DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Child's First Impression Of A Star.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

She had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of nature to a child
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively - 
"Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"
A Daughter Of The States.
by Madison Julius Cawein

She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen
Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,
Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,
And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.
And I have thought that Liberty, alone
Among the mountain stars, might look like her,
Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,
Kindling her torch on FREEDOM'S altar-stone.
For in her self, regal with riches of
Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born - 
BOADICEA, meeting scorn with scorn,
And ERMENGARDE, returning love for love.
Mrs. Merdle At Home.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

She Discourseth of Nothing to Eat and the Cost thereof.
Why Merdle--why did you bring Dinewell to-day?
So very, though welcome, so quite unexpected!
For dinner, if any, I'm sure I can't say,
Our servants with washing are all so infected.
If any's provided, 't is nothing but scraps
Of pot-luck or pick up of some common fare;
Or something left over from last week perhaps,
Which you've brought a friend, and an old one, to share.
I never, I'm sure now, so much was ashamed,
To think he'll discover--what's true to the letter--
We've nothing, or next to't that's fit to be named,
For one who is used every day to what's better.
But what can you expect if you come on a Monday?
Our French cook's away too, I vow and declare--
But if you would see us with something to spare,
Let's know when you're coming, or come on a Sunday;
For that of all others, for churchmen or sinners,
A day is for gorging with extra good dinners.
If Merdle had told me a friend would be here,
A dinner I'd get up in spite of the bills--
I often tell butcher he's wonderful dear--
He says every calf that a butcher now kills,
Will cost near as much as the price of a steer,
Before all the banks in their discount expanded
And flooded the country with 'lamp-black and rags,'
Which poor men has ruined and shipwrecked and stranded
On Poverty's billows and quick-sands and crags.
And that is just what, as our butcher explains,
The dickens has played with our beef and our mutton;
But something is gained, for, with all of his pains,
The poor man won't make of himself such a glutton.
I'm sure if they knew what a sin 't is to eat,
When things are all selling at extravagant prices,
That poor folks more saving would be of their meat,
And learn by example how little suffices.
I wish they could see for themselves what a table--
What examples we set to the laboring poor,
In prudence, and saving, in those who are able
To live like a king and his court on a tour.
I feel, I acknowledge, sometimes quite dejected
To think, as it happens with you here today,
To drop in so sudden and quite unexpected,
How poor we are living some people will say.
The Girdle Of Friendship
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

She gathered at her slender waist
The beauteous robe she wore;
Its folds a golden belt embraced,
One rose-hued gem it bore.
The girdle shrank; its lessening round
Still kept the shining gem,
But now her flowing locks it bound,
A lustrous diadem.
And narrower still the circlet grew;
Behold! a glittering band,
Its roseate diamond set anew,
Her neck's white column spanned.
Suns rise and set; the straining clasp
The shortened links resist,
Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp
The diamond, on her wrist.
At length, the round of changes past
The thieving years could bring,
The jewel, glittering to the last,
Still sparkles in a ring.
So, link by link, our friendships part,
So loosen, break, and fall,
A narrowing zone; the loving heart
Lives changeless through them all.
How A Fair One No Hope To His Highness Accorded
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

