DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
From Behind the Lattice
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

I see your red-gold hair and know
How white the hidden skin must be,
Though sun-kissed face and fingers show
The fervour of the noon-day glow,
The keenness of the sea.
My longing fancies ebb and flow,
Still circling constant unto this;
My great desire (ah, whisper low)
To plant on thy forbidden snow
The rosebud of a kiss.
The scarlet flower would spread and grow,
Your whiteness change and flush,
Be still, my reckless heart, beat slow,
'T is but a dream that stirs thee so!)
To one transparent blush.
To Robin Goodfellow
by Eugene Field

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
Through yonder lattice creepin';
You come for cream and to gar me dream,
But you dinna find me sleepin'.
The moonbeam, that upon the floor
Wi' crickets ben a-jinkin',
Now steals away fra' her bonnie play--
Wi' a rosier blie, I'm thinkin'.
I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
When the blue bells went a-ringin'
For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes,
And I kenned your bonnie singin';
The gowans gave you honey sweets,
And the posies on the heather
Dript draughts o' dew for the faery crew
That danct and sang together.
But posie-bloom an' simmer-dew
And ither sweets o' faery
C'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown,
Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy!
My pantry shelves, sae clean and white,
Are set wi' cream and cheeses,--
Gae, gin you will, an' take your fill
Of whatsoever pleases.
Then wave your wand aboon my een
Until they close awearie,
And the night be past sae sweet and fast
Wi' dreamings o' my dearie.
But pinch the wench in yonder room,
For she's na gude nor bonnie,--
Her shelves be dust and her pans be rust,
And she winkit at my Johnnie!
Outre Mer
by Henry Kendall

I see, as one in dreaming,
A broad, bright, quiet sea;
Beyond it lies a haven
The only home for me.
Some men grow strong with trouble,
But all my strength is past,
And tired and full of sorrow,
I long to sleep at last.
By force of chance and changes
Man's life is hard at best;
And, seeing rest is voiceless,
The dearest thing is rest.
Beyond the sea behold it,
The home I wish to seek
The refuge of the weary,
The solace of the weak!
Sweet angel fingers beckon,
Sweet angel voices ask
My soul to cross the waters;
And yet I dread the task.
God help the man whose trials
Are tares that he must reap;
He cannot face the future
His only hope is sleep.
Across the main a vision
Of sunset coasts and skies,
And widths of waters gleaming,
Enchant my human eyes.
I, who have sinned and suffered,
Have sought with tears have sought
To rule my life with goodness,
And shape it to my thought;
And yet there is no refuge
To shield me from distress,
Except the realm of slumber
And great forgetfulness.
Revulsion.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

I see the starting buds, I catch the gleam
In the near distance of a sun-kissed pool,
The blessed April air blows soft and cool,
Small wonder if all sorrow grows a dream,
And we forget that close around us lie
A city's poor, a city's misery.
Of every outward vision there is some
Internal counterpart. To-day I know
The blessedness of living, and the glow
Of life's dear spring-tide. I can bid thee come
In thought and wander where the fields are fair
With bursting life, and I, rejoicing, there.
Yet have I passed, Beloved, through the vale
Of dark dismay, and felt the dews of death
Upon my brow, have measured out my breath
Counting my hours of joy, as misers quail
At every footfall in the quiet night
And clutch their gold and count it in affright.
I learned new lessons in that school of fear,
Life took a fresh perspective; sad and brave
The view is from the threshold of the grave.
In that long, backward glance I saw her clear
From fogs of gathering night, and all the show
Of small things that seemed great a while ago.
Our dreams of fame, the stubborn power we call
Our self-respect, our hopes of worldly good,
Our jealousies and fears, how in the flood
Of this new light they faded, poor and small;
Showing our pettiness beside God's truth,
Besides His age our poor, unlearned youth.
The earth yearns forth, impatient for the days
Of its maturity, the ample sweets
Of Summer's fulness; and its great heart beats
With a fierce restlessness, for Spring delays
Seeing her giddy reign end all too soon,
Her bud-crown ravished by the hand of June.
And I, - I shall be happy, - promise me
This one small thing, Beloved, for I long
For happiness as the caged bird for song.
Not where four walls close in the melody
I want the fresh, sweet air, the water's gush,
The strong, sane life with thee, the summer hush.
The Lost One
by John Clare

