DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Spring Song
by Victor James Daley

I am the Vision and the Dream
Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth;
I am the Sorceress Supreme.
I am Illusion; I am Truth.
I am the Queen to whom belongs
The royal right great gifts to give;
I am the Singer of the Songs
That lure men on to live and live.
There is no music like to mine;
I sing in green, and gold and red;
I pour from secret casks the wine
That cheers the cold hearts of the dead.
My harp it has a thousand tones,
And makes the world with joy a-flood;
The old men feel it in their bones,
And life leaps laughing in their blood.
The sourest mortal all in vain
Shall try from me to keep apart;
I have no commerce with his brain,
I storm the fortress of his heart.
I am the Soul of things to come;
I make a lover from a log;
I make a poet of the dumb;
I make a seraph of a frog.
The lover with a wrecked romance,
The gambler by misfortune struck,
I bring to them another chance-
New life, new times, new love, new luck.
My names are all the names impearled
In all the songs my singers sing;
I am the sweetheart of the world,
I am Carissima-the Spring!
Mesalliance.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I am troubled to-night with a curious pain;
It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain,
Nor yet of a heart that is breaking:
But down still deeper, and out of sight - 
In the place where the soul and the body unite - 
There lies the scat of the aching.
They have been lovers in days gone by;
But the soul is fickle, and longs to fly
From the fettering mesalliance:
And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so,
And pleads with the body to let her go,
But he will not yield compliance.
For the body loves, as he loved in the past,
When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast,
And swears that he will not loose her;
That he will keep her and hide her away
For ever and ever and for a day
From the arms of Death, the seducer.
Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me - 
The strife 'twixt a soul that would be free
And a body that will not let her.
And I say to my soul, "Be calm, and wait;
For I tell ye truly that soon or late
Ye surely shall drop each fetter."
And I say to the body, "Be kind, I pray;
For the soul is not of thy mortal clay,
But is formed in spirit fashion."
And still through the hours of the solemn night
I can hear my sad soul's plea for flight,
And my body's reply of passion.
Ojira, to Her Lover
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

I am waiting in the desert, looking out towards the sunset,
And counting every moment till we meet.
I am waiting by the marshes and I tremble and I listen
Till the soft sands thrill beneath your coming feet.
Till I see you, tall and slender, standing clear against the skyline
A graceful shade across the lingering red,
While your hair the breezes ruffle, turns to silver in the twilight,
And makes a fair faint aureole round your head.
Far away towards the sunset I can see a narrow river,
That unwinds itself in red tranquillity;
I can hear its rippled meeting, and the gurgle of its greeting,
As it mingles with the loved and long sought sea.
In the purple sky above me showing dark against the starlight,
Long wavering flights of homeward birds fly low,
They cry each one to the other, and their weird and wistful calling,
Makes most melancholy music as they go.
Oh, my dearest hasten, hasten!    It is lonely here.    Already
Have I heard the jackals' first assembling cry,
And among the purple shadows of the mangroves and the marshes
Fitful echoes of their footfalls passing by.
Ah, come soon! my arms are empty, and so weary for your beauty,
I am thirsty for the music of your voice.
Come to make the marshes joyous with the sweetness of your presence,
Let your nearing feet bid all the sands rejoice!
My hands, my lips are feverish with the longing and the waiting
And no softness of the twilight soothes their heat,
Till I see your radiant eyes, shining stars beneath the starlight,
Till I kiss the slender coolness of your feet.
Ah, loveliest, most reluctant, when you lay yourself beside me
All the planets reel around me - fade away,
And the sands grow dim, uncertain, - I stretch out my hands towards you
While I try to speak but know not what I say!
I am faint with love and longing, and my burning eyes are gazing
Where the furtive Jackals wage their famished strife,
Oh, your shadow on the mangroves! and your step upon the sandhills, - 
This is the loveliest evening of my Life!
America
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I am the refuge of all the oppressed,
I am the boast of the free,
I am the harbour where ships may rest
Safely 'twixt sea and sea.
I hold up a torch to a darkened world,
I lighten the path with its ray.
Let my hand keep steady
And let me be ready
For whatever comes my way - 
Let me be ready.
Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns,
Better than lance or spear,
Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons,
Faithful and without fear.
But my daughters and sons must understand
THAT ATTILA DID NOT DIE.
And they must be ready,
Their hands must be steady,
If the hosts of hell come nigh - 
They must be ready.
If Jesus were back on the earth with men,
He would not preach to-day
Until He had made Him a scourge, and again
He would drive the defilers away.
He would throw down the tables of lust and greed
And scatter the changers' gold.
He would be ready,
His hand would be steady,
As it was in that temple of old - 
He would be ready.
I am the cradle of God's new world,
From me shall the new race rise,
And my glorious banner must float unfurled,
Unsullied against the skies.
My sons and daughters must be my strength,
With courage to do and to dare,
With hearts that are ready,
With hands that are steady,
And their slogan must be, PREPARE! - 
They must be ready!
With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms,
For after all has been said,
We must muster guns,
If we master Huns - 
AND ATTILA IS NOT DEAD - 
We must be ready!
Zulalie.
by Eric Mackay