She has slid down the channels
Of history's annals
Disguised as the child of a king,
But that is a glib
And iniquitous fib,
For she never was any such thing:
They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks,
And it's true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks,
But the rest is ironic;
Her business chronic
Was selling hair-tonic
By bottle and box!
From the dawn till the gloaming
She used to sit combing
Her hair in a languorous way.
And her suitors would stop
To look into the shop,
And stand there the rest of the day.
She filled them with mute, but with deep despair,
For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where
They stood about, crushing
Each other, and blushing:
She simply kept brushing
Her beautiful hair.
But a prince who was passing,
Engaged in amassing
Some facts on American life,
Was suddenly struck
By the fact that his luck
Might give him that girl for a wife!
His rashness he didn't attempt to excuse,
He entered the shop and he stated his views.
Remarking,
"My jewel,
I'm confident you will
Not wish to be cruel
Enough to refuse.
"Most winsome of creatures,"
He told her, "your features
Have led me to candidly say
That no other beside
Would I have for a bride:
We'll be married a week from to-day!
I belong to a long and a titled line,
And the least of your wishes I won't decline;
Next month I will usher
My wife into Russia:--
Sweet comber and brusher,
Consider you're mine!"
She looked at him squarely,
Considered him fairly,
Her glance was as keen as a knife,
Then she turned up her nose,
And, with icy repose,
She answered: "Well, not on your life!
You're not on the paper the only blot!
Do you think I come twelve in a parcel--what?
Me pose as your dearie?
Oh, go and chase Peary!
You're making me weary.
Now git!"
(He got!)
The crowd that had waited
Outside was elated
So much by the prince's mischance,
That they greeted with jeers
And ironical cheers,
The end of his little romance.
They said: "Did it hurt when the ground you hit?"
They searched for some mark where the prince had lit,
And as he looked colder,
They only grew bolder,
And tapped on his shoulder
With: "Tag! You're It!"
The lengthy discussion
That sensitive Russian
Compiled on the U. S. A.
Was read by the maid,
As she carelessly played
With her beautiful hair one day.
"The talk you hear in that primitive land,"
He wrote, "nobody can understand."
"Somebody who guffed him,"
She said, "has stuffed him,
And easily bluffed him
To beat the band!"
The Moral: The people across the brine
Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,
But they're lost in the push when they strike a gang
That is strong on American new line slang!
Faith.
by Emma Lazarus

She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head
A storm of mighty billows broke and passed.
Whose hand upheld her?    Who her footsteps led
To this green haven of sweet rest at last?
What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown?
What love sustained when she was most alone?
Unutterably pathetic her desire,
To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer,
Something to cling to, to uplift her higher
From this low world of coward fear and care,
Above disaster, that her will may be
At one with God's, accepting his decree.
Though by no reasons she be justified,
Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face,
She deems this want must needs be satisfied,
Though here all slips from out her weak embrace.
And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith,
With her own dream her prayer she answereth.
The Physician
by John Frederick Freeman

She comes when I am grieving and doth say,
"Child, here is that shall drive your grief away."
When I am hopeless, kisses me and stirs
My breast with the strong lively courage of hers.
Proud--she will humble me with but a word,
Or with mild mockery at my folly gird;
Fickle--she holds me with her loyal eyes;
Remorseful--tells of neighbouring Paradise;
Envious--"Be not so mad, so mad," she saith,
"Envied and envier both race with Death"
She my good Angel is: and who is she?--
The soul's divine Physician, Memory.
The Rival
by Richard Le Gallienne

She failed me at the tryst:
All the long afternoon
The golden day went by,
Until the rising moon;
But, as I waited on,
Turning my eyes about,
Aching for sight of her,
Until the stars came out, - 
Maybe 'twas but a dream - 
There close against my face,
"Beauty am I," said one,
"I come to take her place."
And then I understood
Why, all the waiting through,
The green had seemed so green,
The blue had seemed so blue,
The song of bird and stream
Had been so passing sweet,
For all the coming not
Of her forgetful feet;
And how my heart was tranced,
For all its lonely ache,
Gazing on mirrored rushes
Sky-deep in the lake.
Said Beauty: "Me you love,
You love her for my sake."
No Message
by Mary Hannay Foott

She heard the story of the end,
Each message, too, she heard;
And there was one for every friend;
For her alone, no word.
And shall she bear a heavier heart,
And deem his love was fled;
Because his soul from earth could part
Leaving her name unsaid?
No, No! Though neither sign nor sound
A parting thought expressed,
Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound
Of her he loved the best.
Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,
He would not tell the tale;
Of shattered planks and canvas torn,
And war with wind and gale.
He waited, till the light-house star
Should rise against the sky;
And from the mainland, looming far,
The forest scents blow by.
He hoped to tell, assurance sweet!
That pain and grief were o'er,
What blessings haste the soul to meet,
Ere yet within the door.
Then one farewell he thought to speak
When all the rest were past,
As in the parting-hour we seek
The dearest hand the last.
And while for this delaying but
To see Heaven's opening Gate,
Lo, it received him and was shut,
Ere he could say 'I wait.'
The Witch.
by Madison Julius Cawein