I seek her in the shady grove,
And by the silent stream;
I seek her where my fancies rove,
In many a happy dream;
I seek her where I find her not,
In Spring and Summer weather:
My thoughts paint many a happy spot,
But we ne'er meet together.
The trees and bushes speak my choice,
And in the Summer shower
I often hear her pleasant voice,
In many a silent hour:
I see her in the Summer brook,
In blossoms sweet and fair;
In every pleasant place I look
My fancy paints her there.
The wind blows through the forest trees,
And cheers the pleasant day;
There her sweet voice is sure to be
To lull my cares away.
The very hedges find a voice,
So does the gurgling rill;
But still the object of my choice
Is lost and absent still.
Nature's Forces Ours.
by Thomas Frederick Young

I see the wild and dashing waves
Break madly on the shore;
With glee I watch their stately course,
With joy I hear their roar.
The howling of the wildest storm,
The shrieking of the gull
Drive quickly all of pain away,
And all my fears they lull.
I join my feeble voice with theirs,
Triumphant in its yell,
For evil powers of earth I scorn,
And all the pow'rs of hell.
Tho' men and devils both unite,
And all their force combine,
I feel, ye waves and howling winds,
That all your strength is mine.
For He who holds you in His hand,
And moulds you to His will,
Can whisper to all hostile pow'rs,
As to you, "Peace, be still!"
He bends your necks like osiers green,
Also the necks of men;
Therefore with you I raise my voice,
And shout aloud, again.
For you are on my side, ye waves,
And you, ye winds, are mine.
If I but cast off worldly cares,
If I my will resign.
Then let me feel what I have felt
Full oft, in days of yore - 
A fearful, joyous pulse of life
Thrill through me at your roar.
Let me fling on your crests, ye waves,
My loads of heavy woe,
And on your wings, ye howling winds,
My cares and sorrows throw.
Vicouac On A Mountain Side
by Walt Whitman

I see before me now, a traveling army halting;
Below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orchards of summer;
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt in places, rising high;
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes, dingily seen;
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain;
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized flickering;
And over all, the sky, the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.
To Old Age
by Walt Whitman

I see in you the estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours in the great Sea.
The Constant Lover
by Richard Le Gallienne

I see fair women all the day,
They pass and pass - and go;
I almost dream that they are shades
Within a shadow-show.
Their beauty lays no hand on me,
They talk - - I hear no word;
I ask my eyes if they have seen,
My ears if they have heard.
For why - within the north countree
A little maid, I know,
Is waiting through the days for me,
Drear days so long and slow.
The Scarlet Lilies
by Violet Jacob

I see her as though she were standing yet
In her tower at the end of the town,
When the hot sun mounts and when dusk comes down,
With her two hands laid on the parapet;
The curve of her throat as she turns this way,
The bend of her body - I see it all;
And the watching eyes that look day by day
O'er the flood that runs by the city wall.
The winds by the river would come and go
On the flame-red gown she was wont to wear,
And the scarlet lilies that crowned her hair,
And the scarlet lilies that grew below.
I used to lie like a wolf in his lair,
With a burning heart and a soul in thrall,
Gazing across in a fume of despair
O'er the flood that runs by the river wall.
I saw when he came with his tiger's eyes,
That held you still in the grip of their glance,
And the cat-smooth air he had learned in France,
The light on his sword from the evening skies;
When the heron stood at the water's edge,
And the sun went down in a crimson ball,
I crouched in a thicket of rush and sedge
By the flood that runs by the river wall.
He knew where the stone lay loose in its place,
And a foot might hold in the chink between,
The carven niche where the arms had been,
And the iron rings in the tower's face;
For the scarlet lilies lay broken round,
Snapped through at the place where his tread would fall,
As he slipped at dawn to the yielding ground,
Near the flood that runs by the river wall.
I gave the warning - I ambushed the band
In the alder-clump - he was one to ten - 
Shall I fight for my soul as he fought then,
Lord God, in the grasp of the devil's hand?
As the cock crew up in the morning chill,
And the city waked to the watchman's call,
There were four left lying to sleep their fill
At the flood that runs by the city wall.
Had I owned this world to its farthest part,
I had bartered all to have had his share;
Yet he died that night in the city square,
With a scarlet lily above his heart.
And she? Where the torrent goes by the slope,
There rose in the river a stifled call,
And two white hands strove with a knotted rope
In the flood that runs by the river wall.
Christ! I had thought I should die like a man,
And that death, grim death, might himself be sweet,
When the red sod rocked to the horses' feet,
And the knights went down as they led the van; - 
But the end that waits like a trap for me,
Will come when I fight for my latest breath,
With a white face drowned between God and me
In the flood that runs by the banks of death.
Rose And Poet.
by John Gay

