DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
It Might Have Been
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We will be what we could be.    Do not say,
"It might have been, had not or that, or this."
No fate can keep us from the chosen way;
He only might, who IS.
We will do what we could do.    Do not dream
Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.
I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;
He does, who could achieve.
We will climb where we could climb.    Tell me not
Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.
What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?
He always climbs who might.
I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!"
It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
Whatever our deserts.
The Sisters' Shame
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

We were two daughters of one race;
She was the fairest in the face.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
They were together, and she fell;
Therefore revenge became me well.
O, the earl was fair to see!
She died; she went to burning flame;
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.
The wind is howling in turret and tree.
Whole weeks and months, and early and late,
To win his love I lay in wait.
O, the earl was fair to see!
I made a feast; I bade him come;
I won his love, I brought him home,
The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
And after supper on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head.
O, the earl was fair to see!
I kiss'd his eyelids into rest,
His ruddy cheeks upon my breast.
The wind is raging in turret and tree.
I hated him with the hate of hell,
But I loved his beauty passing well.
O, the earl was fair to see!
I rose up in the silent night;
I made my dagger sharp and bright.
The wind is raving in turret and tree.
As half-asleep his breath he drew,
Three time I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.
O, the earl was fair to see!
I curl'd and comb'd his comely head,
He looked so grand when he was dead.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
I wrapt his body in the sheet,
And laid him at his mother's feet.
O, the earl was fair to see!
We Were Boys Together.
by George Pope Morris

(Music by Russell.)
We were boys together,
And never can forget
The school-house near the heather,
In childhood where we met;
The humble home to memory dear,
Its sorrows and its joys;
Where woke the transient smile or tear,
When you and I were boys.
We were youths together,
And castles built in air,
Your heart was like a feather,
And mine weighed down with care;
To you came wealth with manhood's prime,
To me it brought alloys--
Foreshadowed in the primrose time.
When you and I were boys.
We're old men together--
The friends we loved of yore,
With leaves of autumn weather,
Are gone for evermore.
How blest to age the impulse given,
The hope time ne'er destroys--
Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven,
When you and I were boys!
The Young Adventurers
by Michael Earls

We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring,
Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas:
All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells
Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.
Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires,
Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song;
We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass,
And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.
Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove,
Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;
Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet,
Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.
On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze,
Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune:
Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery.
Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.
Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales,
Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:--
Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical,
For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today.
Frost-Bitten.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'" 
Molly Lef'vre and I, you know;
The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;
Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.
Her white arms nestled amid her furs;
Her hands half-held, with languid grace,
Her fading roses; fair to see
Was the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.
I watched her, saying never a word,
For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.
The breath of the roses filled the air,
And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.
At last I said to her, bending near,
"Ah, Molly Lef'vre, how sweet 'twould be,
To ride on dreaming, all our lives,
Alone with the roses you and me."
Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,
And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,
Her answer came. It was "Yes, perhaps 
But who would settle our carriage bill?"
The dying roses breathed their last,
Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,
Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.
It has never been taken up again.
My Brother James And I
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A BEREAVED BROTHER.
We were playmates long together,
By the brook and on the hill,
In the golden, summer weather,
When the days were long and still;
We were playmates in the firelight
While the winter eyes went by,
And we shared one couch at midnight - 
My brother James and I!
We were schoolmates, too, together,
In the after years that came,
And in toil, or task, or pleasure,
Ours was still one heart, one aim;
Hand in hand we struggled sunward
Toward fair Science' temple high
Aiding each the other onward - 
My brother James and I!
We were men at last together - 
Oh, the well remembered time,
When we left the dear, old homestead
In our early manhood's prime!
Even then not disunited,
Went we forth with courage high
To one aim and effort plighted - 
My brother James and I!
But at length there came a shadow
Dark with signs of change and blight
Deep'ning silently but surely
To a long and tearful night,
And beside a lonely river
That went darkly rushing by
Parted we - but not forever - 
My brother James and I!
Not forever! not forever!
Though the stream is dark and wide
He is beck'ning to me ever
From the sun lit, summer side,
There the glory fadeth never,
And I know that by and by
We shall tread that shore together - 
My brother James and I!
The Year Clock
by William Barnes

