DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Aeolian Harp
by Herman Melville

At The Surf Inn
List the harp in window wailing
Stirred by fitful gales from sea:
Shrieking up in mad crescendo--
Dying down in plaintive key!
Listen: less a strain ideal
Than Ariel's rendering of the Real.
What that Real is, let hint
A picture stamped in memory's mint.
Braced well up, with beams aslant,
Betwixt the continents sails the Phocion,
For Baltimore bound from Alicant.
Blue breezy skies white fleeces fleck
Over the chill blue white-capped ocean:
From yard-arm comes--"Wreck ho, a wreck!"
Dismasted and adrift,
Longtime a thing forsaken;
Overwashed by every wave
Like the slumbering kraken;
Heedless if the billow roar,
Oblivious of the lull,
Leagues and leagues from shoal or shore,
It swims--a levelled hull:
Bulwarks gone--a shaven wreck,
Nameless and a grass-green deck.
A lumberman: perchance, in hold
Prostrate pines with hemlocks rolled.
It has drifted, waterlogged,
Till by trailing weeds beclogged:
Drifted, drifted, day by day,
Pilotless on pathless way.
It has drifted till each plank
Is oozy as the oyster-bank:
Drifted, drifted, night by night,
Craft that never shows a light;
Nor ever, to prevent worse knell,
Tolls in fog the warning bell.
From collision never shrinking,
Drive what may through darksome smother;
Saturate, but never sinking,
Fatal only to the other!
Deadlier than the sunken reef
Since still the snare it shifteth,
Torpid in dumb ambuscade
Waylayingly it drifteth.
O, the sailors--O, the sails!
O, the lost crews never heard of!
Well the harp of Ariel wails
Thought that tongue can tell no word of!
Little Bo-Peep.
by Lizzie Lawson

Little Bo-peep has lost her Sheep,
(It's a secret to you I'm confiding.)
At the end of the shelf,
Where she put them herself,
Her Baa-lambs are safely hiding.
If you put a thing carefully, safely away,
You're sure not to find it when wanted next day.
The Old Pine Tree
by William Henry Drummond

"Listen my child," said the old pine tree, to the little one nestling near,
"For the storm clouds troop together to-night, and the wind of the north I hear
And perchance there may come some echo of the music of long ago,
The music that rang when the White Host sang, marching across the snow."
"Up and away Saint George! up thro' the mountain gorge,
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men,
Follow the trail, tho' shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying."
"Ah! mother." the little pine tree replied, "you are dreaming again to-night
Of ghostly visions and phantom forms that for-ever mock your sight
'Tis true moan of the winter wind comes to my list'ning ear
But the White Host marching, I cannot see, and their music I cannot hear."
"When the northern skies were all aflame where the trembling banners swung,
When up in the vaulted heavens the moon of the Snow Shoe hung,
When the hurricane swept the hillside, and the crested drifts ran high
Those were the nights," said the old pine tree, "the great White Host marched by."
And the storm grew fiercer, fiercer, and the snow went hissing past,
But the little pine tree still listened, till she heard above the blast
The music her mother loved to hear in the nights of the long ago
And saw in the forest the white-clad Host marching across the snow.
And loud they sang as they tramped along of the glorious bygone days
Whan valley and hill re-echeoed the snow-shoer's hymn of praise
Till the shy moon gazed down smiling, and the north wind pause to hear
And the old pine tree felt young again as the little one nestling near.
"Up and away Saint George! up thro' the mountain gorge.
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying.
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men.
Follow the trail, tho' the shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying."
Nursery Rhyme. CXLIII. Songs.
by Unknown

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.
Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For they still were all fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determin'd for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.
Nursery Rhyme. DXLIX. Natural History.
by Unknown

Little Bob Robin,
Where do you live?
Up in yonder wood, sir,
On a hazel twig.
Little Bo-Peep
by George MacDonald

