DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnet XXIII. To Miss E. S.
by Anna Seward

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
That the brook's verge is green; - and bid thee hear,
In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,
At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring [1]the hours of prime? and call thine ear
To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
To merry Shearer's dance; - or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
The caustic memory of a cruel wrong? - 
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.
1: "While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime." MILTON'S PAR. LOST.
Further Language from Truthful James
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Do I sleep? do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our civilization a failure?
Or is the Caucasian played out?
Which expressions are strong;
Yet would feebly imply
Some account of a wrong
Not to call it a lie
As was worked off on William, my pardner,
And the same being W. Nye.
He came down to the Ford
On the very same day
Of that lottery drawed
By those sharps at the Bay;
And he says to me, 'Truthful, how goes it?'
I replied, 'It is far, far from gay;
'For the camp has gone wild
On this lottery game,
And has even beguiled
'Injin Dick' by the same.'
Then said Nye to me, 'Injins is pizen:
But what is his number, eh, James?'
I replied, '7, 2,
9, 8, 4, is his hand;'
When he started, and drew
Out a list, which he scanned;
Then he softly went for his revolver
With language I cannot command.
Then I said, 'William Nye!'
But he turned upon me,
And the look in his eye
Was quite painful to see;
And he says, 'You mistake; this poor Injin
I protects from such sharps as you be!'
I was shocked and withdrew;
But I grieve to relate,
When he next met my view
Injin Dick was his mate;
And the two around town was a-lying
In a frightfully dissolute state.
Which the war dance they had
Round a tree at the Bend
Was a sight that was sad;
And it seemed that the end
Would not justify the proceedings,
As I quiet remarked to a friend.
For that Injin he fled
The next day to his band;
And we found William spread
Very loose on the strand,
With a peaceful-like smile on his features,
And a dollar greenback in his hand;
Which the same, when rolled out,
We observed, with surprise,
Was what he, no doubt,
Thought the number and prize
Them figures in red in the corner,
Which the number of notes specifies.
Was it guile, or a dream?
Is it Nye that I doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our civilization a failure?
Or is the Caucasian played out?
Ditherum Dump.
by John Hartley

Ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump,
An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet,
On his rig he'd a varry respectable hump,
An his nooas end wor ruddy an breet.
His een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed,
An his clooas he could don at a jump;
An th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed,
Wor mi naybor old Ditherum Dump.
Ditherum Dump he lived behund th' pump,
An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet;
An he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect,
An blow me, if aw think 'at its reet!
Yo mun know this old Ditherum lived bi hissen,
For he nivver had met wi' a wife;
An th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men,
For he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life.
But he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold,
An he called hissen "Jolly old trump!"
An he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old,
Still ther's lots wod bi Mistress Dump."
Ditherum Dump, - Jolly old trump!
Tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet,
Yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass,
For mi guineas are bonny an breet.
Soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old,
Wi' noa woman to sweeten his life;
Till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass.
An he cried, "That's the wench for my wife!"
Soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold,
An he axt her this question reight plump;
"Tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old,
Will ta come an be my Mistress Dump?"
"For Mistress Dump shall have gold in a lump,
If tha'll tak me for better or worse;"
Soa shoo says, "Awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass,
An aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse."
Soa Ditherum Dump an this young lass gate wed,
An th' naybors cried, "Shame! Fie, - for - shame!"
But shoo cared net a button for all at they sed,
For shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game.
Then Ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed,
An he left her as rich as a Jew,
An shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead,
An shoo went into black for him too.
Nah, Mistress Dump, soa rooasy an plump,
In a carriage gooas ridin up th' street;
An th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men,
An they're crazy to wed an old freet.
Ding Dong Bell
by Walter Crane

Ding dong bell!
Pussy's in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Lin.
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who ne'er did any harm,
But killed all the mice in father's barn.
Eagles - Composed At Dunollie Castle In The Bay Of Oban
by William Wordsworth

Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law
Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.
Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw
Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe
Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired,
From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard,
Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw
Light from the fountain of the setting sun.
Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes
The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free,
His power, his beauty, and his majesty.
Translations. - Milton's Italian Poems. Iv.
by George MacDonald

Diodati--and I muse to tell the tale--
This stubborn I, that Love was wont despise
And make a laughter of his snares, unwise,
Am fallen--where honest feet will sometimes fail.
Not golden tresses, not a cheek vermeil,
Dazzle me thus; but, in a new-world guise,
A foreign Fair my heart beatifies--
With mien where high-souled modesty I hail;
Eyes softly splendent with a darkness dear;
A speech that more than one tongue vassal hath;
A voice that in the middle hemisphere
Might make the tired moon wander from her path;
While from her eyes such gracious flashes shoot
That stopping hard my ears were little boot.
Dinah.
by Richard Hunter

Dinah's cheeks are black as coal;
Dinah's lips are red;
Dinah's eyes are bright, although
Dinah's off to bed.
Dinah's bows are green and blue;
Dinah's teeth are white;
Dinah's bottle's meant to feed
Dinah in the night.
Song Of Summer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dis is gospel weathah sho'--
Hills is sawt o' hazy.
Meddahs level ez a flo'
Callin' to de lazy.
Sky all white wif streaks o' blue,
Sunshine softly gleamin',
D'ain't no wuk hit's right to do,
Nothin' 's right but dreamin'.
Dreamin' by de rivah side
Wif de watahs glist'nin',
Feelin' good an' satisfied
Ez you lay a-list'nin'
To the little nakid boys
Splashin' in de watah,
Hollerin' fu' to spress deir joys
Jes' lak youngsters ought to.
Squir'l a-tippin' on his toes,
So 's to hide an' view you;
Whole flocks o' camp-meetin' crows
Shoutin' hallelujah.
Peckahwood erpon de tree
Tappin' lak a hammah;
Jaybird chattin' wif a bee,
Tryin' to teach him grammah.
Breeze is blowin' wif perfume,
Jes' enough to tease you;
Hollyhocks is all in bloom,
Smellin' fu' to please you.
Go 'way, folks, an' let me 'lone,
Times is gettin' dearah--
Summah's settin' on de th'one,
An' I 'm a-layin' neah huh!
The Magic Net.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Do I see a contest yonder?
See I miracles or pastimes?
Beauteous urchins, five in number,
'Gainst five sisters fair contending, 
Measured is the time they're beating 
At a bright enchantress' bidding.
Glitt'ring spears by some are wielded,
Threads are others nimbly twining,
So that in their snares, the weapons
One would think, must needs be captured,
Soon, in truth, the spears are prison'd;
Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,
One by one escape their fetters
In the row of loops so tender,
That make haste to seize a free one
Soon as they release a captive.
So with contests, strivings, triumphs,
Flying now, and now returning,
Is an artful net soon woven,
In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,
That, from light amid the darkness,
Draw their streaky lines so varied,
As e'en colours scarce can draw them.
Who shall now receive that garment
Far beyond all others wish'd-for?
Whom our much-loved mistress favour
As her own acknowledged servant?
I am blest by kindly Fortune's
Tokens true, in silence pray'd for!
And I feel myself held captive,
To her service now devoted.
Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured,
Thus adorn'd, am proudly wand'ring,
See! yon wantons are entwining,
Void of strife, with secret ardour,
Other nets, each fine and finer,
Threads of twilight interweaving,
Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.
Ere the net is noticed by us,
Is a happier one imprison'd,
Whom we, one and all, together
Greet with envy and with blessings.
Sonnet to Shelley.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Divinely strong and beautiful in soul!
With more than melody of mortal voice!
The free thy spirit's majesty extol,
When Liberty is made thy Muse's choice.
And then how pure and pleasing is thy song,
When Beauty - goddess of thy mind - its theme!
But most to thee those sweet, sad strains belong,
Where Truth we find through musing's fitful dream:
And trace Uncertainty and how it gropes
Through this and time to come with faltering feet,
And vanity of Pleasure, and the Hopes
Which Fear enfeebles and the Fates defeat:
Strains oft as if at thy once-sung desire
The wild west wind had ta'en thee for its lyre.
Brigid
by James Stephens