We zot bezide the leafy wall,
Upon the bench at evenfall,
While aunt led off our minds wrom ceare
Wi' veairy teales, I can't tell where,
An' vound us woone among her stock
O' feables, o' the gert Year-clock.
His feace wer blue's the zummer skies,
An' wide's the zight o'looken eyes,
For hands, a zun wi' glowen feace,
An' pealer moon wi' swifter peace,
Did wheel by stars o' twinklen light,
By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
A'reachen wide, on either hand,
Wer hill an' dell, wi' win'-sway'd trees,
An' lights a'zweepen over seas,
An' gleamen cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
Wi' sheades a-marken on the hours;
An' as the feace, a-rollen round,
Brought comely sheapes along the ground,
The Spring did come in winsome steate
Below a glowen rainbow geate;
An' fan wi' air a-blowen weak,
Her glossy heair, an' rwosy cheak,
As she did shed vrom open hand,
The leapen zeed on vurrow'd land;
The while the rook, wi' heasty flight,
A-floaten in the glowen light,
Did bear avore her glossy breast
A stick to build her lofty nest,
An' strong-limbed Tweil, wi' steady hands,
Did guide along the vallow lands
The heavy zull, wi' bright-shear'd beam,
Avore the weary oxen-team.
Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
Sweet Zummer, jay on ev'ry mind,
Wi' feace a-beamen to beguile
Our weary souls ov ev'ry tweil,
While birds did warble in the dell,
In softest air o' sweetest smell;
An' she, so winsome-feair did vwold
Her comely limbs in green an' goold,
An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs
O' berries green, an' new-born buds,
A-fring'd in colours vier-bright,
Wi' sheapes o'buttervlies in flight.
When Summer went, the next ov all
Did come the sheape o' brown-feac'd Fall,
A-smile in a comely gown
O'green, a-shot wi' yollow-brown,
A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
O'fringe, a-meade o' corn-ears ripe,
An' up agean her comely zide,
Upon her rounded earm, did ride
A pretty basket, all a-twin'd
O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind,
A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed,
All ripe, in purple, goold an' red;
An' busy Leabor there did come
A-zingen zongs ov harvest hwome,
An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run
Roun' cheervul Leisure, wi' his gun,
Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight,
The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight.
An' next agean to mild-feac'd Fall
Did come peale Winter, last ov all,
A-benden down, in thoughtvul mood,
Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood,
A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels bright,
An' cwold as twinklen stars o' night;
An' there were weary Leabor, slack
O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
A-looken off, wi' wistful eyes,
To reefs o'smoke, that there did rise
A-melten to the peale-feac'd zun,
Above the houses' lofty tun.
An' there the gert Year-clock did goo
By day an' night, vor ever true,
Wi' mighty wheels a-rollen round
'Ithout a beat, 'ithout a sound.
At A Birthday Festival - To J. R. Lowell
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

We will not speak of years to-night, - 
For what have years to bring
But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing?
We will not drown in wordy praise
The kindly thoughts that rise;
If Friendship own one tender phrase,
He reads it in our eyes.
We need not waste our school-boy art
To gild this notch of Time; - 
Forgive me if my wayward heart
Has throbbed in artless rhyme.
Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,
And he the bracelet's radiant clasp
That locks our circling band.
Strength to his hours of manly toil!
Peace to his starlit dreams!
Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
The music-haunted streams!
Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
The sunshine on his lips,
And faith that sees the ring of light
Round nature's last eclipse!
February 22, 1859.
To Hans Christian Andersen (At A Summer-Fete For Him In Christiania, 1871)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 53)
We welcome you this wondrous summer-day,
When childhood's dreams on earth are streaming,
To bloom and sing, to brighten and to pale;
A fairy-tale,
A fairy-tale, our Northland all is seeming,
And holds you in its arms a festal space
With grateful glee and whisperings face to face.
Th' angelic noise,
Sweet strains of children's joys,
Bears you a moment to that home
Whence all our dreams, whence all our dreams have come.
We welcome you! Our nation all is young,
Still in that age of dreams enthralling,
When greatest things in fairy-tales are nursed,
And he is first,
And he is first, who hears his Lord's high calling.
Of childhood's longings you the meaning know,
And to the North a goal of greatness show.
Your fantasy
Has just that path made free,
Where, past the small things that you hate,
We yet shall find, we yet shall find the great.
The Death Of Lovers
by Charles Baudelaire