She gropes and hobbies, where the dropsied rocks
Are hairy with the lichens and the twist
Of knotted wolf's-bane, mumbling in the mist,
Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.
At her bent back the sick-faced moonlight mocks,
Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed;
Thrice at her feet the slipping serpent hissed,
And thrice the owl called to the forest fox.
What sabboth brew dost now intend? What root
Dost seek for, seal for what satanic spell
Of incantations and demoniac fire?
From thy rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier,
What dark familiar points thy sure pursuit,
With burning eyes, gaunt with the glow of Hell?
Janet McRea.
by George Pope Morris

She heard the fight was over,
And won the wrath of fame!
When tidings from her lover,
With his good war-steed came:
To guard her safely to his tent,
The red-men of the woods were sent.
They led her where sweet waters gush!
Under the pine-tree bough!
The tomahawk is raised to crush--
'Tis buried in her brow!--
She sleeps beneath that pine-tree now!
Her broken-hearted lover
In hopeless conflict died!
The forest-leaves now cover
That soldier and his bride!
The frown of the Great Spirit fell
Upon the red-men like a spell!
No more those waters slake their thirst,
Shadeless to them that tree!
O'er land and lake they roam accurst,
And in the clouds they see
Thy spirit, unavenged, McRea!
The Winsome Wee Thing.
by Robert Burns

I.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
II.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo'ed a dearer;
And niest my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
III.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
IV.
The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She I love (alas in vain!)
by Walter Savage Landor

She I love (alas in vain!)
Floats before my slumbering eyes:
When she comes she lulls my pain,
When she goes what pangs arise!
Thou whom love, whom memory flies,
Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign!
If even thus she soothe my sighs,
Never let me wake again!
Dear Fanny.
by Thomas Moore

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;
"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;"
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny.
'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
"'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;"
Thus Love has advised me and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?
Love reasons much better than Reason.
She Did Not Turn
by Thomas Hardy

She did not turn,
But passed foot-faint with averted head
In her gown of green, by the bobbing fern,
Though I leaned over the gate that led
From where we waited with table spread;
But she did not turn:
Why was she near there if love had fled?
She did not turn,
Though the gate was whence I had often sped
In the mists of morning to meet her, and learn
Her heart, when its moving moods I read
As a book she mine, as she sometimes said;
But she did not turn,
And passed foot-faint with averted head.
She Dried Her Tears And They Did Smile
by Emily Bronte

She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow
With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away
Brother Jonathan's Lament For Sister Caroline
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

She has gone, - she has left us in passion and pride, - 
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one, - 
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said, "She is hasty, - she does not mean much."
We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat;
But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forget!"
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their eaves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky
Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with Fate that can never be won!
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof,
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;
But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
March 25, 1861.
A Woman's Shortcomings
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried,
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.
She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling;
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
From her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving;
But her silence says, what she never will swear,
And love seeks better loving.
Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries,
But dare not call it loving!
Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear "For life, for death!"
Oh, fear to call it loving!
Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past,
Oh, never call it loving!
Circumstantial Evidence
by Ellis Parker Butler

She does not mind a good cigar
(The kind, that is, I smoke);
She thinks all men quite stupid are,
(But laughs whene'er I joke).
She says she does not care for verse
(But praises all I write);
She says that punning is a curse,
(But then mine are so bright!)
She does not like a big moustache
(You see that mine is small);
She hates a man with too much 'dash,'
(I scarcely dash at all!)
She simply dotes on hazel eyes
(And mine, you note, are that);
She likes a man of portly size;
(Gad! I am getting fat!)
She says champagne is made to drink;
(In this we quite agree!)
And all these symptoms make me think
Sweet Kate's in love with me.
Beggars
by William Wordsworth

