DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sur Le Pont D'Avignon
by Walter Crane

Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse;
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
Les beaux messieurs font comm' 'a,
Et puis encor' comm' 'a:
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse,
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
Les belles dames font comm' 'a,
Et puis encore comm' 'a:
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse,
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
Et les capucins font comm' 'a,
Et puis encore comm' 'a:
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse,
Sur le pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
The Sower.
by Friedrich Schiller

Sure of the spring that warms them into birth,
The golden seeds thou trustest to the earth;
And dost thou doubt the eternal spring sublime,
For deeds the seeds which wisdom sows in time.
Obsequial Ode
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Surely you've trodden straight
To the very door!
Surely you took your fate
Faultlessly. Now it's too late
To say more.
It is evident you were right,
That man has a course to go
A voyage to sail beyond the charted seas.
You have passed from out of sight
And my questions blow
Back from the straight horizon that ends all one sees.
Now like a vessel in port
You unlade your riches unto death,
And glad are the eager dead to receive you there.
Let the dead sort
Your cargo out, breath from breath
Let them disencumber your bounty, let them all share.
I imagine dead hands are brighter,
Their fingers in sunset shine
With jewels of passion once broken through you as a prism
Breaks light into jewels; and dead breasts whiter
For your wrath; and yes, I opine
They anoint their brows with your blood, as a perfect chrism.
On your body, the beaten anvil,
Was hammered out
That moon-like sword the ascendant dead unsheathe
Against us; sword that no man will
Put to rout;
Sword that severs the question from us who breathe.
Surely you've trodden straight
To the very door.
You have surely achieved your fate;
And the perfect dead are elate
To have won once more.
Now to the dead you are giving
Your last allegiance.
But what of us who are living
And fearful yet of believing
In your pitiless legions.
The Jolly Tupper
by Paul Cameron Brown

Sun on the eiderdown
breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding
before summoning Fragonard's maiden
off her swing - so richly dressed
in picture from the sunlit wall.
Expensive tabac from an imported humidor
etches tiny leaves
their stems as faces against the glass,
rich aroma, tr'sor, like the Jolly Tupper print
preparing his bowl,
drawing on the clay stem
as if from a height watching ships come in.
Smoke cold as blue fungus over outside buildings
follows horses with hooves to split cobblestones
stuck in the city's eye,
more than mountains around
the stone filled ravines
of the rich man's heart.
To Flowers From Italy In Winter
by Thomas Hardy

Sunned in the South, and here to-day;
- If all organic things
Be sentient, Flowers, as some men say,
What are your ponderings?
How can you stay, nor vanish quite
From this bleak spot of thorn,
And birch, and fir, and frozen white
Expanse of the forlorn?
Frail luckless exiles hither brought!
Your dust will not regain
Old sunny haunts of Classic thought
When you shall waste and wane;
But mix with alien earth, be lit
With frigid Boreal flame,
And not a sign remain in it
To tell men whence you came.
Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.
by John Dryden

Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
When silly plays so savourily go down;
As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
Happy is he who, in his own defence,
Can write just level to your humble sense;
Who higher than your pitch can never go;
And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;
He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
Secured by weakness not to reach the box.
A feeble poet will his business do,
Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:
For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
An ape his own dear image will embrace;
An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:
So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,
Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature.
In fear of which, our house has sent this day,
To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;
No sooner named, than one cries out, These stagers
Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.
The town divides, if it will take or no:
The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;
A sign they have but little else to do.
Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,
Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:
But now they're grown a common trade for all,
And actions by the new book rise and fall;
Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.
One policy as far as Lyons carries;
Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.
Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend,
But that the pope has proved our trusty friend.
Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,
Could we insure another Ottoboni.
Among the rest there are a sharping set,
That pray for us, and yet against us bet.
Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know
If these would have their prayers be heard, or no:
For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,
Men pray but very faintly they may lose.
Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,
The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:
And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,
You'll want an equipage for volunteering;
While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,
When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.
Surgeons Must Be Very Careful
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the culprit, -- Life!
Crossing The Bar
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For through from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
To Mr Southerne, On His Comedy Called "The Wives' Excuse."
by John Dryden

Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while these malignant planets reign.
Some very foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:
And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
Farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent;
But the gain smells not of the excrement.
The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a single show:
But let a monster Muscovite appear,
He draws a crowded audience round the year.
May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ.
Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean
Even lewdness is made moral in thy scene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But rest secure, the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility dismiss'd;
With such good manners, as the Wife[1] did use,
Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
There was a glance at parting; such a look,
As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.
But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read,
Copy one living author, and one dead:
The standard of thy style let Etherege be;
For wit, the immortal spring of Wycherly:
Learn, after both, to draw some just design,
And the next age will learn to copy thine.
A Pastoral.
by John Clare