Zulalie.
I.
I am the sprite
That reigns at night,
My body is fair for man's delight.
I leap and laugh
As the wine I quaff,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
II.
I curse and swear
In my demon-lair;
I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair.
I madden the old,
I gladden the bold,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
III.
Of churchyard stone
I have made my throne;
My locks are looped with a dead man's bone.
Mine eyes are red
With the tears I shed,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
IV.
In cities and camps
I have lighted my lamps,
My kisses are caught by kings and tramps.
With rant and revel
My hair I dishevel,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
V.
My kisses are stains,
Mine arms are chains,
My forehead is fair and false like Cain's.
My gain is loss,
Mine honour is dross, -
And I am the queen of Astrofelle!
The Time That Is To Be.
by Marietta Holley

I am thinking of fern forests that once did towering stand,
Crowning all the barren mountains, shading all the dreary land.
Oh, the dreadful, quiet brooding, the solitude sublime,
That reigned like shadowy spectres o'er the third great day of time.
In long, low lines the tideless seas on dull gray shores did break,
No song of bird, no gleam of wing, o'er wood or reedy lake - 
No flowers perfumed the pulseless air, no stars, no moon, no sun
To tell in silver language, night was past, or day was done.
Only silence rising with the ghostly morning's misty light,
Silence, silence, settling down upon the moonless, starless night.
And the ferns, and giant mosses, noiseless sentinels did stand,
Looking o'er the tideless ocean, watching o'er the dreary land.
Ferns gave place to glowing olives, and clusters dropping wine,
Mosses changed to oaken tissues, and cleft to fragrant pine.
Deft and noiseless fingers toiled, and wrought the great Creator's plan,
Through countless ages moulding earth for the abode of man.
Till each imperial day was bound by sunset's crimson bars,
The purple columns of the night crowned with the shining stars.
The ripe fruit seeks the sunlight through all the clustering leaves
The earth is decked with golden maize, and costly yellow sheaves.
Countless silent centuries passed in fashioning good that doth appear,
Shall we weary and grow hopeless, waiting for the Golden Year?
*    *    *    *    *
Thy kingdom come, in which Thy will is done,
From myriad souls rises the yearning cry;
Scatter palm-boughs - behold, a brighter sun
Shall dawn in splendor, in a clearer sky;
Upon the distant hills a glow we see,
That tells us of the Time that is to be.
The desert then shall blossom like the rose,
The almond flourish on the rocky slopes;
Wisdom and beauty in rare union close,
Making earth beautiful beyond our hopes.
High in the dusky east a star we see,
A herald of the Time that is to be.
The free-born soul shall not be captive then,
Bound by decaying cords of narrow creeds,
God's image shall more clearly shine in men,
Divinely shaped by holy aims and deeds.
Gleam, golden star, oh gleam o'er earth and sea,
A herald of the Time that is to be.
Fetters are broken, so the fern-leaves fall,
A richer growth is budding, wondrous fair,
The flower of liberty shall bloom for all,
And all shall breathe the healing of the air;
The blessed air that wraps a people free,
Within that glorious Time that is to be.
For what is slavery but woe and crime,
And freedom is but liberty from these;
Oh perfect hours, ye come, fair and sublime,
Bearing the sweet form of the baby, Peace,
Shine, golden star, oh shine o'er earth and sea,
A herald of the Time that is to be.
Translations. - Part I. Sonnet Lix. (From Petrarch.)
by George MacDonald

