DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Mr. M'Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan.
by Robert Burns

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
See wha tak's notice o' the bard
I lap and cry'd fu' loud.
Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million:
I'll cock my nose aboon them a'
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!
'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel',
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well,
Is ay a blest infection.
Tho' by his[1] banes who in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand ay.
And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
And barley-scone shall cheer me.
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' many flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonnie lasses baith,
I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!
And GOD bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!
And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.
Beau's Reply.
by William Cowper

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.
You cried'Forbear!'but in my breast
A mightier cried'Proceed!'
'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.
Yet, much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor.
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow:
If killing birds be such a crime
(Which I can hardly see),
What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!
To Luna.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

SISTER of the first-born light,
Type of sorrowing gentleness!
Quivering mists in silv'ry dress
Float around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,
From the day-closed caverns then
Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.
O'er a field of boundless span
Looks thy gaze both far and wide.
Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man!
And to heights of rapture raised,
Let the knight so crafty peep
At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazed.
Soon the bliss of this sweet view,
Pangs by distance caused allays;
And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveil'd limbs I see
Brighter still become the glow,
And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.
The Wife's Will.
by Charlotte Bronte

Sit still, a word, a breath may break
(As light airs stir a sleeping lake)
The glassy calm that soothes my woes,
The sweet, the deep, the full repose.
O leave me not! for ever be
Thus, more than life itself to me!
Yes, close beside thee let me kneel,
Give me thy hand, that I may feel
The friend so true, so tried, so dear,
My heart's own chosen, indeed is near;
And check me not, this hour divine
Belongs to me, is fully mine.
'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside,
After long absence, wandering wide;
'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes
A promise clear of stormless skies;
For faith and true love light the rays
Which shine responsive to her gaze.
Ay, well that single tear may fall;
Ten thousand might mine eyes recall,
Which from their lids ran blinding fast,
In hours of grief, yet scarcely past;
Well mayst thou speak of love to me,
For, oh!    most truly, I love thee!
Yet smile, for we are happy now.
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow?
What sayst thou?" We muse once again,
Ere long, be severed by the main!"
I knew not this, I deemed no more
Thy step would err from Britain's shore.
"Duty commands!" 'Tis true, 'tis just;
Thy slightest word I wholly trust,
Nor by request, nor faintest sigh,
Would I to turn thy purpose try;
But, William, hear my solemn vow,
Hear and confirm! with thee I go.
"Distance and suffering," didst thou say?
"Danger by night, and toil by day?"
Oh, idle words and vain are these;
Hear me! I cross with thee the seas.
Such risk as thou must meet and dare,
I, thy true wife, will duly share.
Passive, at home, I will not pine;
Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine;
Grant this, and be hereafter paid
By a warm heart's devoted aid:
'Tis granted, with that yielding kiss,
Entered my soul unmingled bliss.
Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy,
Pure, undefiled with base alloy;
'Tis not a passion, false and blind,
Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind;
Worthy, I feel, art thou to be
Loved with my perfect energy.
This evening now shall sweetly flow,
Lit by our clear fire's happy glow;
And parting's peace-embittering fear,
Is warned our hearts to come not near;
For fate admits my soul's decree,
In bliss or bale, to go with thee!
Insight
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sirs, when you pity us, I say
You waste your pity.    Let it stay,
Well corked and stored upon your shelves,
Until you need it for yourselves.
We do appreciate God's thought
In forming you, before He brought
Us into life.    His art was crude,
But oh! so virile in its rude,
Large, elemental strength; and then
He learned His trade in making men,
Learned how to mix and mould the clay
And fashion in a finer way.
How fine that skilful way can be
You need but lift your eyes to see;
And we are glad God placed you there
To lift your eyes and find us fair.
Apprentice labour though you were,
He made you great enough to stir
The best and deepest depths of us,
And we are glad He made you thus.
Aye! we are glad of many things;
God strung our hearts with such fine strings
The least breath moves them, and we hear
Music where silence greets your ear.
We suffer so?    But women's souls,
Like violet-powder dropped on coals,
Give forth their best in anguish.    Oh
The subtle secrets that we know
Of joy in sorrow, strange delights
Of ecstasy in pain-filled nights,
And mysteries of gain in loss
Known but to Christ upon the cross!
Our tears are pitiful to you?
Look how the heaven-reflecting dew
Dissolves its life in tears.    The sand
Meanwhile lies hard upon the strand.
How could your pity find a place
For us, the mothers of the race?
Men may be fathers unaware,
So poor the title is you wear.
But mothers - who that crown adorns
Knows all its mingled blooms and thorns,
And she whose feet that pain hath trod
Hath walked upon the heights with God.
No, offer us not pity's cup.
There is no looking down or up
Between us; eye looks straight in eye:
Born equals, so we live and die.
In Remembrance
by Arthur Macy