Surely Lucy love returns,
Though her meaning's not reveal'd;
Surely love her bosom burns,
Which her coyness keeps conceal'd:
Else what means that flushing cheek,
When with her I chance to be?
And those looks, that almost speak
A secret warmth of love for me?
Would she, where she valued not,
Give such proofs of sweet esteem?
Think what flowers for me she's got--
What can this but fondness seem?
When, to try their pleasing powers,
Swains for her cull every grove,--
When she takes my meaner flowers,
What can guide the choice but love?
Was not love seen yesternight,
When two sheep had rambled out?
Who but Lucy set them right?
The token told, without a doubt.
When others stare, she turns and frowns;
When I but glance, a smile I see;
When others talk, she calls them clowns;
But never says such words to me.
And when, with swains to love inclin'd,
To bear her milk I often go;
Though they beg first, she turns behind,
And lingers till I ask her too:
O'er stepping-stones that cross the brooks,
Who mind such trifles plainly see,
In vain the shepherds prop their hooks,
She always gives her hand to me.
To-day, while all were standing by,
She wish'd for roses from the bower;
The man too wish'd was in her eye,
Though others flew to get the flower:
And striving all they could to please,
When prick'd with thorns they left the tree,
She never seem'd concern'd at these,
But only turn'd to caution me.
To-day she careless view'd the bark
Where many a swain had cut her name,
'Till whisper'd which was Colin's mark,
Her cheek was instant in a flame:
In blushing beckons love did call,
And courage seiz'd the chance the while;
And though I kiss'd her 'fore them all,
Her worst rebukings wore a smile.
The Unchanging
by Sara Teasdale

Sun-swept beaches with a light wind blowing
From the immense blue circle of the sea,
And the soft thunder where long waves whiten,
These were the same for Sappho as for me.
Two thousand years, much has gone by forever,
Change takes the gods and ships and speech of men,
But here on the beaches that time passes over
The heart aches now as then.
By The Summer Sea
by Madison Julius Cawein

Sunlight and shrill cicada and the low,
Slow, sleepy kissing of the sea and shore,
And rumor of the wind. The morning wore
A sullen face of fog that lifted slow,
Letting her eyes gleam through of grayest glow;
Wearing a look like that which once she wore
When, Gloucesterward from Dogtown there, they bore
Some old witchwife with many a gibe and blow.
But now the day has put off every care,
And sits at peace beside the smiling sea,
Dreaming bright dreams with lazy-lidded eyes:
One is a castle, precipiced in air,
And one a golden galleons can it be
'Tis but the cloudworld of the sunset skies?
In Autumn
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Sunflowers wither and lilies die,
Poppies are pods of seeds;
The first red leaves on the pathway lie,
Like blood of a heart that bleeds.
Weary alway will it be to-day,
Weary and wan and wet;
Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray,
And the autumn wind will sigh and say,
"He comes not yet, not yet.
Weary alway, alway!"
II.
Hollyhocks bend all tattered and torn,
Marigolds all are gone;
The last pale rose lies all forlorn,
Like love that is trampled on.
Weary, ah me! to-night will be,
Weary and wild and hoar;
Rain and mist will blow from the sea,
And the wind will sob in the autumn tree,
"He comes no more, no more.
Weary, ah me! ah me!"
The Skipping-Rope
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Sure never yet was antelope
Could skip so lightly by.
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope
Will hit you in the eye.
How lightly Whirls the skipping-rope !
How fairy-like you fly !
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope --
I hate that silly sigh.
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope,
Or tell me how to die.
There, take it, take my skipping-rope,
And hang yourself thereby.
Superiority To Fate.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Superiority to fate
Is difficult to learn.
'T is not conferred by any,
But possible to earn
A pittance at a time,
Until, to her surprise,
The soul with strict economy
Subsists till Paradise.
Davis Matlock
by Edgar Lee Masters

Suppose it is nothing but the hive:
That there are drones and workers
And queens, and nothing but storing honey - 
(Material things as well as culture and wisdom) - 
For the next generation, this generation never living,
Except as it swarms in the sun-light of youth,
Strengthening its wings on what has been gathered,
And tasting, on the way to the hive
From the clover field, the delicate spoil.
Suppose all this, and suppose the truth:
That the nature of man is greater
Than nature's need in the hive;
And you must bear the burden of life,
As well as the urge from your spirit's excess - 
Well, I say to live it out like a god
Sure of immortal life, though you are in doubt,
Is the way to live it.
If that doesn't make God proud of you
Then God is nothing but gravitation
Or sleep is the golden goal.
Finnigin To Flannigan
by S. W. Gillinan