We will have beds imbued with mildest scent,
And couches, deep as tombs, in which to lie,
Flowers around us, strange and opulent,
Blooming on shelves under the finest skies.
Approaching equally their final light,
Our twin hearts will be two great flaming brands
That will be double in each other's sight
Our souls the mirrors where the image stands.
One evening made of rose and mystic blue
We will flare out, in an epiphany
Like a long sob, charged with our last adieus.
And later, opening the doors, will be
An Angel, who will joyfully reglaze
The tarnished mirrors, and relight the blaze.
The Pine Planters (Marty South's Reverie)
by Thomas Hardy

I
We work here together
In blast and breeze;
He fills the earth in,
I hold the trees.
He does not notice
That what I do
Keeps me from moving
And chills me through.
He has seen one fairer
I feel by his eye,
Which skims me as though
I were not by.
And since she passed here
He scarce has known
But that the woodland
Holds him alone.
I have worked here with him
Since morning shine,
He busy with his thoughts
And I with mine.
I have helped him so many,
So many days,
But never win any
Small word of praise!
Shall I not sigh to him
That I work on
Glad to be nigh to him
Though hope is gone?
Nay, though he never
Knew love like mine,
I'll bear it ever
And make no sign!
II
From the bundle at hand here
I take each tree,
And set it to stand, here
Always to be;
When, in a second,
As if from fear
Of Life unreckoned
Beginning here,
It starts a sighing
Through day and night,
Though while there lying
'Twas voiceless quite.
It will sigh in the morning,
Will sigh at noon,
At the winter's warning,
In wafts of June;
Grieving that never
Kind Fate decreed
It should for ever
Remain a seed,
And shun the welter
Of things without,
Unneeding shelter
From storm and drought.
Thus, all unknowing
For whom or what
We set it growing
In this bleak spot,
It still will grieve here
Throughout its time,
Unable to leave here,
Or change its clime;
Or tell the story
Of us to-day
When, halt and hoary,
We pass away.
The Second Voyage
by Rudyard Kipling

We've sent our little Cupids all ashore,
They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold:
Our sails of silk and purple go to store,
And we've cut away our mast of beaten gold
(Foul weather!)
Oh 'tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine,
But Love he is our master as of old!
The sea has shorn our galleries away,
The salt has soiled our gilding past remede;
Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray,
Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed
(Foul weather!)
And the Doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead,
But Love he was our master at our need!
'Was Youth would keep no vigil at the bow,
'Was Pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer,
We've shipped three able quartermasters now.
Men call them Custom, Reverence, and Fear
(Foul weather!)
They are old and scarred and plain, but we'll run no risk again
From any Port o' Paphos mutineer!
We seek no more the tempest for delight,
We skirt no more the indraught and the shoal,
We ask no more of any day or night
Than to come with least adventure to our goal
(Foul weather!)
What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look,
Nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole.
Yet, caring so, not overmuch we care
To brace and trim for every foolish blast,
If the squall be pleased to seep us unaware,
He may bellow off to leeward like the last
(Foul weather!)
We will blame it on the deep (for the watch must have their sleep),
And Love can come and wake us when 'tis past.
Oh launch them down with music from the beach,
Oh warp them out with garlands from the quays,
Most resolute, a damsel unto each,
New prows that seek the old Hesperides!
(Foul weather!)
Though we know their voyage is vain, yet we see our path again
In the saffroned bridesails scenting all the seas!
(Foul weather!)
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLIV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