I scorn the man who builds his fame
On ruins of another's name:
As prudes, who prudishly declare
They by a sister scandaled are;
As scribblers, covetous of praise,
By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;
Beauties and bards, alike, are prone
To snatch at honours not their own.
As Lesbia listens, all the whister,
To hear some scandal of a sister.
How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,
Rejoice at one another's ruins?
As, in the merry month of May,
A bard enjoyed the break of day,
And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,
He plucked a blossomed rose, transcending
All blossoms else; it moved his tongue
To rhapsodize, and thus he sung:
"Go, rose, and lie
On Chlo''s bosom, and be there caressed;
For there would I,
Like to a turtle-dove, aye flee to nest
From jealousy
And carking care, by which I am opprest.
There lie - repose
Upon a bosom fragrant and as fair;
Nor rival those
Beauties ethereal you discover there.
For wherefore, rose,
Should you, as I, be subject to despair?"
*         *         *         *         *
"Spare your comparisons - oh! spare - 
Of me and fragrancy and fair!"
A Maiden-blush, which heard him, said,
With face unwontedly flushed red.
"Tell me, for what committed wrong
Am I the metaphor of song?
I would you could write rhymes without me,
Nor in your ecstacies so flout me.
In every ditty must we bloom?
Can't you find elsewhere some perfume?
Oh! does it add to Chlo''s sweetness
To visit and compare my meetness?
And, to enhance her face, must mine
Be made to wither, peak, and pine?"
Mother And Babe
by Walt Whitman

I see the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother;
The sleeping mother and babe-hush'd, I study them long and long.
Australia.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

I see a land of desperate droughts and floods:
I see a land where need keeps spreading round,
And all but giants perish in the stress:
I see a land where more, and more, and more
The demons, Earth and Wealth, grow bloat and strong.
I see a land that lies a helpless prey
To wealthy cliques and gamblers and their slaves,
The huckster politicians: a poor land
That less and less can make her heart-wish law.
Yea, but I see a land where some few brave
Raise clear eyes to the Struggle that must come,
Reaching firm hands to draw the doubters in,
Preaching the gospel: "Drill and drill and drill!"
Yea, but I see a land where best of all
The hope of victory burns strong and bright!
A Vision Of St. Eligius
by George MacDonald

I.
I see thy house, but I am blown about,
A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky,
All out of doors--alas! of thy doors out,
And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry.
For every blast is passion of my own;
The dews cold sweats of selfish agony;
Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone;
And all my soul is but a stifled cry.
II.
Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven
Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more,
No turmoil telling I was not in heaven,
No billows raving on a blessed shore.
Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day,
And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee;
Hold fast the string, lest I should break away
And outer dark and silence swallow me.
III.
No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home.
Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak;
Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come;
Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.
In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite;
A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast.
Thou flingest me abroad:--lo, in thy might
A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!
Opium.
by Madison Julius Cawein

