pity!    Your bright eyes, fastened on other things,
Are keener to sting my soul, than scorpion stings!
You are all that is lovely to me,
All that is light,
One white rose in a Desert of weariness.
I only live in the night,
The night, with its fair false dreams of you,
You and your loveliness.
Give me your love for a day,
A night, an hour:
If the wages of sin are Death
I am willing to pay.
What is my life but a breath
Of passion burning away?
Away for an unplucked flower.
O Aziza whom I adore,
Aziza my one delight,
Only one night, I will die before day,
And trouble your life no more.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - IV - Latitudinarianism
by William Wordsworth

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind
Charged with rich words poured out in thought's defense;
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence,
Or a Platonic Piety confined
To the sole temple of the inward mind;
And One there is who builds immortal lays,
Though doomed to tread in solitary ways,
Darkness before and danger's voice behind;
Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel
Sad thoughts; for from above the starry sphere
Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear;
And the pure spirit of celestial light
Shines through his soul, "that he may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight."
Meditation For His Mistress
by Robert Herrick

You are a Tulip seen to-day,
But, Dearest, of so short a stay,
That where you grew, scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower;
Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud,
Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine;
Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.
You are like Balm, enclosed well
In amber, or some crystal shell;
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty Violet;
Yet wither'd, ere you can be set
Within the virgins coronet.
You are the Queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
In Morte. XLIII.
by Emma Lazarus

Yon nightingale who mourns so plaintively
Perchance his fledglings or his darling mate,
Fills sky and earth with sweetness, warbling late,
Prophetic notes of melting melody.
All night, he, as it were, companions me,
Reminding me of my so cruel fate,
Mourning no other grief save mine own state,
Who knew not Death reigned o'er divinity.
How easy 't is to dupe the soul secure!
Those two fair lamps, even than the sun more bright,
Who ever dreamed to see turn clay obscure?
But Fortune has ordained, I now am sure,
That I, midst lifelong tears, should learn aright,
Naught here can make us happy, or endure.
To a Republican Friend, 1848 - Continued
by Matthew Arnold

Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem
Rather to patience prompted, than that prowl
Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud,
France, fam'd in all great arts, in none supreme.
Seeing this Vale, this Earth, whereon we dream,
Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high
Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity,
Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.
Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,
When, bursting through the network superpos'd
By selfish occupation, plot and plan,
Lust, avarice, envy liberated man,
All difference with his fellow man compos'd,
Shall be left standing face to face with God
Yon Wild Mossy Mountains.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Yon wild mossy mountains."
I.
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
II.
Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
III.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.
IV.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
V.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts.
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts.
VI.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me:
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XCV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Yet sighes, deare sighs, indeede true friends you are,
That do not leaue your best friend at the wurst,
But, as you with my breast I oft haue nurst,
So, gratefull now, you waite vpon my care.
Faint coward Ioy no longer tarry dare,
Seeing Hope yeeld when this wo strake him furst;
Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst,
Though oft himselfe my mate in Armes he sware;
Nay, Sorrow comes with such maine rage, that he
Kils his owne children (teares) finding that they
By Loue were made apt to consort with me.
Only, true Sighs, you do not goe away:
Thanke may you haue for such a thankfull part,
Thank-worthiest yet when you shall break my hart.
The War After The War
by John Le Gay Brereton

I.
Yonder, with eyes that tears, not distance, dim,
With ears the wide world's thickness cannot daunt,
We see tumultuous miseries that haunt
The night's dead watches, hear the battle hymn
Of ruin shrieking through the music grim,
Where the red spectre straddles, long and gaunt,
Spitting across the seas his hideous taunt
At those who nurse at home the unwounded limb.
What shall we say, who, drawing indolent breath,
Mark the quick pant of those who, full of hate,
Drive home the steel or loose the shrieking shell,
Heroes or Huns, who smite the grin of death
And laugh or curse beneath the blows of fate,
Swept madly to the thudding heart of hell?
II.
O peace, be still! Let no drear whirlwind sweep
Our souls about the vault, that groans or yells
In travail of the brood of Fear, and swells
Stupendous with new monsters of the deep.
This is no day to wring the hands and weep,
No hour for hopeless tolling and clash of bells.
Faith is no faith if god or demon quells
One hope or drugs it to uneasy sleep.
What you have shed man's blood for, fight for still
In world-wide conflict, joining hand with hand;
Hate fear and hatred and the seed thereof,
And, since you have struck for Freedom, do her will
And smash the barriers parting land from land,
Unfaltering armies of immortal love.
Monologue
by Charles Baudelaire