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep,
And will not know where to find them;
They are over the height and out of sight,
Trailing their tails behind them!
Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sleep,
Jump'd up and set out to find them:
"The silly things! they've got no wings,
And they've left their trails behind them!
"They've taken their tails, but they've left their trails,
And so I shall follow and find them!"
For wherever a tail had dragged a trail
The grass lay bent behind them.
She washed in the brook, and caught up her crook.
And after her sheep did run
Along the trail that went up the dale
Across the grass in the sun.
She ran with a will, and she came to a hill
That went up steep like a spire;
On its very top the sun seemed to stop,
And burned like a flame of fire.
But now she went slow, for the hill did go
Up steeper as she went higher;
When she reached its crown, the sun was down,
Leaving a trail of fire.
And her sheep were gone, and hope she had none.
For now was no trail behind them.
Yes, there they were! long-tailed and fair!
But to see was not to find them!
Golden in hue, and rosy and blue,
And white as blossom of pears,
Her sheep they did run in the trail of the sun,
As she had been running in theirs!
After the sun like clouds they did run,
But she knew they were her sheep:
She sat down to cry and look up at the sky,
But she cried herself to sleep.
And as she slept the dew down wept,
And the wind did blow from the sky;
And doings strange brought a lovely change:
She woke with a different cry!
Nibble, nibble, crop, without a stop!
A hundred little lambs
Did pluck and eat the grass so sweet
That grew in the trail of their dams!
She gave one look, she caught up her crook,
Wiped away the sleep that did blind her;
And nibble-nibble-crop, without a stop
The lambs came nibbling behind her.
Home, home she came, both tired and lame,
With three times as large a stock;
In a month or more, they'll be sheep as before,
A lovely, long-wooled flock!
But what will she say, if, one fine day,
When they've got their bushiest tails,
Their grown-up game should be just the same,
And again she must follow mere trails?
Never weep, Bo-Peep, though you lose your sheep,
Tears will turn rainbow-laughter!
In the trail of the sun if the mothers did run,
The lambs are sure to run after;
But a day is coming when little feet drumming
Will wake you up to find them--
All the old sheep--how your heart will leap!--
With their big little lambs behind them!
A Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses,
O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses
What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
O mother, for the weight of years that break thee!
O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee,
And from the changes of my heart must make thee.
O fainting traveller, morn is grey in heaven.
Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven?
And are they calm about the fall of even?
Pause near the ending of thy long migration,
For this one sudden hour of desolation
Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.
Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee
Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee,
Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.
Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander
Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder
The misty mountains of the morning yonder.
Listen:- the mountain winds with rain were fretting,
And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting.
I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.
What part of this wild heart of mine I know not
Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not,
And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.
Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it
Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it,
And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.
Oh, in some hour of thine my thoughts shall guide thee.
Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence hide thee,
This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,-
Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden,
With thy regrets was morning over-shaden,
With sorrow thou hast left, her life was laden.
But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee
Life changes, and the years and days renew thee.
Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee.
Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses
Upon the evening as the morning tresses,
Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
And we, so altered in our shifting phases,
Track one another 'mid the many mazes
By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.
I have not writ this letter of divining
To make a glory of thy silent pining,
A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.
Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded.
Only one morning, and the day was clouded.
And one old age with all regrets is crowded.
Oh, hush; oh, hush! Thy tears my words are steeping.
Oh, hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping?
Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?
Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her.
Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter
That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her.
The one who now thy faded features guesses,
With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses,
With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.
George's Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin)
by James Stephens

Listen! if but women were
Half as kind as they are fair,
There would be an end to all
Miseries that do befall.
Cloud and wind would run together
In a dance of sunny weather,
And the happy trees would throw
Gifts to travellers below.
Then the lion, meek and mild,
With the lamb would, side by side,
Couch him friendly, and would be
Innocent of enmity.
Then the Frozen Pole would go,
Tossing off his fields of snow,
And would shake delighted feet
With the girls of George's Street.
These, if women only were
Half as kind as they are fair.
The Old And The Young Bridegroom.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("L'homme auquel on vous destina.")
[HERNANI, Act I.]
Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined,
Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke
Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon.
For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl,
Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems,
With which your brow might outshine royalty;
And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence,
Might many a queen be envious of his duchess!
Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth
I passed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive.
My shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons
Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored.
Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness, - 
Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold
Now hides beneath its black and ample folds;
Rights which, if my intent deceive me not,
My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief: - 
I have received from churlish Fortune nothing
But air, light, water, - Nature's general boon.
Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose; - 
Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me?
DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.
HERN. What, 'mongst my rude companions,
Whose names are registered in the hangman's book?
Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords,
Edged by a personal impulse of revenge?
Will you become the queen, dear, of my band?
Will you become a hunted outlaw's bride?
When all Spain else pursued and banished me, - 
In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains,
And rocks the lordly eagle only knew,
Old Catalonia took me to her bosom.
Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave,
I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow,
One blast upon my horn, among her hills,
Would draw three thousand of her sons around me.
You shudder, - think upon it. Will you tread
The shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men
Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams, - 
Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep, - 
Sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear
By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball
Whistling too near your ear, - a fugitive
Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me
In the path leading to my father's scaffold?
DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.
HERN.    This duke is rich, great, prosperous,
No blot attaches to his ancient name.
He is all-powerful. He offers you
His treasures, titles, honors, with his hand.
DONNA SOL. We will depart to-morrow. Do not blame
What may appear a most unwomanly boldness.
CHARLES SHERRY.
Women
by James Stephens