I am so weary with the burden old
Of foregone faults, and power of custom base,
That much I fear to perish from the ways,
And fall into my enemy's grim fold.
True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold,
Came, of ineffable and utmost grace--
Then straightway vanished from before my face,
So that in vain I strive him to behold.
But his voice yet comes echoing below:
O ye that labour, the way open lies!
Come unto me lest some one shut the gate!
--What heavenly grace--what love will--or what fate--
The pinions of a dove on me bestow
That I may rest, and from the earth arise?
The Gao Flower
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

I am the Gao flower high in a tree,
You are the grass Long Mai on the path-side.
When heat comes down after the dews of morning
The flower grows pale and tumbles on the grass,
The grass Long Mai that keeps the fallen Gao.
Folk who let their daughters grow
Without achieving a husband
Might easily forget to fence their garden,
Or let their radishes grow flower and rank
When they could eat them ripe and tender.
Come to me, you that I see walk
Every night in a red turban;
Young man with the white turban, come to me.
We will plant marrows together in a garden,
And there may be little marrows for your children.
I will dye your turban blue and red and yellow,
You with the white turban.
You that are passing with a load of water,
I call you
And you do not even turn your head.
Song of Annam.
The Recall
by Rudyard Kipling

I am the land of their fathers,
In me the virtue stays.
I will bring back my children,
After certain days.
Under their feet in the grasses
My clinging magic runs.
They shall return as strangers.
They shall remain as sons.
Over their heads in the branches
Of their new-bought, ancient trees,
I weave an incantation
And draw them to my knees.
Scent of smoke in the evening,
Smell of rain in the night,
The hours, the days and the seasons,
Order their souls aright,
Till I make plain the meaning
Of all my thousand years,
Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,
While I fill their eyes with tears.
Ambition And Art
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

I am the maid of the lustrous eyes
Of great fruition,
Whom the sons of men that are over-wise
Have called Ambition.
And the world's success is the only goal
I have within me;
The meanest man with the smallest soul
May woo and win me.
For the lust of power and the pride of place
To all I proffer.
Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race
For what I offer?
The choice is thine, and the world is wide,
Thy path is lonely.
I may not lead and I may not guide,
I urge thee only.
I am just a whip and a spur that smites
To fierce endeavour.
In the restless days and the sleepless nights
I urge thee ever.
Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry,
In fright unleaping
At a rival's step as it passes by
Whilst thou art sleeping.
Honour and truth shall be overthrown
In fierce desire;
Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone
To mount thee higher.
When the curtain falls on the sordid strife
That seemed so splendid,
Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life
That thou hast ended.
Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small
In fitful flashes;
There has been reward, but the end of all
Is dust and ashes.
For the night has come and it brings to naught
Thy projects cherished,
And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought,
"He lived, and perished."
Art
I wait for thee at the outer gate,
My love, mine only;
Wherefore tarriest thou so late
While I am lonely?
Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift;
In thee implanted
Is the love of Art and the greatest gift
That God has granted.
And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs
Shall seem but small things,
Poet or painter, or singer of songs,
Thine art is all things.
For the wine of life is a woman's love
To keep beside thee;
But the love of Art is a thing above,
A star to guide thee.
As the years go by with the love of Art
All undiminished,
Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart,
Thy work is finished.
So the painter fashions a picture strong
That fadeth never,
And the singer singeth a wondrous song
That lives for ever.
An Afternoon
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon
Of a perfect day - though it was not June;
The lilt of winds, and the droning tune
That a busy city was humming.
And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine
Leaning out through the window-vine
A-list for steps that were maybe mine - 
Eager steps that were coming.
I can see it all, as a dreamer may - 
The tender smile on your lips that day,
And the glow on your cheek as we rode away
Into the golden weather.
And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown - 
I swear there did! - as we drove down
The crowded avenue out of the town,
Through shadowy lanes, together:
Drove out into the sunset-skies
That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes;
And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes,
We silently drank their splendour.
But the golden glory that lit the place
Was not alone from the sunset's grace - 
For I saw in your fair, uplifted face
A light that was wondrously tender.
I say I saw it.    And yet to-day
I ask myself, in a cynical way,
Was it only a part you had learned to play,
To see me act the lover?
And I curse myself for a fool.    And yet
I would willingly die without one regret
Could I bring back the day whose sun has set - 
And you - and live it over.
Flora.
by William Morris

