DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The First Kiss Of Love.
by George Gordon Byron

Greek:
Ha barbitos de chordais
Erota mounon aechei. [1]
Anacreon ['Ode' 1].
1.
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
2.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
3.
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect, of the first kiss of love.
4.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove;
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love. 
5.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?
6.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 
From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.
7.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - 
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
Morning Song Of The Bees
by Louisa May Alcott

"Awake! awake! for the earliest gleam
Of golden sunlight shines
On the rippling waves, that brightly flow
Beneath the flowering vines.
Awake! awake! for the low, sweet chant
Of the wild-birds' morning hymn
Comes floating by on the fragrant air,
Through the forest cool and dim;
Then spread each wing,
And work, and sing,
Through the long, bright sunny hours;
O'er the pleasant earth
We journey forth,
For a day among the flowers.
"Awake! awake! for the summer wind
Hath bidden the blossoms unclose,
Hath opened the violet's soft blue eye,
And wakened the sleeping rose.
And lightly they wave on their slender stems
Fragrant, and fresh, and fair,
Waiting for us, as we singing come
To gather our honey-dew there.
Then spread each wing,
And work, and sing,
Through the long, bright sunny hours;
O'er the pleasant earth
We journey forth,
For a day among the flowers!"
Lines Written In "Letters Of An Italian Nun And An  English Gentleman, By J. J. Rousseau; [1]  Founded On Facts."
by George Gordon Byron

"Away, away, - your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."
The Travelers
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

Away from the city, away from the crowd,
Two comrades in sorrow traversed hill and dale;
The gloom of their hearts did their faces enshroud,
And clouds of distress only seemed to prevail.
Alone, as they thought; but a stranger unknown
Inquired thus kindly the cause of their woe:
"Of what are ye talking? Why are ye cast down,
So burdened with care, as thus onward ye go?"
Cleopas thus answered, "A stranger art thou
In Jerusalem, not knowing the things happening there?"
"What things?" asked the stranger, desiring now
Their lips should disclose what had caused their despair.
"Of Jesus of Nazareth, one mighty in deed,
A wonderful prophet; him have they slain.
To Israel's redemption we hoped he would lead,
But why should we hope if hope is in vain?
"Some women who went to the sepulcher say
That angels assured them he's living this hour,
But they did not see him, and try as we may,
It seems a false rumor of glory and power."
The stranger rebuked them ere he would teach
What the prophets portray of Christ's sufferings here.
Their souls were enlivened, but soon they would reach
The village they sought, which too quickly drew near.
The stranger seemed passing, but now they entreat,
"Abide with us here; the day is far spent";
They could not forego yet such fellowship sweet,
And he entered in with them whither they went.
When supper was ready, they sat up to partake 
They and the stranger, in whom they delight.
He blessed, as his custom, the bread ere he brake;
They knew it was Jesus! And he vanished from sight.
"Did not our hearts burn within us," now they exclaimed,
"As he taught of himself what the prophets record?
We've seen him, we've heard him, and he is the same:
He is Israel's Messiah, our Savior and Lord!"
We are travelers here on the highway of time,
But he will go with us if we seek him aright.
His strength will support us as upward we climb;
Through his blood we inherit immortality's light.
Peevish Poll.
by John Hartley

Aw've heeard ov Mary Mischief,
An aw've read ov Natterin Nan;
An aw've known a Grumlin Judy,
An a cross-grained Sarah Ann;
But wi' all ther faults an failins,
They still seem varry tame,
Compared to one aw'll tell yo on,
But aw dursn't tell her name.
Aw'll simply call her Peevish Poll,
That name suits to a dot;
But if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her,
Yo bet, aw'st get it hot.
Shoo's fat an fair an forty,
An her smile's as sweet as spice,
An her voice is low an tender
When shoo's tryin to act nice.
Shoo's lots ov little winnin ways,
'At fit her like a glove;
An fowk say shoo's allus pleasant, - 
Just a woman they could love.
But if they nobbut had her,
They'd find aght for a start,
It isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile
At's getten th' kindest heart.
Haivver her poor husband lives
An stands it, - that licks doll!
Aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursed
Wi' sich a wife as Poll!
Her children three, sneak in an aght
As if they wor hawf deead
They seem expectin, hawf ther time,
A claat o'th' side o'th' heead.
If they goa aght to laik, shoo storms
Abaat her looanly state;
If they stop in, then shoo declares
They're allus in her gate.
If they should start to sing or tawk
Shoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!"
An if they all sit mum, shoo says,
"It railly is a sin
To think ha shoo's to sit an mope,
All th' time at they're away,
An when they're hooam they sit like stoops
Withaat a word to say."
If feelin cold they creep near th' fire,
They'll varry sooin get floored;
Then shoo'll oppen th' door an winder
Declarin shoo's fair smoored.
When its soa swelterin an hot
They can hardly get ther breeath,
Shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise,
An sware shoo's starved to deeath.
Whativver's wrang when they're abaat,
Is their fault for bein thear;
An if owt's wrang when they're away,
It's coss they wornt near.
To keep 'em all i' misery,
Is th' only joy shoo knows;
An then shoo blames her husband,
For bein allus makkin rows.
Poor chap he's wearin fast away, - 
He'll leeav us before long;
A castiron man wod have noa chonce
Wi' sich a woman's tongue.
An then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an try
His virtues to extol;
But th' mourner, mooast sincere will be
That chap 'at next weds Poll.
Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.
by John Hartley

