DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Scandal
by John Clare

She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes
To hear the news and tell the news she knows;
She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown,
Her self the dirtiest slut in all the town.
She stands with eager haste at slander's tale,
And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale.
Excuse is ready at the biggest lie--
She only heard it and it passes bye.
The very cat looks up and knows her face
And hastens to the chair to get the place;
When once set down she never goes away,
Till tales are done and talk has nought to say.
She goes from house to house the village oer,
Her slander bothers everybody's door.
Those Tiny Fingers.
by John Hartley

She has gone for ever from earth away,
Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still;
In the silent night, when the moons pale ray,
Silvers the leaves on the window sill.
Just between sleeping and waking I lie,
Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch,
Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die!
Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?
Those tiny fingers that used to stray
Over my face which is wrinkled now;
Those little white hands - how they used to play,
With the wanton curls round my once fair brow.
Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks,
I seem to see now as I saw them then;
And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks, - 
'Thou shalt meet her again,' - but when? oh, when?
Deep in the grave was the coffin laid,
And buried with it was my purest love;
Oh, how I'd hoped, and watched, and prayed,
That Death would pass by and spare my dove,
Was it in mercy God took thee hence?
Was it because I had worshipped thee so?
Was my devotion to thee an offence?
I was thy mother, - and God must know.
If it were sinful, my tears have atoned;
At last I can murmur, "Thy will be done,"
Sweet little cherub, to me but loaned,
Now safe at home, far beyond the sun.
Soon the dark river I too shall cross,
And hopefully climb up that golden stair,
And all this world's riches will be but dross,
If those tiny fingers beckon me there.
Pyromania
by Paul Cameron Brown

She had a fireplace - 
the sexual kiln
of her pyromaniac
desire,
a brick embedded in heat,
white hot coal to ember,
her lust flaring red,
soot to powder
dark as charcoal
smear, a walk
across shimmering mirror.
The Moon.
by George MacDonald

She comes! again she comes, the bright-eyed moon!
Under a ragged cloud I found her out,
Clasping her own dark orb like hope in doubt!
That ragged cloud hath waited her since noon,
And he hath found and he will hide her soon!
Come, all ye little winds that sit without,
And blow the shining leaves her edge about,
And hold her fast--ye have a pleasant tune!
She will forget us in her walks at night
Among the other worlds that are so fair!
She will forget to look on our despair!
She will forget to be so young and bright!
Nay, gentle moon, thou hast the keys of light--
I saw them hanging by thy girdle there!
Lucy II
by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
Among The Tombs
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

She is a lady fair and wise,
Her heart her counsel keeps,
And well she knows of time that flies
And tide that onward sweeps;
But still she sits with restless eyes
Where Memory sleeps---
Where Memory sleeps.
Ye that have heard the whispering dead
In every wind that creeps,
Or felt the stir that strains the lead
Beneath the mounded heaps,
Tread softly, ah! more softly tread
Where Memory sleeps---
Where Memory sleeps.
Vanished.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

She died, -- this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
She Gave Me A Rose
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

She gave a rose,
And I kissed it and pressed it.
I love her, she knows,
And my action confessed it.
She gave me a rose,
And I kissed it and pressed it.
Ah, how my heart glows,
Could I ever have guessed it?
It is fair to suppose
That I might have repressed it:
She gave me a rose,
And I kissed it and pressed it.
'T was a rhyme in life's prose
That uplifted and blest it.
Man's nature, who knows
Until love comes to test it?
She gave me a rose,
And I kissed it and pressed it.
In Memoriam. - Mrs. Harvey Seymour,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.
She found a painless avenue to make
The great transition from a world of care
To one of rest.
It was the Sabbath day,
And beautiful with smile of vernal sun
And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,
With all that soothing quietude which links
The consecrated season unto Him
Who bade the creatures He had made, revere
And keep it holy.
From her fair abode,
Lovely with early flowers, she took her way
The second time, unto the House of God,
And side by side with her life's chosen friend
Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,
Where holds the soul communion with its God,
She listening sate.
But then she lean'd her head
Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd
By one distorted feature, by the loss
Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,
Rose to more perfect worship.
It might seem
As if a sacred temple, purified
By prayers and praises, were a place sublime,
Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear
The inexpressive call that summoneth
The ready spirit upward.
But the change
In her delightful home, what words can tell!
The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd
With order and efficiency to fill
Each post of woman's duty and of love,
Vanished from all its daily ministries,
And the lone daughter found the guiding voice
Silent forevermore.
Her's was the heart
For an unswerving friendship, warm and true,
And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand
To those who pine in cells of poverty,
The knowledge of their state, the will to aid,
The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.
Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,
And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down
Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,
And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart
Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar
To charity, but in their time of need
Held all as brethren.
'Twas a pleasant spot,
Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,
While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave
Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach
Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green
To broider her turf-pillow.
Sleep in peace,
Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound,
And death disparted for a little while,
Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;
Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts,
As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.
My Land.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