[W. L. C.]
Sit closer, friends, around the board!
Death grants us yet a little time.
Now let the cheering cup be poured,
And welcome song and jest and rhyme.
Enjoy the gifts that fortune sends.
Sit closer, friends!
And yet, we pause. With trembling lip
We strive the fitting phrase to make;
Remembering our fellowship,
Lamenting Destiny's mistake.
We marvel much when Fate offends,
And claims our friends.
Companion of our nights of mirth,
Where all were merry who were wise;
Does Death quite understand your worth,
And know the value of his prize?
I doubt me if he comprehends - 
He knows no friends.
And in that realm is there no joy
Of comrades and the jocund sense?
Can Death so utterly destroy - 
For gladness grant no recompense?
And can it be that laughter ends
With absent friends?
Oh, scholars whom we wisest call,
Who solve great questions at your ease,
We ask the simplest of them all,
And yet you cannot answer these!
And is it thus your knowledge ends,
To comfort friends?
Dear Omar! should You chance to meet
Our Brother Somewhere in the Gloom,
Pray give to Him a Message sweet,
From Brothers in the Tavern Room.
He will not ask who 'tis that sends,
For We were Friends.
Again a parting sail we see;
Another boat has left the shore.
A kinder soul on board has she
Than ever left the land before.
And as her outward course she bends,
Sit closer, friends!
A Song Of Singers
by Richard Le Gallienne

Singers all along the street,
Singing every kind of song - 
One man's song is honey-sweet,
One man's song is hammer-strong;
Yet, however sweet the singing,
However strong the hammer-swinging, - 
All the bees are round that honey
Which the vulgar world calls money.
Singers all along the street - 
One sings Love and one sings Death,
Roses sings one and little feet,
And one sings wine with fevered breath;
Yet all the bees are round that honey
Which the vulgar world calls money.
Singers singing down the street,
I believe there is a song,
Could you sing it, that would beat
All the sweet and all the strong;
Just a simple song of pity,
'Mid the iron of the city.
Singers all the street along,
There is still another song
All the world is waiting, breathless,
Just to hear some poet singing,
Song of something gay and deathless
'Mid the grinding dark endeavour
That goes on and on for ever,
Something more than mere words bringing,
Something more than butterflies,
Or the sugared ancient lies,
Something with the ring of truth,
And the majesty of youth,
Something singing "all is well"
In the blackest pit of hell!
O we are so tired of birds,
Of rainbows and the love-sick words!
Sing us but some manly tune,
(Leaving out the rising moon)
Sing the song of Hope Eternal
In the face of Facts Infernal,
And make your singing somehow prove it - 
Faith so firm no doubt can move it - 
Then the bees will leave the honey
Which the vulgar world calls money.
To Annie On Her Birthday.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away,
Since first, 'mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true,
I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,
On the green sod where Erin's shamrock grew.
'Twas in that age that ne'er returns again,
Whose tears are but as dew on Summer flowers;
And young, warm hearts beat kindly round us then,
And eyes beamed brightly, answering love to ours
And now an exile from my native land,
Thinking of well remembered, loved Grace Hill,
To mine own sister verses I will send,
Worthless, yet proving that I love her still
It is thy birthday, and I am alone,
Thinking of that dear land that gave us birth,
The land of hearts that beat to truth alone,
The brightest emerald gem of all the earth.
These fond regrets that press around my heart,
And bring a pain I cannot rise above,
Makes thee still dearer here, alone, apart,
For fate has left me nothing else to love.
Changing life and ever swallowing death,
Have taken what I loved against my will,
But, never mind, for thou, kind hearted, true,
Changeless and noble, thou art left me still.
Happy returns I surely wish thee, Ann,
In this new land that's fated to be ours,
And may you have a happy heart, that can
Enjoy the sunshine, and endure the showers.
The Thrush Sings
by John Frederick Freeman