I am the handmaid of the earth,
I broider fair her glorious gown,
And deck her on her days of mirth
With many a garland of renown.
And while Earth's little ones are fain
And play about the Mother's hem
I scatter every gift I gain
From sun and wind to gladden them.
A Lieutenant General Sings
by Alfred Lichtenstein

I am the Division Commander,
His Excellency.
I have attained what is humanly possible.
A lovely consciousness.
In front of me
Important people and chiefs of regiments
Bend their knees,
And my generals
Obey my commands.
God willing, my next command will be
An entire military corps.
Women, drama, music
Do not interest me much.
Compared to parades and battles,
That does not amount to much.
Would that there were an endless war
With bloody, howling winds.
Ordinary life
Has no charm for me.
Tapestry Trees.
by William Morris

Oak.
I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;
I bridge the seas for woe and weal.
Fir.
High o'er the lordly oak I stand,
And drive him on from land to land.
Ash.
I heft my brother's iron bane;
I shaft the spear, and build the wain.
Yew.
Dark down the windy dale I grow,
The father of the fateful Bow.
Poplar.
The war-shaft and the milking-bowl
I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.
Olive.
The King I bless; the lamps I trim;
In my warm wave do fishes swim.
Apple-tree.
I bowed my head to Adam's will;
The cups of toiling men I fill.
Vine.
I draw the blood from out the earth;
I store the sun for winter mirth.
Orange-tree.
Amidst the greenness of my night,
My odorous lamps hang round and bright.
Fig-tree.
I who am little among trees
In honey-making mate the bees.
Mulberry-tree.
Love's lack hath dyed my berries red:
For Love's attire my leaves are shed.
Pear-tree.
High o'er the mead-flowers' hidden feet
I bear aloft my burden sweet.
Bay.
Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown
Of living song and dead renown!
The Ballade Of The Mistletoe Bough
by Ellis Parker Butler

I am standing under the mistletoe,
And I smile, but no answering smile replies
For her haughty glance bids me plainly know
That not for me is the thing I prize;
Instead, from her coldly scornful eyes,
Indifference looks on my barefaced guile;
She knows, of course, what my act implies,
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?
I stand here, eager, and beam and glow,
And she only looks a refined surprise
As clear and crisp and as cold as snow,
And as, Stop! I will never criticise!
I know what her cold glance signifies;
But I'll stand just here as I am awhile
Till a smile to my pleading look replies,
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?
Just look at those lips, now! I claim they show
A spirit unmeet under Christmas skies;
I claim that such lips on such maidens owe
A'something'the custom justifies;
I claim that the mistletoe rule applies
To her as well as the rank and file;
We should meet these things in a cheerful guise,
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?
Envoy
These customs of Christmas may shock the wise,
And mistletoe boughs may be out of style,
And a kiss be a thing that all maids despise,
But look at those lips, do! They hint a smile!
The Exile
by Walter De La Mare

I am that Adam who, with Snake for guest,
Hid anguished eyes upon Eve's piteous breast.
I am that Adam who, with broken wings,
Fled from the Seraph's brazen trumpetings.
Betrayed and fugitive, I still must roam
A world where sin, and beauty, whisper of Home.
Oh, from wide circuit, shall at length I see
Pure daybreak lighten again on Eden's tree?
Loosed from remorse and hope and love's distress,
Enrobe me again in my lost nakedness?
No more with wordless grief a loved one grieve,
But to Heaven's nothingness re-welcome Eve?
I Am The World
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

I am the song, that rests upon the cloud;
I am the sun:
I am the dawn, the day, the hiding shroud,
When dusk is done.
I am the changing colours of the tree;
The flower uncurled:
I am the melancholy of the sea;
I am the world.
The other souls that, passing in their place,
Each in their groove;
Out-stretching hands that chain me and embrace,
Speak and reprove.
'O atom of that law, by which the earth
Is poised and whirled;
Behold! you hurrying with the crowd assert
You are the world.'
Am I not one with all the things that be
Warm in the sun?
All that my ears can hear, or eyes can see,
Till all be done.
Of song and shine, of changing leaf apart,
Of bud uncurled:
With all the senses pulsing at my heart,
I am the world.
One day the song that drifts upon the wind,
I shall not hear;
Nor shall the rosy shoots to eyes grown blind
Again appear.
Deaf, in the dark, I shall arise and throw
From off my soul,
The withered world with all its joy and woe,
That was my goal.
I shall arise, and like a shooting star
Slip from my place;
So lingering see the old world from afar
Revolve in space.
And know more things than all the wise may know
Till all be done;
Till One shall come who, breathing on the stars,
Blows out the sun.
Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket
by Vachel Lindsay