On reading De Quincey's "Confessions of an Opium Eater."
I seemed to stand before a temple walled
From shadows and night's unrealities;
Filled with dark music of dead memories,
And voices, lost in darkness, aye that called.
I entered. And, beneath the dome's high-halled
Immensity, one forced me to my knees
Before a blackness, throned 'mid semblances
And spectres, crowned with flames of emerald.
Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine ears
The names of Horror and Oblivion,
Priests of this god, and bade me die and dream.
Then, in the heart of hell, a thousand years
Meseemed I lay, dead; while the iron stream
Of Time beat out the seconds, one by one.
Hawking.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
I see them still, when poring o'er
Old volumes of romantic lore,
Ride forth to hawk in days of yore,
By woods and promontories;
Knights in gold lace, plumes and gems,
Maidens crowned with anadems, - 
Whose falcons on round wrists of milk
Sit in jesses green of silk, - 
From bannered Miraflores.
II.
The laughing earth is young with dew;
The deeps above are violet blue;
And in the East a cloud or two
Empearled with airy glories:
And with laughter, jest and singing,
Silver bells of falcons ringing,
Hawkers, rosy with the dawn,
Gayly ride o'er hill and lawn
From courtly Miraflores.
III.
The torrents silver down the crags;
Down dim-green vistas browse the stags;
And from wet beds of reeds and flags
The frightened lapwing hurries;
And the brawny wild-boar peereth
At the cavalcade that neareth;
Oft his shaggy-throated grunt
Brings the king and court to hunt
At royal Miraflores.
IV.
The May itself in soft sea-green
Is Oriana, Spring's high queen,
And Amadis beside her seen
Some prince of Fairy stones:
Where her castle's ivied towers
Drowse above her budded bowers,
Flaps the heron thro' the sky,
And the wild swan gives a cry
By woody Miraflores.
Rowing With Crayons
by Paul Cameron Brown

I see children rowing with crayons
across a park lagoon.
They are sagging,
they have just killed a blackbird playing:
the lot of you,
scribbling to school.
Later on, I retrieved
the pieces of paper, ink covered, from a field.
Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?
by Edward Dyson

I see thee still in doublet wide,
And hose well kept, a world too slack,
So long and lean thou wert allied,
It struck me, with that curious back,
The Zoo giraffe.    Thy brow was black,
Thy speech was awkward, action slow.
I whispered at thy first attack:
'And wherefore art thou Romeo?'
Thou wert then fifty and cross-eyed;
For acting never hadst the knack.
With stilted bow and Irving stride
Thou tookst the stage, and Jill and Jack
Both sniggered, when with damned clack
Thou talkedst of moons, and wrecked the show.
And here by Heaven, thou art back.
Oh, wherefore art thou Romeo?
This fellow was a lad of pride,
No prinked-out fool, with just a snack
Of bounder, and by Fate allied
To pale effeminates who smack
The rouge about.    Thou art a quack!
Thy treatment brings the lover low.
Thou'rt living still our hearts to crack;
Oh, wherefore art thou Romeo?
ENVOY
No egotism dost thou lack,
Great scorn hast for the rival pro.,
And talk'st thou of thy art.    Alack!
And wherefore art, thou Romeo?
Two Races (Brazilian Verses)
by Rudyard Kipling

I seek not what his soul desires.
He dreads not what my spirit fears.
Our Heavens have shown us separate fires.
Our dooms have dealt us differing years.
Our daysprings and our timeless dead
Ordained for us and still control
Lives sundered at the fountain-head,
And distant, now, as Pole from Pole.
Yet, dwelling thus, these worlds apart,
When we encounter each is free
To bare that larger, liberal heart
Our kin and neighbours seldom see.
(Custom and code compared in jest,
Weakness delivered without shame,
And certain common sins confessed
Which all men know, and none dare blame.)
E'en so it is, and well content
It should be so a moment's space,
Each finds the other excellent,
And, runs to follow his own race!
To The Others
by Lola Ridge

I see you, refulgent ones,
Burning so steadily
Like big white arc lights...
There are so many of you.
I like to watch you weaving - 
Altogether and with precision
Each his ray - 
Your tracery of light,
Making a shining way about America.
I note your infinite reactions - 
In glassware
And sequin
And puddles
And bits of jet - 
And here and there a diamond...
But you do not yet see me,
Who am a torch blown along the wind,
Flickering to a spark
But never out.
I See The Four-fold Man
by William Blake