I.
She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land--
This native land of mine.
II.
No men than her's are braver--
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
III.
She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land--
This native land of mine.
IV.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border--
No friend within it pine!
V.
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she's a true and rare land;
Yes! she's a rare and fair land--
This native land of mine.
The Invincible Armada.
by Friedrich Schiller

She comes, she comes the burden of the deeps!
Beneath her wails the universal sea!
With clanking chains and a new god, she sweeps,
And with a thousand thunders, unto thee!
The ocean-castles and the floating hosts 
Ne'er on their like looked the wild water! Well
May man the monster name "Invincible."
O'er shuddering waves she gathers to thy coasts!
The horror that she spreads can claim
Just title to her haughty name.
The trembling Neptune quails
Under the silent and majestic forms;
The doom of worlds in those dark sails; 
Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the storms!
Before thee, the array,
Blest island, empress of the sea!
The sea-born squadrons threaten thee,
And thy great heart, Britannia!
Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud 
She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud!
Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave,
That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations?
To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave,
Till freedom dug from law its deep foundations;
The mighty Chart the citizens made kings,
And kings to citizens sublimely bowed!
And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water,
Hast thou not rendered millions up to slaughter,
When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings
The sceptre and the shroud?
What should'st thou thank? Blush, earth, to hear and feel
What should'st thou thank? Thy genius and thy steel!
Behold the hidden and the giant fires!
Behold thy glory trembling to its fall!
Thy coming doom the round earth shall appal,
And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee,
And all free souls their fate in thine foresee 
Theirs is thy glory's fall!
One look below the Almighty gave,
Where streamed the lion-flags of thy proud foe;
And near and wider yawned the horrent grave.
"And who," saith He, "shall lay mine England low 
The stem that blooms with hero-deeds 
The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs 
The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain?
Who shall bid England vanish from the main?
Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew,
Man's stout defence from power, to fate consigned."
God the Almighty blew,
And the Armada went to every wind!
The Golden Hour.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
She comes, the dreamy daughter
Of day and night, a girl,
Who o'er the western water
Lifts up her moon of pearl:
Like some Rebecca at the well,
Who fills her jar of crystal shell,
Down ways of dew, o'er dale and dell,
Dusk comes with dreams of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with dreams of you.
II.
She comes, the serious sister
Of all the stars that strew
The deeps of God, and glister
Bright on the darkling blue:
Like some loved Ruth, who heaps her arm
With golden gleanings of the farm,
Down fields of stars, where shadows swarm,
Dusk comes with thoughts of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with thoughts of you.
III.
She comes, and soft winds greet her,
And whispering odors woo;
She is the words and meter
They set their music to:
Like Israfel, a spirit fair,
Whose heart's a silvery dulcimer,
Down listening slopes of earth and air
Dusk comes with love of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with love of you.
She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways
by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Her Nails
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

She is as wise as Hippocrates,
As beautiful as Joseph,
As sweet-voiced as David,
As pure as Mary.
I am as sad as Jacob,
As lonely as Jonah,
As patient as Job,
As unfortunate as Adam.
When I met her again
And saw her nails
Prettily purpled,
I reproached her for making up
When I was not there.
She told me gently
That she was no coquette,
But had wept tears of blood
Because I was not there,
And maybe she had dried her eyes
With her little hands.
I would like to have wept before she wept;
But she wept first
And has the better love.
Her eyes are long eyes,
And her brows are the bows of subtle strong men.
From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century).
My Angeline
by Harry Bache Smith