You are a lovely autumn sky, rose-clear!
But sadness is flowing in me like the sea,
And leaves on my sullen lip, as it disappears,
of its bitter slime the painful memory.
Your hand glides over my numb breast in vain:
what it seeks, dear friend, is a place made raw
by woman's ferocious fang and claw, refrain:
seek this heart, the wild beasts tear, no more.
My heart is a palace defiled by the rabble,
they drink, and murder, and clutch each other's hair!
About your naked throat a perfume hovers!...
O Beauty, harsh scourge of souls, this is your care!
With your eyes of fire, dazzling as at our feasts,
Burn these scraps to ashes, spared by the beasts!
Perversities II
by John Frederick Freeman

Yet when I am alone my eyes say, Come.
My hands cannot be still.
In that first moment all my senses ache,
Cells, that were empty fill,
The clay walls shake,
And unimprisoned thought runs where it will.
Runs and is glad and listens and doubts, and glooms
Because you are not here.
Then once more rises and is clear again
As sense is never clear,
And happy, though in vain
These eyes wait and these arms to bring you near.
Yet spite of thought my arms and eyes say, Come,
Pained with such discontent.
For though thought have you all my senses ache--
O, it was not meant
My body should never wake
But on thought's tranquil bosom rest content.
The Find
by Charles Kingsley

Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They're running - they're running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There's a gate at the bottom - I know it full well;
And they're running - they're running,
Go hark!
They're running - they're running, Go hark!
One fence and we're out of the park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they're running - they're running,
Go hark!
They're running - they're running, Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it's dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be,
While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of - They're running - they're running,
Go hark!
Eversley, 1856.
Woman
by Unknown

You are a dear, sweet girl,
God bless you and keep you -
Wish I could afford to do so.
The Homing Bee
by Emily Pauline Johnson

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
Yellow gold, like the sun
That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
When feasting is done.
You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,
Tissue winged, like the mist
That broods where the marshes melt into a line
Of vapour sun-kissed.
You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,
Flower sweets, like the touch
Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,
Of lips that love much.
You are better than I, little brother of mine,
Than I, human-souled,
For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,
For others, your gold.
The Eyes Of Beauty
by Charles Baudelaire

You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose;
But all the sea of sadness in my blood
Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose,
Salt with the memory of the bitter flood.
In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er,
That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate
By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more
Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.
It is a ruin where the jackals rest,
And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay
A perfume swims about your naked breast!
Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way!
With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared
Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared!
The Man-Of-War Hawk
by Herman Melville

Yon black man-of-war-hawk that wheels in the light
O'er the black ship's white sky-s'l, sunned cloud to the sight,
Have we low-flyers wings to ascend to his height?
No arrow can reach him; nor thought can attain
To the placid supreme in the sweep of his reign.
To The Emperor William.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

You are at least a man, of men a king.
You have a heart, and with that heart you love.
The race you come from is not gendered of
The filthy sty whose latest litter cling
Round England's flesh-pots, gorged and gluttoning.
No, but on flaming battle-fields, in courts
Of honour and of danger old resorts,
The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring.
O Father William, you, not falsely weak,
Who never spared the rod to spoil the child,
Our mighty Germany, we only speak
To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild,
Ere that near heaven your weary footsteps seek
Where love with liberty is reconciled.
Sonnet XCIII.
by Anna Seward

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud,
Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air. - 
Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere
Live the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud
Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.
They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,
View them with pitying smiles. - O! then, if e'er
Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,
For the pure friendship of our youthful days,
Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,
That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,
And lead it back to peace! - as now ye dart,
From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,
That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.
1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.