We're all dry with drinking on't.
We're all dry with drinking on't;
The piper spoke to the fiddler's wife,
And I can't sleep for thinking on't.
Boots
by Rudyard Kipling

We're foot, slog, slog, slog, sloggin' over Africa, 
Foot, foot, foot, foot, sloggin' over Africa, 
(Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Seven, six, eleven, five, nine-an'-twenty mile to-day, 
Four, eleven, seventeen, thirty-two the day before, 
(Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Don't, don't, don't, don't, look at what's in front of you.
(Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up an' down again);
Men, men, men, men, men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Try, try, try, try, to think o' something different, 
Oh, my, God, keep, me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Count, count, count, count, the bullets in the bandoliers.
If, your, eyes, drop, they will get atop o' you!
(Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up and down again), 
There's no discharge in the war!
We, can, stick, out, 'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But, not, not, not, not the chronic sight of 'em, 
Boot, boots, boots, boots, movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
'Taint, so, bad, by, day because o' company,
But night, brings, long, strings, o' forty thousand million
Boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!
I, 'ave, marched, six, weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It, is, not, fire, devils, dark, or anything,
But boots, boots, boots, boots, movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Vertigo
by Paul Cameron Brown

We're travelling down a carnival road, are met at intersections by
varying faces: poets as eyes in collapsed black holes, even the
universe as extension of the stellar poet. Then, they are transformed,
become worm-pickers, masons, longshoremen who subsidize their
poetry with the real task at hand: making waste, laying trestles
instead of women to prove a point.
This is necessary. I'm defending it, find it both believable and
interesting. Meanwhile, troubadours and wandering minstrels eke
out a living on storybook memories, join Marco Polo if he ever
lived. Seek out the Great Khan in a box of cookies or within a
magnum of champagne depending on circumstances.
The Grand    Lunar is watching. Her pallor commands true poets to
roll over, gaze at silver buttocks make a commitment to the art
beyond spray painting, ghost watching, navel gazing.
The sky is the final home of the soul, the Sage himself a wanderer
announced.
It was a warm spring evening. Lilac bounded from antler brown
twigs only recently inert. Everything dissolved at once into crying.
The world itself became a tear.
For Thine Own Sake, O My God.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance,
Wearied of self, I turn, my God, to Thee;
To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence
Hangs mine eternity:
I turn to Thee, I plead Thyself with Thee, -
Be pitiful to me.
Wearied I loathe myself, I loathe my sinning,
My stains, my festering sores, my misery:
Thou the Beginning, Thou ere my beginning
Didst see and didst foresee
Me miserable, me sinful, ruined me, -
I plead Thyself with Thee.
I plead Thyself with Thee Who art my Maker,
Regard Thy handiwork that cries to Thee;
I plead Thyself with Thee Who wast partaker
Of mine infirmity,
Love made Thee what Thou art, the love of me, -
I plead Thyself with Thee.
Wearies my Love?
by George Pope Morris

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?
Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!--with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness,
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I lover still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tears.
My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego:
From neither assistance I'll borrow
To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever
Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray:
Memento of mine again never
Will shadow the light of her way!
Sixty an Sixteen.
by John Hartley