She kept her secret well, oh, yes,
Her hideous secret well.
We together were cast, I knew not her past;
For how was I to tell?
I married her, guileless lamb I was;
I'd have died for her sweet sake.
How could I have known that my Angeline
Had been a Human Snake?
Ah, we had been wed but a week or two
When I found her quite a wreck:
Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot
At the back of her swan-like neck.
No curse there sprang to my pallid lips,
Nor did I reproach her then;
I calmly untied my bonny bride
And straightened her out again.
Refrain
My Angeline! My Angeline!
Why didst disturb my mind serene?
My well-beloved circus queen,
My Human Snake, my Angeline!
At night I'd wake at the midnight hour,
With a weird and haunted feeling,
And there she'd be, in her robe de nuit,
A-walking upon the ceiling.
She said she was being "the human fly,"
And she'd lift me up from beneath
By a section slight of my garb of night,
Which she held in her pearly teeth.
For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake
I'd have stood this conduct shady;
But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend,
An eminent bearded lady.
But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light,
Regret comes o'er me stealing;
For I miss the sound of those little feet,
As they pattered along the ceiling.
Refrain
My Angeline! My Angeline!
Why didst disturb my mind serene?
My well-beloved circus queen,
My Human Snake, my Angeline!
Witch-Wife
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
The Window
by Conrad Potter Aiken

She looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world
She leans out of the window
and this is what she sees
a wet rose singing to the sun
with a chorus of red bees
She leans out of the window
and laughs for the window is high
she is in it like a bird on a perch
and they scoop the blue sky
She and the window scooping
the morning as if it were air
scooping a green wave of leaves
above a stone stair
And an urn hung with leaden garlands
and girls holding hands in a ring
and raindrops on an iron railing
shining like a harp string
An old man draws with his ferrule
in wet sand a map of Spain
the marble soldier on his pedestal
draws a stiff diagram of pain
But the walls around her tremble
with the speed of the earth the floor
curves to the terrestrial center
and behind her the door
Opens darkly down to the beginning
far down to the first simple cry
and the animal waking in water
and the opening of the eye
She looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world.
The Ballad of Tanna
by Henry Kendall

She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief,
Beneath a weird forest of Tanna;
She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief,
And cursed the dark race of Alkanna.
With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain,
The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain,
And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain.
Oh, the glory that died with Deloya!
'Wahina,' they whispered, 'Alkanna lies low,
And the ghost of thy sire hath been gladdened,
For the men of his people have fought with the foe
Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!'
She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill,
Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill,
'The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?'
Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya!
'Wahina, why linger,' Annatanam said,
'When the tent of a chieftain is lonely?
There are others who grieve for the light that has fled,
And one who waits here for you only!'
'Go leave me!' she cried. 'I would fain be alone;
I must stay where the trees and the wild waters moan;
For my heart is as cold as a wave-beaten stone.'
Oh, the Beauty that was broke for Deloya!
'Wahina, why weep o'er a handful of dust,
When the souls of the brave are approaching?
Oh, look to the fires that are lit for the just,
And the mighty who sleep in Arrochin!'
But she turned from the glare of the flame-smitten sea,
And a cry, like a whirlwind, came over the lea
'Away to the mountains and leave her with me!'
Oh, the heart that was broke for Deloya!
Her Prayer.
by Madison Julius Cawein

She kneels with haggard eyes and hair
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
What is this thing she begs of him,
The gentle Christ upon the Cross?
Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.
Is it forgiveness for her sin,
She asks of Christ upon the Cross?
And mercy for the soul within?
With anguished face, so sad and sweet,
She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:
Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.
Her tears run slowly down her face,
O piteous Christ upon the Cross!
And through her tears she sighs and says:
"The thing that I would crave of Thee,
O Christ upon the cruel Cross,
Is not a thing to comfort me.
"Thou, who hast taught us to forgive,
O tender Christ upon the Cross,
Help Thou my love for him to live.
"Oh, let the love that was my fall,
O loving Christ upon the Cross,
Still to my life be all in all.
"With love for him who loves no more,
O patient Christ upon the Cross,
Make Thou my punishment full sore."
She kneels with haggard eyes and hair
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
She Loved Him.
by George Pope Morris