Superintendent wuz Flannigan;
Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin;
Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack,
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,
Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in;
That is, this Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.
Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan,
He writed tin pages, did Finnigin,
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred;
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
Afther the cars had gone on ag'in.
That wuz how Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.
Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin,
He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan;
An' it wore'm clane an' completely out
To tell what Finnigin writ about
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
So he writed back to Finnigin:
"Don't do sich a sin ag'in;
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"
Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan,
He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin;
An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay
That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay
Befoore Sup'rintindint, that's Flannigan,
Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in.
From Finnigin to Flannigan
Repoorts won't be long ag'in."
*        *        *        *        *
Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin,
On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,
A rail give way on a bit av a curve,
An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve.
"There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,
"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan."
An' he winked at McGorrigan,
As married a Finnigin.
He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,
As minny a railroader's been ag'in,
An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
In Finnigin's shanty all that night,
Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin!
An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
Off ag'in, on ag'in,
Gone ag'in, Finnigin."
Peter Prime's Principles.
by John Hartley

"Sup up thi gill, owd Peter Prime,
Tha'st have a pint wi' me;
It's worth a bob at onny time
To have a chat wi' thee.
Aw like to see thi snowy hair,
An cheeks like apples ripe, - 
Come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer,
Draw up, an leet thi pipe.
Tho' eighty years have left ther trace,
Tha'rt hale an hearty yet,
An still tha wears a smilin face,
As when th' furst day we met.
Pray tell me th' saycret if tha can
What keeps thi heart soa leet,
An leeavs thi still a grand owd man,
At we're all praad to meet?"
"Why lad, my saycret's plain to see,
An th' system isn't hard;
Just live a quiet life same as me,
An tha'll win th' same reward.
Be honest i' thi dealins, lad,
That keeps a easy mind;
Shun all thi conscience says is bad,
An nivver be unkind.
If others laff becoss tha sticks
To what tha knows is reight,
Why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks
Prevent thee keepin straight.
If blessed wi' health, an strong to work
Dooant envy them at's rich;
If duty calls thi nivver shirk,
Tha'rt happier far nor sich.
Contentment's better wealth nor gold,
An labor sweetens life, - 
Ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old,
Like idleness an strife.
Dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says
Be sewer it's allus true;
An let thi ways be honest ways,
An that'll get thi throo.
If tha's a wife, pray dooant forget
Shoo's flesh an blooid like thee;
Be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet
A helpmate true shoo'll be.
Dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees,
Or maybe when tha'rt old, - 
Wi' body bent an tott'rin knees,
Tha'll be left aght i'th' cold.
Luk at th' breet side o' ivverything
An varry sooin tha'll see,
Whear providence has placed thi,
Is whear tha owt to be.
Dooant live as if this world wor all,
For th' time will come someday,
When that grim messenger will call,
An tha mun goa away.
Tha'll nivver need to quake or fear,
If tha carries aght this plan,
An them tha's left behind shall hear
'Thear lies an honest man.'"
Whispers
by Paul Cameron Brown

Suppose and this is just supposing,
though it is a supposition of the highest order,
I were to die tomorrow
A roar denoting silence?
At work, if tradition is the dictate,
something eulogistic would find itself being said.
I am more calm.
I perceive their layers more shrilly.
Past the lipservice
and shocked surprise,
whispers, rumours and
the grapevine would bruit
around a different legacy.
And the open bier?
An embrassassment.
What more could be left unsaid?
Eight O'clock
by Sara Teasdale

Supper comes at five o'clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o'clock
But eight o'clock is far.
How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o'clock to me.
Suppose
by Walter De La Mare