We're older nor we used to be,
But that's noa reason why
We owt to mope i' misery,
An whine an grooan an sigh.
We've had awr shares o' ups an daans,
I' this world's whirligig;
An for its favors or its fraans
We needn't care a fig.
Let them, at's enterin on life
Be worried wi' its cares;
We've tasted booath its joys an strife,
They're welcome nah to theirs.
To tak things easy owt to be
An old man's futer plan,
Till th' time comes when he has to dee, - 
Then dee as weel's he can.
It's foolish nah to brood an freeat,
Abaat what might ha been;
At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een,
We saw wi at sixteen.
Young shoolders worn't meant to bear
Old heeads, an nivver will;
Youth had its fling when we wor thear,
An soa it will have still.
Aw wodn't live life o'er agean,
Unless 'at aw could start
Quite free throo knowledge o' this world,
Quite free in heead an heart.
That perfect trust 'at childer have,
Gives life its greatest charm;
Noa wisdom after years can give,
Will keep ther hearts as warm.
When nearin th' bottom o' life's hill,
If we, when lukkin back,
Can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown,
Are bloomin on awr track;
Wol th' evil deeds we did shall be
All trampled aght o' seet;
Awr journey's end will peaceful be,
An deeath itsen be sweet.
Then let's give thanks for mercies past,
That've kept awr hearts still green;
For thar't just as dear at sixty, lass,
As when tha wor sixteen.
Love's Sleep.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

(Vers de Soci't'.)
We'll cover Love with roses,
And sweet sleep he shall take.
None but a fool supposes
Love always keeps awake.
I've known loves without number.
True loves were they, and tried;
And just for want of slumber
They pined away and died.
Our love was bright and cheerful
A little while agone;
Now he is pale and tearful,
And - yes, I've seen him yawn.
So tired is he of kisses
That he can only weep;
The one dear thing he misses
And longs for now is sleep.
We could not let him leave us
One time, he was so dear,
But now it would not grieve us
If he slept half a year.
For he has had his season,
Like the lily and the rose,
And it but stands to reason
That he should want repose.
We prized the smiling Cupid
Who made our days so bright;
But he has grown so stupid
We gladly say good-night.
And if he wakens tender
And fond, and fair as when
He filled our lives with splendor,
We'll take him back again.
And should he never waken,
As that perchance may be,
We will not weep forsaken,
But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee!"
Let's Be Fools To-Night or, The Three Partners
by Henry Lawson

We, three men of commerce,
Striving wealth to raise,
See but little promise
In the coming days;
Though our hearts are brittle,
Hardened near to stone,
We can think a little
Of the seasons flown.
Lily days and rose days:
Youthful days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let's be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of what we would be
When we wandered urchins,
Foes of law and rule,
Fearing only birchings
And the village school.
Lily days and rose days,
Boyhood's days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let's be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of ability
When we lived in riot;
Never drew the line,
Hating peace and quiet,
Loving maids and wine.
Days when money goes, days
When men's hearts are right;
We were fools in those days,
Let's be fools to-night.
We must wear to-morrow
All our worldly marks,
Calm looks for our sorrow,
Stern looks for our clerks,
Who, from trouble shrinking,
Tasting earthly joys,
Hate us, little thinking
Ever we were boys.
Days when kindness flows, days
When men's hearts are white;
We've been wise since those days,
Let's be fools to-night.
Ideal Husband To His Wife, The
by Sam Walter Foss

We've lived for forty years, dear wife,
And walked together side by side,
And you to-day are just as dear
As when you were my bride.
I've tried to make life glad for you,
One long, sweet honeymoon of joy,
A dream of marital content,
Without the least alloy.
I've smoothed all boulders from our path,
That we in peace might toil along,
By always hastening to admit
That I was right and you were wrong.
No mad diversity of creed
Has ever sundered me from thee;
For I permit you evermore
To borrow your ideas of me.
And thus it is, through weal or woe,
Our love forevermore endures;
For I permit that you should take
My views and creeds, and make them yours.
And thus I let you have my way,
And thus in peace we toil along,
For I am willing to admit
That I am right and you are wrong.
And when our matrimonial skiff
Strikes snags in love's meandering stream,
I lift our shallop from the rocks,
And float as in a placid dream.
And well I know our marriage bliss
While life shall last will never cease;
For I shall always let thee do,
In generous love, just what I please.
Peace comes, and discord flies away,
Love's bright day follows hatred's night;
For I am ready to admit
That you are wrong and I am right.