She loved him--but she heeded not--
Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
That made her drear and desolate!
She loved him--but the sland'rer came,
With words of hate that all believed;
A stain thus rested on his name--
But he was wronged and she deceived;
Ah! rash the act that gave her hand,
That drove her lover from her side--
Who hied him to a distant land,
Where, battling for a name, he died!
She loved him--and his memory now
Was treasured from the world apart:
The calm of thought was on her brow,
The seeds of death were in her heart.
For all the world that thing forlorn
I would not, could not be, and live--
That casket with its jewel gone,
A bride who has no heart to give!
Deserted Gipsy's Song: Hillside Camp
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

She is glad to receive your turquoise ring,
Dear and dark-eyed Lover of mine!
I, to have given you everything:
Beauty maddens the soul like Wine.
"She is proud to have held aloof her charms,
Slender, dark-eyed Lover of mine!
But I, of the night you lay in my arms:
Beauty maddens the sense like Wine!
"She triumphs to think that your heart is won,
Stately, dark-eyed Lover of mine!
I had not a thought of myself, not one:
Beauty maddens the brain like Wine!
"She will speak you softly, while skies are blue,
Dear, deluded Lover of mine!
I would lose both body and soul for you:
Beauty maddens the brain like Wine!
"While the ways are fair she will love you well,
Dear, disdainful Lover of mine!
But I would have followed you down to Hell:
Beauty maddens the soul like Wine!
"Though you lay at her feet the days to be,
Now no longer Lover of mine!
You can give her naught that you gave not me:
Beauty maddened my soul like Wine!
"When the years have shown what is false or true:
Beauty maddens the sight like Wine!
You will understand how I cared for you,
First and only Lover of mine!"
Motherhood.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscann'd upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And Time with mosses had o'erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grassblade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all eager to escape,
One glance upon the perfect shape
That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless there.
No human eye had mark'd her pass
Across the linden-shadow'd grass
Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven:
Only the innocent birds of heaven -
The magpie, and the rook whose nest
Swings as the elmtree waves his crest -
And the lithe cricket, and the hoar
And huge-limb'd hound that guards the door,
Look'd on when, as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind,
All unapparell'd, barefoot all,
She ran to that old ruin'd wall,
To leave upon the chill dank earth
(For ah! she never knew its worth)
'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling,
And dews of night, that precious thing!
And there it might have lain forlorn
From morn till eve, from eve to morn:
But that, by some wild impulse led,
The mother, ere she turn'd and fled,
One moment stood erect and high;
Then pour'd into the silent sky
A cry so jubilant, so strange,
That Alice - as she strove to range
Her rebel ringlets at her glass -
Sprang up and gazed across the grass;
Shook back those curls so fair to see,
Clapp'd her soft hands in childish glee;
And shriek'd - her sweet face all aglow,
Her very limbs with rapture shaking -
"My hen has laid an egg, I know;
"And only hear the noise she's making!"
The Missing Ship.
by George Pope Morris

She left the port in gallant style,
With sails and streamers full and free!
I watched her course for many a mile
Far out upon the distant sea!
At dusk she lessened to a speck,
And then I could not trace her more!
Sad hearts were beating on her deck,
Sad hearts were beating on the shore.
Two of the outward bound I knew,
One beautiful, the other brave--
The master worthy, and the crew
Born to contend with wind and wave:
For travel some, and some for gain,
And some for health had gone abroad;
Our prayers were with them on the main,
God-speed the ship and all on board!
That vessel never reached the land!
No tidings of her ever came!
Those who beheld her leave the strand,
For years in anguish heard her name!
And even now in vain they try
To breathe it with a tranquil lip,
Or hide the moisture of the eye
While speaking of that missing ship.