I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.
My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute - he pets his fancies - 
Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal,
Tho' all men plan to live in harmony.
Come, let us vote against our human nature,
Crying to God in all the polling places
To heal our everlasting sinfulness
And make us sages with transfigured faces.
Crazy Jane On The Mountain
by William Butler Yeats

I am tired of cursing the Bishop,
(Said Crazy Jane)
Nine books or nine hats
Would not make him a man.
I have found something worse
To meditate on.
A King had some beautiful cousins.
But where are they gone?
Battered to death in a cellar,
And he stuck to his throne.
Last night I lay on the mountain.
(Said Crazy Jane)
There in a two-horsed carriage
That on two wheels ran
Great-bladdered Emer sat.
Her violent man
Cuchulain sat at her side;
Thereupon'
Propped upon my two knees,
I kissed a stone
I lay stretched out in the dirt
And I cried tears down.
Letter XIV. The Owl In Reply To The Wood-Pigeon. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)
by Robert Bloomfield

DISTRESSED NEIGHBOUR,
I am sorry for your trouble, but cheer up your spirits, and though you are insulted, remember who it is that gives the affront, it is only the magpie; and depend upon it that in general the best way to deal with impudent fools is to be silent and take no notice of them. I should have enough to do if I were to resent all her impertinences. She will come sometimes round the ivy where I lodge in the old elm, or into the tower on the top of the hill; and there she will pimp and pry into my private concerns, and mob me, and call me "Old Wigsby" and "Doctor Winkum," and such kind of names, and all for nothing. I assure you it is well for her that she is not a mouse, or she should not long escape my talons; but who ever heard of such a thing as eating a magpie? I live chiefly on mice (when I am at liberty to catch them), but I have my complaints to make as well as you, for you know I hold a high situation in the Post-office, and I suppose you know, likewise, that the letters are brought in so very late that it often takes me half the night to sort them, and night is the very time when I ought to get my own food! At this rate of going on, and if the cats are industrious as usual, there will not be a mouse left for me, if I do not give up my place.
I have heard that my family are famed for wisdom; but for my part I will not boast of any such thing: yet I am wise enough to know that other people in high offices expect either a good salary or perquisites, as a reward for their labour, or what is easier still, somebody to do all the work for them. If I hold in my present mind until next quarter, I will certainly send in my resignation. Thus you see what an important thing it is to suit the person to the office, or the office to the person on whom it is conferred; for had the magpie, for instance, been secretary, every one of the letters would have been peeped into, for a certainty, for nothing can escape her curiosity. I will try to bear with my situation a little longer, and believe me to be
Your true friend,
SECRETARY TO THE BOARD OF MANAGERS.
A Variation
by James Whitcomb Riley

I am tired of this!
Nothing else but loving!
Nothing else but kiss and kiss,
Coo, and turtle-doving!
Can't you change the order some?
Hate me just a little - come!
Lay aside your "dears,"
"Darlings," "kings," and "princes!" -
Call me knave, and dry your tears -
Nothing in me winces, -
Call me something low and base -
Something that will suit the case!
Wish I had your eyes
And their drooping lashes!
I would dry their teary lies
Up with lightning-flashes -
Make your sobbing lips unsheathe
All the glitter of your teeth!
Can't you lift one word -
With some pang of laughter -
Louder than the drowsy bird
Crooning 'neath the rafter?
Just one bitter word, to shriek
Madly at me as I speak!
How I hate the fair
Beauty of your forehead!
How I hate your fragrant hair!
How I hate the torrid
Touches of your splendid lips,
And the kiss that drips and drips!
Ah, you pale at last!
And your face is lifted
Like a white sail to the blast,
And your hands are shifted
Into fists: and, towering thus,
You are simply glorious!
Now before me looms
Something more than human;
Something more than beauty blooms
In the wrath of Woman -
Something to bow down before
Reverently and adore.