Listen! If but women were
Half as kind as they are fair
There would be an end to all
Miseries that do appal.
Cloud and wind would fly together
In a dance of sunny weather,
And the happy trees would throw
Gifts to travellers below.
Then the lion, meek and mild,
With the lamb would, side by side,
Couch him friendly, and would be
Innocent of enmity.
Then the Frozen Pole would go,
Shaking off his fields of snow,
To a kinder clime and dance
Warmly with the girls of France.
These; if women only were
Half as kind as they are fair.
Bo-Peep
by Walter Crane

1.
Little Bo-Peep, she lost her sheep,
And didn't know where to find them;
Let them alone, they'll all come home
And bring their tails behind them.
2.
Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For they were still a-fleeting.
3.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them,
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed
For they'd left their tails behind them.
4.
It happened one day as Bo-Peep did stray
Into a meadow hard by,
There she espied their tails side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry.
5.
She heaved a sigh and wiped her eye,
Then went o'er hill and dale,
And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,
To tack to each sheep its tail.
Little Birds
by Lewis Carroll

Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters,
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters,
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle,
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases,
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted,
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting,
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter,
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten,
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled,
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
The Ballad Of A Bachelor
by Ellis Parker Butler

Listen, ladies, while I sing
The ballad of John Henry King.
John Henry was a bachelor,
His age was thirty-three or four.
Two maids for his affection vied,
And each desired to be his bride,
And bravely did they strive to bring
Unto their feet John Henry King.
John Henry liked them both so well,
To save his life he could not tell
Which he most wished to be his bride,
Nor was he able to decide.
Fair Kate was jolly, bright, and gay,
And sunny as a summer day;
Marie was kind, sedate, and sweet,
With gentle ways and manners neat.
Each was so dear that John confessed
He could not tell which he liked best.
He studied them for quite a year,
And still found no solution near,
And might have studied two years more
Had he not, walking on the shore,
Conceived a very simple way
Of ending his prolonged delay
A way in which he might decide
Which of the maids should be his bride.
He said, "I'll toss into the air
A dollar, and I'll toss it fair;
If heads come up, I'll wed Marie;
If tails, fair Kate my bride shall be."
Then from his leather pocket-book
A dollar bright and new he took;
He kissed one side for fair Marie,
The other side for Kate kissed he.
Then in a manner free and fair
He tossed the dollar in the air.
"Ye fates," he cried, "pray let this be
A lucky throw indeed for me!"
The dollar rose, the dollar fell;
He watched its whirling transit well,
And off some twenty yards or more
The dollar fell upon the shore.
John Henry ran to where it struck
To see which maiden was in luck.
But, oh, the irony of fate!
Upon its edge the coin stood straight!
And there, embedded in the sand,
John Henry let the dollar stand!
And he will tempt his fate no more,
But live and die a bachelor.
Thus, ladies, you have heard me sing
The ballad of John Henry King
The Bird And The Storm-Cloud
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Little bird, is that thy sphere,
Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?
Sunbeams blaze along its brow,
Yet what darkness reigns below!
There the sullen thunder mutt'ring,
Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring; - 
There the red-eyed lightning gleameth,
Where no more the sunlight beameth,
And the strong wind, fiercely waking,
Wings of fearful might is taking; - 
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou soaring there?
Wert thou weary of the vale,
With its blossom-scented gale? - 
Weary of thy breezy bowers? - 
Weary of thy wild-wood flowers? - 
Weary of thy wind-rocked nest
In the bright, green willow's breast? - 
Didst thou sigh, on daring wing,
Up in heaven's blue depths to sing? - 
Claim with storms companionship,
And in clouds thy free wings dip? - 
And, where rushing winds are strong,
Pour thy melody of song?
Bird, thy wing is all too weak
Such adventurous heights to seek;
In the bower thou seem'dst to be
Trembling with timidity;
Now, with proud, unshrinking glance
Thou art daring yon expanse,
And, with wild, exultant singing,
Upward thy free flight art winging; - 
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou sporting there?
Bird, that cannot be thy sphere,
Yonder threatening cloud so near! - 
With thy bright, unfearing eye,
Wherefore seek that troubled sky?
Ah! a hand is o'er thee spread,
To defend thy beauteous head;
Sheltering arms are round thee cast,
'Mid the lightning and the blast;
God doth shield thee, and shall He
Thine, and not my guardian be?
No: He, who guards thy fragile form
Midst the dread, o'erwhelming storm,
Will His kind protection spread
O'er His child's defenceless head, - 
Temper every blast severe, - 
Mingle hope with every fear, - 
Pour into the bleeding heart
Balm for sorrow's keenest smart,
And will gift the feeblest form
With a might to brave each storm!
Bird, thou well mayst soar and sing
High in heaven on raptured wing!
Thou hast never learned to fear
Blighting change, in thy bright sphere;
'Tis to us, and us alone,
Faith's mysterious might is known:
We, that tremble at the blast,
Shall o'ersweep the storms at last!
Though around us tempests lower,
We shall know our triumph-hour;
And on glad exultant wing
Soar, and with the angels sing
Little All-Aloney
by Eugene Field