I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep
And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow.
I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings,
That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose;
For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents
Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations.
I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe
And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire,
Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth
In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works
Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic
Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which,
Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.
Rudyard Kipling
by Oliver Herford

I seem to see a Shining One,
With eyes that gleam, now fierce, now tender,
Through Goggles that reflect the Sun
"With more than Oriental Splendor";
I see him sitting on a chest
Heavy with padlocks, bolts, and cording,
Where Untold Treasures hidden rest,
Treasures of Untold Yarns he's hoarding.
Oh, Rudyard, please unlock that chest!
With hope deferred we're growing hoary;
Or was it all an empty jest
Your saying, "That's another story"?
The Crowkeeper
by Paul Cameron Brown

"She gallops night by night through lovers' brains...."
I see grindstones in the sky,
pots of tulips overturned
- big tug of the reins
and chestnut hair
is seen before the windowpane
with chance & more chance lost to
frost or hungry bees
this still autumn eve.
Darling,
walls that division us
are envelopes of passion
bridging trust, seal it
lest it rust.
Skeletal scrapings
make for poor bedding
(this poor rhinoceros of lies)
the devil gliding about so disguised
on his tentacle and toenail chair
(inviting lair) or is it
hiccup and bandaged prayer
yet stalwart wall is a rosary bead
thick ale and bread to hungry snail
or, better, lips to Romeo's blushing pilgrims.
Then, sudden, I'm old - 
on a bench counting stars
where each is a radiant patch of energy
leased to the dark,
an emblem burst mailed from eternity,
spark to cigaret's flame
to burn these little suns
as cupid tails; your "bright eye, scarlet lip,
fine foot, straight leg
and quivering thigh."
Bivouac On A Mountain Side
by Walt Whitman

I see before me now, a traveling army halting; 
Below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orchards of summer; 
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt in places, rising high; 
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes, dingily seen; 
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain;
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized flickering; 
And over all, the sky, the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.
By Parcels Post, A Domestic Idyll
by George Robert Sims

I sent my love a parcel
In the days when we were young,
Or e'er by care and trouble
Our heart-strings had been wrung.
By parcels post I sent it,
What 'twas I do not know,
In the days when we were courting,
A long time ago.
The spring-time waxed to summer,
Then autumn leaves grew red,
And in the sweet September
My love and I were wed.
But though the Church had blessed us,
My little wife looked glum;
I'd posted her a parcel,
And the parcel hadn't come.
Ah, many moons came after,
And then there was a voice,
A little voice whose music
Would make our hearts rejoice.
And, singing to her baby,
My dear one oft would say,
"I wonder, baby darling,
Will that parcel come to-day?"
The gold had changed to silver
Upon her matron brow;
The years were eight-and-twenty
Since we breathed our marriage vow,
And our grandchildren were playing
Hunt-the-slipper on the floor,
When they saw the postman standing
By our open cottage door.
Then they ran with joy to greet him,
For they knew he'd come at last;
They had heard me tell the story
Very often in the past.
He handed them a parcel,
And they brought it in to show,
'Twas the parcel I had posted
Eight-and-twenty years ago.
Sonnet IV
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,--
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
Homesick
by Fay Inchfawn

I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit ago it seems,
An' back among the Cotswolds I were wanderin' in me dreams.
I saw the old grey homestead, with the rickyard set around,
An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a pleasant, homelike sound.
Then on I went a-singin', through the pastures where the sheep
Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for to sleep.
An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half stifled by the grass,
Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw the corncrake pass.
For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! An' the blue forget-me-nots
Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky chimbley pots.
I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the dazzlin' sights I've seen;
I was back among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been.
Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, a stiffish climb,
Right to the bridge, where all our sheep comes up at shearin' time.
There was the wild briar roses hangin' down so pink an' sweet,
A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover at my feet
An' here me heart stopped beatin', for down by Gatcombe's Wood
My lad was workin' with his team, as only my lad could!
"COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook an' breezes seemed to say.
"'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT MARY DREW'S AWAY."
An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages has been paid,
An' they're lookin' through the papers for another kitchen maid).
Back to the old grey homestead, an' the uplands cool an' green,
To my lad among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been!