DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Likeness
by Robert Browning

Some people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup:
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
Asks 'Who was the lady, I wonder?'
''T is a daub John bought at a sale,'
Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder:
'What a shade beneath her nose!
'Snuff-taking, I suppose,'
Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail.
Or else, there 's no wife in the case,
But the portrait 's queen of the place,
Alone mid the other spoils
Of youth, masks, gloves and foils,
And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,
And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
And the cast from a fist ('not, alas! mine,
'But my master's, the Tipton Slasher'),
And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,
And a satin shoe used for cigar-case,
And the chamois-horns ('shot in the Chablais')
And prints Rarey drumming on Cruiser,
And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser,
And the little edition of Rabelais:
Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets,
May saunter up close to examine it,
And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it,
'But the eyes are half out of their sockets;
'That hair 's not so bad, where the gloss is,
'But they've made the girl's nose a proboscis:
'Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy!
'What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?'
All that I own is a print,
An etching, a mezzotint;
'T is a study, a fancy, a fiction,
Yet a fact (take my conviction)
Because it has more than a hint
Of a certain face, I never
Saw elsewhere touch or trace of
In women I 've seen the face of:
Just an etching, and, so far, clever.
I keep my prints, an imbroglio,
Fifty in one portfolio.
When somebody tries my claret,
We turn round chairs to the fire,
Chirp over days in a garret,
Chuckle o'er increase of salary,
Taste the good fruits of our leisure,
Talk about pencil and lyre,
And the National Portrait Gallery:
Then I exhibit my treasure.
After we 've turned over twenty,
And the debt of wonder my crony owes
Is paid to my Marc Antonios,
He stops me 'Festina lent'!
'What's that sweet thing there, the etching?'
How my waistcoat-strings want stretching,
How my cheeks grow red as tomatos,
How my heart leaps ! But hearts, after leaps, ache.
'By the by, you must take, for a keepsake,
'That other, you praised, of Volpato's.'
The fool! would he try a flight further and say
He never saw, never before to-day,
What was able to take his breath away,
A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
With the dream of, meet death with, why, I'll not engage
But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage,
I should toss him the thing's self ''T is only a duplicate,
'A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!'
Some Reckon Time By Stars
by Madison Julius Cawein

Some reckon time by stars,
And some by hours:
Some measure days by dreams,
And some by flowers:
My heart alone records
My days and hours.
Some have a dial, a clock
That strikes a bell:
Some keep a calendar
To con and spell:
But I I have my love,
Infallible.
My heart is clock enough:
It beats for her.
Both day and night it makes
A happy stir:
It keeps the time quite true
With throbs for her.
The only calendar,
That marks my seasons,
Is that sweet face of hers,
Her moods and reasons,
Wherein no record is
Of winter seasons.
The Selkirk Grace.
by Robert Burns

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.
The Sonnets XCI - Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
by William Shakespeare

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
Temperance Song.
by George Pope Morris

(Written for the lady by whom it was sung.)
Air--"Some love to roam."
Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowl
And the wine-cups circle free;
None of that band shall win my hand:
No! a sober spouse for me.
Like cheerful streams when morning beams,
With him my life would flow;
Not down the crags, the drunkard drags
His wife to want and wo!
Oh! no, no, no!--oh! no, no, no!
At midnight dark, the drunkard mark--
Oh, what a sight, good lack!
As home draws near, to him appear
Grim fiends who cross his track!
His children's name he dooms to shame--
His wife to want and wo;
She is betrayed, for wine is made
Her rival and her foe.
Oh! no, no, no!--oh! no, no, no!
Ballade Of Forgotten Loves
by Arthur Grissom

Some poets sing of sweethearts dead,
Some sing of true loves far away;
Some sing of those that others wed,
And some of idols turned to clay.
I sing a pensive roundelay
To sweethearts of a doubtful lot,
The passions vanished in a day,
The little loves that I've forgot.
For, as the happy years have sped,
And golden dreams have changed to gray,
How oft the flame of love was fed
By glance, or smile, from Maud or May,
When wayward Cupid was at play;
Mere fancies, formed of who knows what,
But still my debt I ne'er can pay,
The little loves that I've forgot.
O joyous hours forever fled!
O sudden hopes that would not stay!
Held only by the slender thread
Of memory that's all astray.
Their very names I cannot say.
Time's will is done, I know them not;
But blessings on them all, I pray,
The little loves that I've forgot.
envoi
Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray?
Ours is the one true lovers' knot;
Note well the burden of my lay,
The little loves that I've forgot.
On Himself.
by Robert Herrick