Suppose ... and suppose that a wild little Horse of Magic
Came cantering out of the sky,
With bridle of silver, and into the saddle I mounted,
To fly, and to fly;
And we stretched up into the air, fleeting on in the sunshine,
A speck in the gleam,
On galloping hoofs, his mane in the wind out-flowing,
In a shadowy stream;
And oh, when, all lone, the gentle star of evening
Came crinkling into the blue,
A magical castle we saw in the air, like a cloud of moonlight,
As onward we flew;
And across the green moat on the drawbridge we foamed and we snorted,
And there was a beautiful Queen
Who smiled at me strangely; and spoke to my wild little Horse, too, 
A lovely and beautiful Queen;
And she cried with delight, and delight, to her delicate maidens,
'Behold my daughter, my dear!'
And they crowned me with flowers, and then to their harps sate playing,
Solemn and clear;
And magical cakes and goblets were spread on the table;
And at window the birds came in;
Hopping along with bright eyes, pecking crumbs from the platters,
And sipped of the wine;
And splashing up, up to the roof tossed fountains of crystal;
And Princes in scarlet and green
Shot with their bows and arrows, and kneeled with their dishes
Of fruits for the Queen;
And we walked in a magical garden with rivers and bowers,
And my bed was of ivory and gold;
And the Queen breathed soft in my ear a song of enchantment, 
And I never grew old....
And I never, never came back to the earth, oh, never and never;
How mother would cry and cry!
There'd be snow on the fields then, and all these sweet flowers in the winter
Would wither, and die....
Suppose ... and suppose ...
The Crucifixion
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Sunlight upon Judha's hills!
And on the waves of Galilee;
On Jordan's stream, and on the rills
That feed the dead and sleeping sea!
Most freshly from the green wood springs
The light breeze on its scented wings;
And gayly quiver in the sun
The cedar tops of Lebanon!
A few more hours, a change hath come!
The sky is dark without a cloud!
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,
And proud knees unto earth are bowed.
A change is on the hill of Death,
The helmed watchers pant for breath,
And turn with wild and maniac eyes
From the dark scene of sacrifice!
That Sacrifice! the death of Him,
The Christ of God, the holy One!
Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim,
And blacken the beholding, Sun.
The wonted light hath fled away,
Night settles on the middle day,
And earthquake from his caverned bed
Is waking with a thrill of dread!
The dead are waking underneath!
Their prison door is rent away!
And, ghastly with the seal of death,
They wander in the eye of day!
The temple of the Cherubim,
The House of God is cold and dim;
A curse is on its trembling walls,
Its mighty veil asunder falls!
Well may the cavern-depths of Earth
Be shaken, and her mountains nod;
Well may the sheeted dead come forth
To see the suffering son of God!
Well may the temple-shrine grow dim,
And shadows veil the Cherubim,
When He, the chosen one of Heaven,
A sacrifice for guilt is given!
And shall the sinful heart, alone,
Behold unmoved the fearful hour,
When Nature trembled on her throne,
And Death resigned his iron power?
Oh, shall the heart whose sinfulness
Gave keenness to His sore distress,
And added to His tears of blood
Refuse its trembling gratitude
The Sword Of Surprise
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Sunder me from my bones, O sword of God,
Till they stand stark and strange as do the trees;
That I whose heart goes up with the soaring woods
May marvel as much at these.
Sunder me from my blood that in the dark
I hear that red ancestral river run,
Like branching buried floods that find the sea
But never see the sun.
Give me miraculous eyes to see my eyes,
Those rolling mirrors made alive in me,
Terrible crystal more incredible
Than all the things they see.
Sunder me from my soul, that I may see
The sins like streaming wounds, the life's brave beat;
Till I shall save myself, as I would save
A stranger in the street.
Summer
by George MacDonald

Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer!
We hold thee very dear, as well we may:
It is the kernel of the year to-day--
All hail to thee! thou art a welcome comer!
If every insect were a fairy drummer,
And I a fifer that could deftly play,
We'd give the old Earth such a roundelay
That she would cast all thought of labour from her.--
Ah! what is this upon my window-pane?
Some sulky, drooping cloud comes pouting up,
Stamping its glittering feet along the plain!--
Well, I will let that idle fancy drop!
Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain!
And all the earth shines like a silver cup!
To The Gods Of The Country
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

Sun and Moon, shine upon me;
Make glad my days and clear my nights!
O Earth, whose child I am,
Grant me thy patience!
O Heaven, whose heir I may be,
Keep quick my hope!
Your steadfastness I need, O Hills;
O Rain, thy kindness!
Snow, keep me pure;
O Fire, teach me thy pride!
From you, ye Winds, I ask your blitheness!
1909.
Desideria
by William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport O! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind 
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
The Last Eve Of Summer
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines
Through yon columnar pines,
And on the deepening shadows of the lawn
Its golden lines are drawn.
Dreaming of long gone summer days like this,
Feeling the wind's soft kiss,
Grateful and glad that failing ear and sight
Have still their old delight,
I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day
Lapse tenderly away;
And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast,
I ask, "Is this the last?
"Will nevermore for me the seasons run
Their round, and will the sun
Of ardent summers yet to come forget
For me to rise and set?"
Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee
Wherever thou mayst be,
Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech
Each answering unto each.
For this still hour, this sense of mystery far
Beyond the evening star,
No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll:
The soul would fain with soul
Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil
The wise-disposing Will,
And, in the evening as at morning, trust
The All-Merciful and Just.
The solemn joy that soul-communion feels
Immortal life reveals;
And human love, its prophecy and sign,
Interprets love divine.
Come then, in thought, if that alone may be,
O friend! and bring with thee
Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres
And the Eternal Years