She had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
A mantle, to her very feet
Descending with a graceful flow,
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.
Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen
To lead those ancient Amazonian files;
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.
Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land
Such woes, I knew, could never be;
And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
Was beautiful to see, a weed of glorious feature.
I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
The taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.
The other wore a rimless crown
With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.
Yet 'they', so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:
Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to Aurora's car,
Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.
They dart across my path'but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago
Your Mother has had alms of mine."
"That cannot be," one answered'"she is dead:"
I looked reproof, they saw, but neither hung his head.
"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."
"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie;
It was your Mother, as I say!"
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
"Come! Come!" cried one, and without more ado,
Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!
Dinah In Heaven
by Rudyard Kipling

She did not know that she was dead,
But, when the pang was o'er,
Sat down to wait her Master's tread
Upon the Golden Floor,
With ears full-cock and anxious eye
Impatiently resigned;
But ignorant that Paradise
Did not admit her kind.
Persons with Haloes, Harps, and Wings
Assembled and reproved;
Or talked to her of Heavenly things,
But Dinah never moved.
There was one step along the Stair
That led to Heaven's Gate;
And, till she heard it, her affair
Was, she explained, to wait.
And she explained with flattened ear,
Bared lip and milky tooth, 
Storming against Ithuriel's Spear
That only proved her truth!
Sudden, far down the Bridge of Ghosts
That anxious spirits clomb, 
She caught that step in all the hosts,
And knew that he had come.
She left them wondering what to do,
But not a doubt had she.
Swifter than her own squeal she flew
Across the Glassy Sea;
Flushing the Cherubs every where,
And skidding as she ran,
She refuged under Peter's Chair
And waited for her man.
. . . . . . . 
There spoke a Spirit out of the press,
'Said:, "Have you any here
That saved a fool from drunkenness,
And a coward from his fear?
"That turned a soul from dark to day 
When other help was vain;
That snatched it from Wanhope and made
A cur a man again?"
"Enter and look," said Peter then,
And set The Gate ajar.
"If know aught of women and men
I trow she is not far."
"Neither by virtue, speech nor art
Nor hope of grace to win;
But godless innocence of heart
That never heard of sin:
"Neither by beauty nor belief
Nor white example shown.
Something a wanton, more a thief, 
But, most of all, mine own."
"Enter and look," said Peter then,
"And send you well to speed;
But, for all that I know of women and men
Your riddle is hard to read."
Then flew Dinah from under the Chair,
Into his arms she flew, 
And licked his face from chin to hair
And Peter passed them through!
Ballade Of Muhammad Khan
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

She has put on her green robe, she has put on her double veil, my idol;
My idol has come to me.
She has put on her green robe, my love is a laughing flower;
Gently, gently she comes, she is a young rose, she has come out of the garden.
Gently she has shown her face, parting her veil, my idol;
My idol has come to me.
She has put on her green robe, my love is a young rose for me to break.
Her chin has the smooth colour of peaches and she guards it well;
She is the daughter of a Moghol house and well they guard her.
She put on her red jewels when she came with a noise of rings, my idol;
My idol has come to me.
She has put on her green robe, my love is the stem of a rose;
She breaks not, she is strong.
She has a throne, but comes into the woods for love.
I was well and she troubled me when she came to me in the evening, my idol;
My idol has come to me.
She has put on her green robe, her wrist is a sword.
The villages speak of her; the child is as fair as Badri.
She has red lips and six hundred and fifty beads upon her light blue scarf.
Give your garland to Muhammad Khan, my idol;
My idol has come to me.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century).
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXVI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

She comes, and streight therewith her shining twins do moue
Their rayes to me, who in their tedious absence lay
Benighted in cold wo; but now appears my day,
The only light of ioy, the only warmth of loue.
She comes with light and warmth, which, like Aurora, proue
Of gentle force, so that mine eyes dare gladly play
With such a rosie Morne, whose beames, most freshly gay,
Scorch not, but onely doe dark chilling sprites remoue.
But lo, while I do speake, it groweth noone with me,
Her flamie-glistring lights increse with time and place,
My heart cries, oh! it burnes, mine eyes now dazl'd be;
No wind, no shade can coole: what helpe then in my case?
But with short breath, long looks, staid feet, and aching hed,
Pray that my Sunne goe downe with meeker beames to bed.