Some parts may perish, die thou canst not all:
The most of thee shall 'scape the funeral.
A Calendar Of Sonnets - July
by Helen Hunt Jackson

Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,
Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;
The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;
She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.
Th' Short-Timer.
by John Hartley

Some poets sing o' gipsy queens,
An some o' ladies fine;
Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes, - 
A humbler muse is mine.
Jewels, an' gold, an silken frills,
Are things too heigh for me;
But wol mi harp wi vigour thrills,
Aw'll strike a chord for thee.
Poor lassie wan,
Do th' best tha can,
Although thi fate be hard.
A time ther'll be
When sich as thee
Shall have yor full reward.
At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,
An off tha goes to wark;
An gropes thi way to mill or shed,
Six months o'th' year i'th' dark.
Tha gets but little for thi pains,
But that's noa fault o' thine;
Thi maister reckons up his gains,
An ligs i bed till nine.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
He's little childer ov his own
'At's quite as old as thee;
They ride i' cushioned carriages
'At's beautiful to see;
They'd fear to spoil ther little hand,
To touch thy greasy brat:
It's wark like thine at makes em grand - 
They nivver think o' that.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
I' summer time they romp an' play
Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
They thrive throo morn to neet.
But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has,
An oft aw've known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
Foa hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Aw envy net fowks' better lot - 
Aw shouldn't like to swap.
Aw'm quite contented wi mi cot;
Aw'm but a workin chap.
But if aw had a lot o' brass
Aw'd think o' them at's poor;
Aw'd have yo' childer workin less,
An mak yor wages moor.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain."
Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear,
I' that sweet home ov love;
An' those at scorn thi sufferins here
May envy thee above.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Some future day when what is now is not
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Some future day when what is now is not,
When all old faults and follies are forgot,
And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away,
We'll meet again, upon some future day.
When all that hindered, all that vexed our love,
As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above,
When all but it has yielded to decay,
We'll meet again upon some future day.
When we have proved, each on his course alone,
The wider world, and learnt what's now unknown,
Have made life clear, and worked out each a way,
We'll meet again, we shall have much to say.
With happier mood, and feelings born anew,
Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll review,
Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to play,
And meet again, on many a future day.
Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see,
In some far year, though distant yet to be,
Shall we indeed, ye winds and waters, say!
Meet yet again, upon some future day?
Canada Home.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
The sun shining hotly the whole year round;
But our Home glistens with six months of snow,
Where frost without wind heightens every sound.
And Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Yet Willy is old enough to recall
A Home forgotten by Eily and me;
He says that we left it five years since last Fall,
And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Our other Home was for ever green,
A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea,
With sweet flowers such as we never have seen;
And Willy tells all this to Eily and me.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
He says, "What fine fun when we all go back!"
But Canada Home is very good fun
When Pat's little sled flies along the smooth track,
Or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
Some day I should dearly love, it is true,
To sail to the old Home over the sea;
But only if Father and Mother went too,
With Willy and Patrick and Eily and me.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.
The Lost Pyx - A Mediaeval Legend
by Thomas Hardy

Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand
Attests to a deed of hell;
But of else than of bale is the mystic tale
That ancient Vale-folk tell.
Ere Cernel's Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest,
(In later life sub-prior
Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare
In the field that was Cernel choir).
One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell
The priest heard a frequent cry:
"Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste,
And shrive a man waiting to die."
Said the priest in a shout to the caller without,
"The night howls, the tree-trunks bow;
One may barely by day track so rugged a way,
And can I then do so now?"
No further word from the dark was heard,
And the priest moved never a limb;
And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed
To frown from Heaven at him.
In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill,
And smote as in savage joy;
While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill,
And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy.
There seemed not a holy thing in hail,
Nor shape of light or love,
From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale
To the Abbey south thereof.
Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense,
And with many a stumbling stride
Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher
To the cot and the sick man's side.
When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung
To his arm in the steep ascent,
He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone
Of the Blessed Sacrament.
Then in dolorous dread he beat his head:
"No earthly prize or pelf
Is the thing I've lost in tempest tossed,
But the Body of Christ Himself!"
He thought of the Visage his dream revealed,
And turned towards whence he came,
Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field,
And head in a heat of shame.
Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill,
He noted a clear straight ray
Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by,
Which shone with the light of day.
And gathered around the illumined ground
Were common beasts and rare,
All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound
Attent on an object there.
'Twas the Pyx, unharmed 'mid the circling rows
Of Blackmore's hairy throng,
Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does,
And hares from the brakes among;
And badgers grey, and conies keen,
And squirrels of the tree,
And many a member seldom seen
Of Nature's family.
The ireful winds that scoured and swept
Through coppice, clump, and dell,
Within that holy circle slept
Calm as in hermit's cell.
Then the priest bent likewise to the sod
And thanked the Lord of Love,
And Blessed Mary, Mother of God,
And all the saints above.
And turning straight with his priceless freight,
He reached the dying one,
Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite
Without which bliss hath none.
And when by grace the priest won place,
And served the Abbey well,
He reared this stone to mark where shone
That midnight miracle.
Astrophel And Stella - Sonnet Vi
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Some louers speake, when they their Muses entertaine,
Of hopes begot by feare, of wot not what desires,
Of force of heau'nly beames infusing hellish paine,
Of liuing deaths, dere wounds, faire storms, and freesing fires:
Some one his song in Ioue and Ioues strange tales attires,
Bordred with buls and swans, powdred with golden raine:
Another, humbler wit, to shepherds pipe retires,
Yet hiding royall bloud full oft in rurall vaine.
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affords:
While teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe out his words,
His paper pale despaire, and pain his pen doth moue.
I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,
But thinke that all the map of my state I display
When trembling voyce brings forth, that I do Stella loue.
In Narrow Ways
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Some lives are set in narrow ways,
By Love's wise tenderness.
They seem to suffer all their days
Life's direst storm and stress.
But God shall raise them up at length,
His purposes are sure,
He for their weakness shall give strength,
For every ill a cure.
Noddin' By De Fire
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Some folks t'inks hit's right an' p'opah,
Soon ez bedtime come erroun',
Fu' to scramble to de kiver,
Lak dey 'd hyeahed de trumpet soun'.
But dese people dey all misses
Whut I mos'ly does desiah;
Dat 's de settin' roun' an' dozin',
An' a-noddin' by de fiah.
When you 's tiahed out a-hoein',
Er a-followin' de plough,
Whut's de use of des a-fallin'
On yo' pallet lak a cow?
W'y, de fun is all in waitin'
In de face of all de tiah,
An' a-dozin' and a-drowsin'
By a good ol' hick'ry fiah.
Oh, you grunts an' groans an' mumbles
Case yo' bones is full o' col',
Dough you feels de joy a-tricklin'
Roun' de co'nahs of yo' soul.
An' you 'low anothah minute
'S sho to git you wa'm an' dryah,
W'en you set up pas' yo' bedtime,
Case you hates to leave de fiah.
Whut's de use o' downright sleepin'?
You can't feel it while it las',
An' you git up feelin' sorry
W'en de time fu' it is pas'.
Seem to me dat time too precious,
An' de houahs too short entiah,
Fu' to sleep, w'en you could spen' 'em
Des a-noddin' by de fiah.
Songs Set To Music: 26.
by Matthew Prior

Some kind angel, gently flying,
Moved with pity at my pain,
Tell Corinna I am dying
Till with joy we meet again.
Tell Corinna, since we parted
I have never known delight,
And shall soon be broken-hearted
If I longer want her sight.
Tell her how her lover, mourning,
Thinks each lazy day a year,
Cursing every morn returning,
Since Corinna is not here.
Tell her, too, not distant places,
Will she be but true and kind,
Join'd with time and change of faces,
E'er shall shake my constant mind.
Sonnet. About Jesus. III.
by George MacDonald