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South,
An led a rooamin' life;
Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth,
Aw've shared wi joy an strife;
Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip,
Whativver's come to pass:
But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship,
Has been mi Yorksher Lass.
Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost,
A toy for wind an wave;
Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost,
Aw've thowt noa power could save;
But ivver in the darkest day,
Wi muscles strong as brass,
To some safe port shoo's led the way, - 
Mi honest Yorksher Lass.
Shoo's fair, - all Yorksher lasses are, - 
Shoo's bonny as the rest,
Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care,
Shoo thinks what is, is best.
Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck,
An it seems as clear as glass,
'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck
'At weds a Yorksher Lass.
Ther's oriental beauties, an'
Grand fowk ov ivvery grade,
But when it comes to honest worth,
Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade,
For wi her charms an virtues,
Shoo stands at top o'th' class;
Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare,
Wi a bonny Yorksher Lass,
Then here's to th' Yorksher lasses!
Whearivver they may be;
Ther worth ther's nooan surpasses,
An ther's nooan as brave an free!
If awd to live life o'er ageean,
Awd think misen an ass,
If aw didn't tak for company,
A bonny Yorksher lass.
Clothes Do But Cheat And Cozen Us.
by Robert Herrick

Away with silks, away with lawn,
I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn;
Give me my mistress as she is,
Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities;
For as my heart e'en so mine eye
Is won with flesh, not drapery.
Aubade
by Madison Julius Cawein

Awake! the dawn is on the hills!
Behold, at her cool throat a rose,
Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes,
Leaving her steps in daffodils. - 
Awake! arise! and let me see
Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize
All dawns that were or are to be,
O love, all Heaven in thine eyes! - 
Awake! arise! come down to me!
Behold! the dawn is up: behold!
How all the birds around her float,
Wild rills of music, note on note,
Spilling the air with mellow gold. - 
Arise! awake! and, drawing near,
Let me but hear thee and rejoice!
Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear,
All song, O love, within thy voice!
Arise! awake! and let me hear!
See, where she comes, with limbs of day,
The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet,
Within whose veins the sunbeams beat,
And laughters meet of wind and ray.
Arise! come down! and, heart to heart,
Love, let me clasp in thee all these - 
The sunbeam, of which thou art part,
And all the rapture of the breeze! - 
Arise! come down! loved that thou art!
To Buddha
by Vachel Lindsay

Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace,
Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise.
And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend,
Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?
Good comrade and philosopher and prince,
Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind,
Dare they to move against your pride benign,
Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?
*****
But what can Europe say, when in your name
The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red?
And what can Europe say, when with a laugh
Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead?
The Mushroom.
by John Carr (Sir)

Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string,
And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing,
Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste;
Charm'd by the note, a pigmy group, in haste,
Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move
Thro' lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove!
As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round,
Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound.
Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray
O'er fragrant hills proclaim'd th' approaching day;
Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain,
With spirits light, and mind without a stain,
Rose from her simple bed, refresh'd with rest;
Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had'st thou prest
Her lovely eyelids till a later hour,
And by a blissful vision's fairy pow'r
Hadst thou impress'd her mind with forms of love,
The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm'ring dove,
The little nymph had never sought the plain,
Nor fill'd with one romantic thought this brain.
In russet gown, with sweet and simple air,
She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair,
To neighb'ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn;
Nor stile oppos'd her; like a bounding fawn
Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air,
Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there,
He would have sigh'd: alas! poor love-sick fool!
Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool!
And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose,
Where, bath'd with dew, the modest Mushroom rose.
Less fair the swan, by Richmond's flow'ry side,
That in the river views herself with pride,
As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong,
To see her sail in majesty along.
Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair,
As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare:
Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen
The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green,
Not distant far thy skin of velvet white
She views, and to thee presses with delight
Oh! might some deity, with potent arm,
Arrest her flight, and alter ev'ry charm;
Like Niobe dissolve into a tear,
Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear
She fled! - See on each beauteous limb appear
Soft leaves and flow'rs, the sweetest of the year;
And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath
O'er the fair form that now she dooms to death:
But, ah! in vain, the pray'r no goddess hears;
She bends - she plucks - and, bath'd in purple tears,
The much-priz'd victim in her lap she bears!
Tears that, preserv'd in crystal, will prolong,
And paint its worth beyond this simple song.
Away, Away, From The Sultry Ways.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Away, away, from the sultry ways
Where the pleasures fall and fade,
To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom
And the forest's cooling shade!
Afar, afar, from the rooms of care
With the toils of life distressed,
To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes
And the quiet vales of rest!
Away from the weary, dusty town,
Where the sorrows dim the days,
To the sleeping lake and the silent stream
And the wildwood's tangled ways!
To margins wide of the woodland pools,
Where the wild birds troll their songs,
Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave,
And the pleasures dance in throngs!
The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves
In their robes of laughing smiles,
In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees,
Through the narrow long-drawn aisles.
The bannered corn and the golden wheat
In the ties of bliss are bound;
The sweetest joys and highest hopes
On the shady farms are found.
The raptures reign in the holy scenes,
And the old grow young once more,
To roam the meadows and live again
In the happy years of yore.
Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs,
Where the valleys are sweet with joys,
And the soul grows young, and the heart is light,
And the bosom is like a boy's!
Dreams
by Alan L. Strang

Away o'er the hills in the valley green
Away from the noise of the busy town;
I dream sweet dreams of the olden days
Of you in your beautiful wedding gown.
I dream that you come and sit by me
And you hold my hand and ruff my hair;
Your eyes shine with a sweet delight
That I used to see so often there.
Then my heart is filled with a hallowed love
And I know t'is but a little way
To the spirit land, and I know that I
Shall meet you there some glad sweet day.
Then our wedding day in the spirit land
Will be filled with love and joy serene;
And the infinite hand will guide us where
The waters are still and the valleys green.
Stanzas. - April, 1814.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away!
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood:
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head:
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, _15
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep:
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest - yet till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.
NOTE:
_6 tear 1816; glance 1839.
A Morning Hymn.
by William Hayley

Awake my soul! in cheerful mood,
Thy matin thanks to pay!
The God, who gives thee rest, and food,
Directs thee to be gay.
The Jewish world was dark, and cold,
There doubts and fears annoy:
Thy Shepherd to his happier fold
Brings light, and peace, and joy.
Cease then, O Christian! cease to grieve
In tempest, or in calm!
Smile on affliction, and receive
Her consecrated palm!
Monday
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Awake! arise!    Cast off thy drowsy dreams!
Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams.
"As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say.
Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.
And see! thy neighbour
Already seeks his labour.
Old Schooldays
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Awake, of Muse, the echoes of a day
Long past, the ghosts of mem'ries manifold,
Youth's memories that once were green and gold
But now, alas, are grim and ashen grey.
The drowsy schoolboy wakened up from sleep,
First stays his system with substantial food,
Then off for school with tasks half understood,
Alas, alas, that cribs should be so cheap!
The journey down to town, 'twere long to tell
The storm and riot of the rabble rout;
The wild Walpurgis revel in and out
That made the ferry boat a floating hell.
What time the captive locusts fairly roared:
And bulldog ants, made stingless with a knife,
Climbed up the seats and scared the very life
From timid folk, who near jumped overboard.
The hours of lessons, hours with feet of clay
Each hour a day, each day more like a week:
While hapless urchins heard with blanched cheek
The words of doom "Come in on Saturday".
The master gowned and spectacled, precise,
Trying to rule by methods firm and kind
But always just a little bit behind
The latest villainy, the last device,
Born of some smoothfaced urchin's fertile brain
To irritate the hapless pedagogue,
And first involve him in a mental fog
Then "have" him with the same old tale again.
The "bogus" fight that brought the sergeant down
To that dark corner by the old brick wall,
Where mimic combat and theatric brawl
Made noise enough to terrify the town.
But on wet days the fray was genuine,
When small boys pushed each other in the mud
And fought in silence till thin streams of blood
Their dirty faces would incarnadine.
The football match or practice in the park
With rampant hoodlums joining in the game
Till on one famous holiday there came
A gang that seized the football for a lark.
Then raged the combat without rest or pause,
Till one, a hero, Hawkins unafraid
Regained the ball, and later on displayed
His nose knocked sideways in his country's cause.
Before the mind quaint visions rise and fall,
Old jokes, old students dead and gone:
And some that lead us still, while some toil on
As rank and file, but "Grammar" children all.
And he, the pilot, who has laid the course
For all to steer by, honest, unafraid,
Truth is his beacon light, so he has made
The name of the old School a living force.
The Brightness
by John Frederick Freeman