Little All-Aloney's feet
Pitter-patter in the hall,
And his mother runs to meet
And to kiss her toddling sweet,
Ere perchance he fall.
He is, oh, so weak and small!
Yet what danger shall he fear
When his mother hovereth near,
And he hears her cheering call:
"All-Aloney"?
Little All-Aloney's face
It is all aglow with glee,
As around that romping-place
At a terrifying pace
Lungeth, plungeth he!
And that hero seems to be
All unconscious of our cheers -
Only one dear voice he hears
Calling reassuringly:
"All-Aloney!"
Though his legs bend with their load,
Though his feet they seem so small
That you cannot help forebode
Some disastrous episode
In that noisy hall,
Neither threatening bump nor fall
Little All-Aloney fears,
But with sweet bravado steers
Whither comes that cheery call:
"All-Aloney!"
Ah, that in the years to come,
When he shares of Sorrow's store, -
When his feet are chill and numb,
When his cross is burdensome,
And his heart is sore:
Would that he could hear once more
The gentle voice he used to hear -
Divine with mother love and cheer -
Calling from yonder spirit shore:
"All, all alone!"
In The Forest
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

List to the forest-voice murmuring low:
All that it saw when alone with its laughter,
All that it suffered in times that came after,
Mournful it tells, that the wind may know.
To a Sleeping Child
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Lips, lips, open!
Up comes a little bird that lives inside
Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.
All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,
Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.
Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?
Round about the world, while nobody can know.
Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?
Far away around the world, while nobody can see.
Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?
All round the world and around again home;
Round the round world, and back through the air,
When the morning comes, the little bird is there.
Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,
Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.
Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird's away,
Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;
Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go
Round about the world, while nobody can know.
Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,
Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.
Blue Shoes.
by Kate Greenaway

Little Blue Shoes
Mustn't go
Very far alone, you know
Else she'll fall down,
Or, lose her way;
Fancy--what
Would mamma say?
Better put her little hand
Under sister's wise command.
When she's a little older grown
Blue Shoes may go quite alone.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode III.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Listen to the Muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketched in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Full of loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping, as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the earthly heaven of love
These delighted mortals prove.
Bopipias.
by Jacob Bigelow

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep,
And couldn't tell where to find 'em.
Let 'em alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind 'em.
Parvula Bopipias amissos qu'ritat agnos,
Nec reperire locum quo latu're potest.
Desine, Bopipias, redeuntes nocte videbis,
Caudasque incolumes post sua crura ferent.
Uschk Name. - Book Of Love.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

THE TYPES.
List, and in memory bear
These six fond loving pair.
Love, when aroused, kept true
Rustan and Rad!
Strangers approach from far
Joseph and Suleika;
Love, void of hope, is in
Ferhad and Schirin.
Born for each other are
Medschnun and Lily;
Loving, though old and grey,
Dschemil saw Boteinah.
Love's sweet caprice anon,
Brown maid* and Solomon!
If thou dost mark them well,
Stronger thy love will swell.
Song For A Babe.
by Jean Ingelow

Little babe, while burns the west,
Warm thee, warm thee in my breast;
While the moon doth shine her best,
And the dews distil not.
All the land so sad, so fair - 
Sweet its toils are, blest its care.
Child, we may not enter there!
Some there are that will not.
Fain would I thy margins know,
Land of work, and land of snow;
Land of life, whose rivers flow
On, and on, and stay not.
Fain would I thy small limbs fold,
While the weary hours are told,
Little babe in cradle cold.
Some there are that may not.
Listening To Celestial Lays
by Louisa May Alcott

'"Listening to celestial lays,
Bending thy unclouded gaze
On the pure and living light,
Thou art blest, Aslauga's Knight!"