Some men I have beheld with wonderment,
Noble in form and feature, God's design,
In whom the thought must search, as in a mine,
For that live soul of theirs, by which they went
Thus walking on the earth. And I have bent
Frequent regard on women, who gave sign
That God willed Beauty, when He drew the line
That shaped each float and fold of Beauty's tent;
But the soul, drawing up in little space,
Thus left the form all staring, self-dismayed,
A vacant sign of what might be the grace
If mind swelled up, and filled the plan displayed:
Each curve and shade of thy pure form were Thine,
Thy very hair replete with the divine.
Others Save With Fear
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Some men there are who stand so straight,
So equipoised, that others' fate
Seems to depend on their behest;
And useless all our every quest
To gain perfection or renown,
Unless we touch the flowing gown
Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall
Within themselves, if fall at all.
Others are not as straight as these,
But more like rough and gnarled trees;
But little beauty they display;
Shadows they cast across the way;
And from them men with scorning turn,
Or, if they speak, their accents burn
Like capsicum on chafed skin,
And leave a smarting wound within.
Once noble men, when turned aside
By fleshly lust or sinful pride,
Each one becomes a broken bell
On which the angry fiends of hell
Ring out their discord, harsh and loud,
As if with demon powers endowed.
Colossal once through grace they were;
Colossal still, though cleft and bare.
On northern rocks is often seen
The impress of some southern sheen,
The brightness of a warmer bloom,
Unknown to winter's frost and gloom.
The fossil flower of epoch fair
Has left its lasting impress there.
So in some men whose hearts are cold
You find a trace of days of old.
While we deplore the Arctic chill,
The frigid heart, the ice-bound will,
We must admire the fossil trace,
Still seen, of early days of grace.
Hiding from sight as best we can
The traces of the fallen man,
We feast our eyes upon the fair,
Though fossil, lines that linger there.
How to restore is our concern,
As we o'er their declensions mourn.
Can such dire ruin be repaired?
Only if God's strong arm be bared.
But we must do a brother's part,
And try to thaw the frozen heart;
Not by the fire of wrath above,
But by the melting coals of love.
As bullets smooth are farther shot,
Because rough angles they have not,
So gentle ways and loving speech
Are sure the erring heart to reach,
While jagged deeds and words unkind,
Like pebbles rough, much friction find;
They fall before they reach the goal,
And seldom help the needy soul.
To truth be loyal, but take a care
That with true zeal tact have a share.
The lightning when it strikes the tree
Runs with the grain, as oft you see;
Those who at angling are adepts,
Choose well their bait and guard their steps;
So if you would the sinner gain,
Bait well your hook, or mark the grain.
The Cumberland.
by Herman Melville

(March, 1862.)
Some names there are of telling sound,
Whose voweled syllables free
Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned;
Such seem to be
A Frigate's name (by present glory spanned) - 
The Cumberland.
Sounding name as ere was sung,
Flowing, rolling on the tongue - 
Cumberland! Cumberland!
She warred and sunk. There's no denying
That she was ended - quelled;
And yet her flag above her fate is flying,
As when it swelled
Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand - 
The Cumberland.
Goodly name as ere was sung,
Roundly rolling on the tongue - 
Cumberland! Cumberland!
What need to tell how she was fought - 
The sinking flaming gun - 
The gunner leaping out the port - 
Washed back, undone!
Her dead unconquerably manned
The Cumberland.
Noble name as ere was sung,
Slowly roll it on the tongue - 
Cumberland! Cumberland!
Long as hearts shall share the flame
Which burned in that brave crew,
Her fame shall live - outlive the victor's name;
For this is due.
Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand - 
Cumberland!
Sounding name as ere was sung,
Long they'll roll it on the tongue - 
Cumberland! Cumberland!
Some--And Some
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Some have much, and some have more,
Some are rich, and some are poor,
Some have little, some have less,
Some have not a cent to bless
Their empty pockets, yet possess
True riches in true happiness.
This Compost
by Walt Whitman

Something startles me where I thought I was safest;
I withdraw from the still woods I loved;
I will not go now on the pastures to walk;
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea;
I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other flesh, to renew me.
O how can it be that the ground does not sicken?
How can you be alive, you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?
Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you?
Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead?
Where have you disposed of their carcasses?
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations;
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
I do not see any of it upon you to-day or perhaps I am deceiv'd;
I will run a furrow with my plough I will press my spade through the sod, and turn it up underneath;
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.
Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person Yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noislessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk the lilacs bloom in the door-yards;
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.
What chemistry!
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea, which is so amorous after me,
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever.
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me,
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease.
Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses,
It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.
An Autumn Night.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Some things are good on Autumn nights,
When with the storm the forest fights,
And in the room the heaped hearth lights
Old-fashioned press and rafter:
Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,
A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,
And at your side a face petite,
With lips of laughter.
Upon the roof the rolling rain,
And tapping at the window-pane,
The wind that seems a witch's cane
That summons spells together:
A hand within your own awhile;
A mouth reflecting back your smile;
And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile
All thoughts of weather.
And, while the wind lulls, still to sit
And watch her fire-lit needles flit
A-knitting, and to feel her knit
Your very heartstrings in it:
Then, when the old clock ticks 'tis late,
To rise, and at the door to wait,
Two words, or at the garden gate,
A kissing minute.