Away, away--
Through that strange void and vast
Brimmed with dying day;
Away,
So that I feel
Only the wind
Of the world's swift-rolling wheel.
See what a maze
Of whirling rays!
The sharp wind
Weakens; the air
Is but thin air,
Not fume and flying fire....
O, heart's desire,
Now thou art still
And the air chill.
And but a stem
Of clear cold light
Shines in this stony dark.
Farewell, world of sense,
Too fair, too fair
To be so false!
Hence, hence
Rosy memories,
Delight of ears, hands, eyes.
Rise
When I bid, O thou
Tide of the dark,
Whelming the pale last,
Reflection of that vast
Too-fair deceit.
Ah, sweet
To miss the vexing heat
Of the heart's desire:
Only to know
All's lost, lost....
Sweet
To know the lack of sweet.
--Thou fool!
See how the steady dark
Is filled with eyes--
Eyes that smile,
Hot, then how cool!
Eyes that were stars till thou
Mad'st them eyes.
O, the tormenting
Look, the unrelenting
Passionate kiss
Of their wild light on thine--
Light of thine eyes!
As if one could
Loathe the world for too much sweetness!
All the air's a flame,
Wonderful--yet the same
Thou'st hated,
Being briefly sated
With sweet of sweetness.
Forgive a heart whose madness
Was not of madness born,
But of mere wild
Waste of desire....
Who does not know
One speaks so, or so,
Out of mere passion
That sees not love
From hate, nor life from death,
Nor hell from heaven?
In the East--oh, that flashed
Brightness, past
The loveliness even
Of sunset's flush!
Second Thowts.
by John Hartley

Aw've been walkin up th' loin all ith weet,
Aw felt sure tha'd be comin that way;
For tha promised tha'd meet me to-neet,
An answer me "Aye" or else "Nay."
Tho aw hevn't mich fear tha'll refuse,
Yet awd rayther mi fate tha'd decide,
For this trailin abaat is no use,
Unless tha'll at last be mi bride.
Aw dooant like keepin thus i' suspense,
An aw think tha'rt too full o' consait;
If aw get thee tha'll bring me expense,
To provide thee wi clooas an wi mait.
If tha fancies all th' gain's o' my side
Tha'rt makkin a sorry mistak,
For when a chap tackles a bride,
He's an extra looad on his back.
An in fact, when aw study things o'er,
Awm nooan sorry tha hasn't shown up,
For awm nooan badly off nah awm sure,
For awve plenty to ait an to sup.
Aw've noa wife to find fault if awm lat,
Aw've noa childer to feed nor to clam,
An when aw put this thing to that,
Aw think aw shall stop as aw am.
A Fragment
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.
Awake! arise! the athlete's arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.
Awake!
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

All my ways are before thee. Psalm 119:168.
Awake, O soul, awake!
Enter thy cell of thought,
And there in calmness meditate
On what God's word has taught.
There's nought within thy scope,
No influence thou hast sown,
No gloomy doubt, no joyful hope,
But unto him are known.
Awake! but grovel not
In ashes of despair,
Christ's precious blood can cleanse each spot;
Cast on him every care.
Before him are thy ways,
But in his mercy free
He further yet his love displays,
And intercedes for thee.
Awake to holy fear
And praise thy God on high;
Be it thy joy to praise him here
And praise him in the sky.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LX.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Awake to life, my sleeping shell,
To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour
To him who gathers wisdom's flower.
Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,
And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,
Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,
Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet.
'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,
Down the Cayster's current floats,
While amorous breezes linger round,
And sigh responsive sound for sound.
Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;
And hallowed is the harp I bear,
And hallowed is the wreath I wear,
Hallowed by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze.
I sing the love which Daphne twined
Around the godhead's yielding mind;
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight
From this ethereal son of Light;
And how the tender, timid maid
Flew trembling to the kindly shade.
Resigned a form, alas, too fair,
Arid grew a verdant laurel there;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seemed to tremble still!
The god pursued, with winged desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,
And when to clasp the nymph he thought,
A lifeless tree was all he caught;
And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,
Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!
But, pause, my soul, no more, no more--
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?
This sweetly-maddening dream of soul
Hath hurried me beyond the goal.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire
The descant of the Teian lyre:
Still let the nectared numbers float
Distilling love in every note!
And when some youth, whose glowing soul
Has felt the Paphian star's control,
When he the liquid lays shall hear,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine![2]