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....
How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?
Or though forgetting, sing--and she is dead?
O hush,
Untimely, truant Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!"
Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead."
O hush,
Untimely, grievous Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead,
I sing her who is living, and no more dead,
I sing her joy--she is no longer dead."
O hush,
Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!
Upon Skoles. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath
His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe;
Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast
Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last.
Skyscrapers
by Lola Ridge

Skyscrapers... remote, unpartisan...
Turning neither to the right nor left
Your imperturbable fronts....
Austerely greeting the sun
With one chilly finger of stone....
I know your secrets... better than all the policemen like fat blue mullet along the avenues.
The Vision.
by Robert Herrick

Sitting alone, as one forsook,
Close by a silver-shedding brook,
With hands held up to love, I wept;
And after sorrows spent I slept:
Then in a vision I did see
A glorious form appear to me:
A virgin's face she had; her dress
Was like a sprightly Spartaness.
A silver bow, with green silk strung,
Down from her comely shoulders hung:
And as she stood, the wanton air
Dangled the ringlets of her hair.
Her legs were such Diana shows
When, tucked up, she a-hunting goes;
With buskins shortened to descry
The happy dawning of her thigh:
Which when I saw, I made access
To kiss that tempting nakedness:
But she forbade me with a wand
Of myrtle she had in her hand:
And, chiding me, said: Hence, remove,
Herrick, thou art too coarse to love.
Desire
by Paul Cameron Brown

Sleep is a striking woman
accosted by various men
while in a dance;
the warring desires thus
present themselves as on
a battlefield - 
hunger comes arrayed with
red plumes to befit
his appetites,
sensuality somewhat
decked out as a dandy
in a mauve waistcoat
and, of course, there is
Fear, the most thwarted
of the suitors, bejewelled with a
flashing sabre, rattling it from
the tail of his skinny stick horse,
the pale charger riding
to intercept the beautiful courtesan Sleep
bestowing her favours illicitly
wherein she would but choose.
Mistletoe
by Walter De La Mare

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen - and kissed me there.
Six Months To Six Years Added He Remained
by William Wordsworth

Six months to six years added he remained
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained:
O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed
A Child whom every eye that looked on loved;
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine!
Minora Sidera
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(The Dictionary Of National Biography)
Sitting at times over a hearth that burns
With dull domestic glow,
My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns
To you who planned it so.
Not of the great only you deigned to tell---
The stars by which we steer---
But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell
Tonight again, are here.
Such as were those, dogs of an elder day,
Who sacked the golden ports,
And those later who dared grapple their prey
Beneath the harbour forts:
Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world
To find an equal fight,
And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled
Ships of the line in flight.
Whether their fame centuries long should ring
They cared not over-much,
But cared greatly to serve God and the king,
And keep the Nelson touch;
And fought to build Britain above the tide
Of wars and windy fate;
And passed content, leaving to us the pride
Of lives obscurely great.
Upon Skrew. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Skrew lives by shifts; yet swears by no small oaths
For all his shifts he cannot shift his clothes.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Soul's Apology.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Ben sei mila anni.
Six thousand years or more on earth I've been:
Witness those histories of nations dead,
Which for our age I have illustrated
In philosophic volumes, scene by scene.
And thou, mere mite, seeing my sun serene
Eclipsed, wilt argue that I had no head
To live by.--Why not try the sun instead,
If nought in fate unfathomed thou hast seen?
If wise men, whom the world rebukes, combined
With tyrant wolves, brute beasts we should become.
The sage, once stoned for sin, you canonise.
When rennet melts, much milk makes haste to bind.
The more you blow the flames, the more they rise,
Bloom into stars, and find in heaven their home.
Grondad's Lullaby.
by John Hartley

Sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near,
Noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear;
Innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik,
Grondad wod give up his life for thy sake,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Through the thick mist of past years aw luk back,
Vainly aw try to discover the track
Buried, alas! for no trace can aw see,
Ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Smilin in slumber, - dreamin ov bliss,
Feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss;
Richer bi far nor a king on his throne,
Fearlessly facing a future unknown.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
What wod aw give could aw once agean be,
Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee;
May noa grief give thee occasion to weep,
Blessins attend thee! - Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
In The Pass Of Killicranky
by William Wordsworth

Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed
Against an equal host that wore the plaid,
Shepherds and herdsmen. Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road,
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
Of the dead bodies. 'Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
O for a single hour of that Dundee,
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave.
In The Mist.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Sitting all day in a silver mist,
In silver silence all the day,
Save for the low, soft kiss of spray,
And the lisp of sands by waters kissed,
As the tide draws up the bay.
Little I hear and nothing I see,
Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun;
The solid earth is vanished for me,
And the shining hours speed noiselessly,
A web of shadow and sun.
Suddenly out of the shifting veil
A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit,
Flits like a dream,--or seems to flit,--
With a golden prow and a gossamer sail,
And the waves make room for it.
A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm,
Its diamond cordage cuts the sky
In glittering lines; all silently
A seeming spirit holds the helm
And steers: will he pass me by?
Ah, not for me is the vessel here!
Noiseless and fast as a sea-bird's, flight,
She swerves and vanishes from my sight;
No flap of sail, no parting cheer,--
She has passed into the light.
Sitting some day in a deeper mist,
Silent, alone, some other day,
An unknown bark from an unknown bay,
By unknown waters lapped and kissed,
Shall near me through the spray.
No flap of sail, no scraping of keel:
Shadow, dim, with a banner dark,
It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel
A hand which beckons, and, shivering, steal
To the cold strand and embark.
Embark for that far mysterious realm,
Whence the fathomless, trackless waters flow.
Shall I see a Presence dim, and know
A Gracious Hand upon the helm,
Nor be afraid to go?
And through black wave and stormy blast,
And out of the fog-wreath dense and dun,
Guided and held, shall the vessel run,
Gain the fair haven, night being past,
And anchor in the sun?
Whale And Its Foes.
by James McIntyre

Six hundred miles north of Cape Flattery,
On sea there seemed a floating battery,
And stream of blood did dye the water,
Sailors wondered what was the matter.
But they soon saw a great sword fish
With its bayonet make a quick rush,
Into which proved to be large whale,
And thrasher too did it assail.
The whale dived deep to save its life,
But thrasher eager for the strife,
Knew whale must rise for to get breath,
Then it would thrash the whale to death.
At last the great whale it arose,
And in distress it spouts and blows,
In anger sweeps its mighty tail,
Defensive weapon of the whale.
But thrasher high in air did leap,
And fell on monster of the deep,
The sword fish then it did advance,
And assaulted it with its lance.
Thus united foes soon do prevail,
And quick there floated a dead whale,
The thrasher now victorious winner,
From off the whale expected dinner.
But ship's crew they secured the prize,
Whale bone and blubber monster size,
Others fought but they only reap,
The spoils of mammoth of the deep.
Sonnets: Idea XXXVIII
by Michael Drayton

Sitting alone, love bids me go and write;
Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay,
Boasting that she doth still direct the way,
Or else love were unable to indite.
Love growing angry, vex'd at the spleen,
And scorning reason's maim'd argument,
Straight taxeth reason, wanting to invent
Where she with love conversing hath not been.
Reason reproach'd with this coy disdain,
Despiteth love, and laugheth at her folly;
And love contemning reason's reason wholly,
Thought it in weight too light by many a grain.
Reason put back doth out of sight remove,
And love alone picks reason out of love.
Satires Of Circumstances In Fifteen Glimpses - III By Her Aunt's Grave
by Thomas Hardy

"Sixpence a week," says the girl to her lover,
"Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide
In me alone, she vowed. 'Twas to cover
The cost of her headstone when she died.
And that was a year ago last June;
I've not yet fixed it. But I must soon."
"And where is the money now, my dear?"
"O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was SO slow
In saving it eighty weeks, or near." . . .
"Let's spend it," he hints. "For she won't know.
There's a dance to-night at the Load of Hay."
She passively nods. And they go that way.
Juniper Trees
by Paul Cameron Brown

Sitting as Buddha on a chocolate juniper
- the theme of madness
thirty cinnamon centres
Ophelia squares;
Brunelleschi floating down a fallen river
on nougats, perhaps onyx pears.
The sleek eyes of a cat stare floodlit topaz,
ocelot rings round her burning mask.
And sipping dry wine
Beaujolais, decantered Anjou
with iron doors not Ghiberti's fashioning but sweet meadows waving
fresh, summer grass.
And I at the garnet Buddha box - 
a cold winter day pledging choices
pale, juniper tree
the carnival log egging up thick cordial;
the inlaid satin box hovering about silent, apple wedge
a child's fantasy, orgeat or bordeaux,
lactose fudge, bon app'tit
syrupy taste of Burgundy cherry.
The axe ring of squirting tissue
with drone of passing feet
up finger stairs
until the rustle of cloth
crosses the turquoise box,
clamours almond clusters
into the courtyard cafe.