(AFTER THE IRISH)
Do not marry, Breed, asthore!
That old man whose head is hoar
As the winter, but instead
Mate with some young curly-head;
He will give to you a child,
He will never leave your side,
And at morning when you wake
Kiss for kiss will give and take.
I wish that I had died, I do,
Before I gave my love to you;
Love so lasting that it will
While I live be with you still:
And for it what do I get?
Pain and trouble and regret,
The terrors of the aspen-tree
Which the wind shakes fearfully.
If this country could be seen
As it ought - then you had been
Living in a castle grand
With the ladies of the land:
The friend and foe, the gael and gall,
Would be cheering, one and all,
For yourself, and, this is true,
I would be along with you.
You promised, 'twas a lie, I see,
When you said you'd come to me
At the sheep-cote; I was there,
And I whistled on the air,
And I gave our settled call -
But you were not there at all!
There was nothing anywhere
But lambs and birds and sunny air
When it is dark you pass me by,
And when the sun is in the sky
You pass me also - night or day
You look away, you walk away!
But if you would come to me,
And say the word of courtesy,
I would close the door, and then
I'd never let you out again.
But do not marry, Breed, asthore!
That old man; his heart is hoar
As his head is: you can see
Winter gripping at his knee:
His eyes and ears are blear and dim,
How can you expect of him
To see or hear or pleasure you
Half as well as I would do?
Do They Know?
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Do they know? At the turn to the straight
Where the favourites fail,
And every last atom of weight
Is telling its tale;
As some grim old stayer hard-pressed
Runs true to his breed,
And with head in front of the rest
Fights on in the lead;
When the jockeys are out with the whips,
With a furlong to go,
And the backers grow white in the lips,
Do you think they don't know?
Do they know? As they come back to weigh
In a whirlwind of cheers,
Though the spurs have left marks of the fray,
Though the sweat on the ears
Gathers cold, and they sob with distress
As they roll up the track,
They know just as well their success
As the man on their back.
As they walk through a dense human lane
That sways to and fro,
And cheers them again and again,
Do you think they don't know?
Do Not Worry
by Alan L. Strang

Do not worry over trifles, though
to you they may seem great,
All your fretting will not help you,
or your troubles dissipate.
If your sky is dark and gloomy,
and the sun is hid from view,
Bravely smile and keep on smiling,
And your friends will smile with you.
Happiness is so contagious, and a
smile is never lost;
Then why worry over trifles, tho
your heart seems tempest tossed.
Therefore go on life's journey
with an optimistic smile,
See the world is good to live in,
and that living is worth while.
Master And Man
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon?
If ye'll listen I'll tell ye.
Dinna trust to the books and their gammon,
They're but trying to sell ye.
Leave professors to read their ain cackle
And fush their ain style;
Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle
And be busy the while.
'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'?
Aw, ye'll no be the loser;
'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin'
Than ane that's a cruiser.
If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter,
Ye should pray for the droot,
For the salmon's her ain when there's watter,
But she's oors when it's oot.
Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye,
Ane hook wull be plenty;
If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye,
They'll no come for twenty.
Ay, a rod; but the shorter the stranger
And the nearer to strike;
For myself I prefare it nae langer
Than a yard or the like.
Noo, ye'll stand awa' back while I'm creepin'
Wi' my snoot i' the gowans;
There's a bonny twalve-poonder a-sleepin'
I' the shade o' yon rowans.
Man, man! I was fearin' I'd stirred her,
But I've got her the noo!
Hoot! fushin's as easy as murrder
When ye ken what to do.
Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin'
But I canna permit ye;
For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin'
Wad hardly befit ye.
And some work is deefficult hushin',
There'd be havers and chaff:
'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fushin'
And me wi' the gaff.
The Useful Weed.
by James McIntyre

Do not despise the humble weed,
For the Lord He first sowed the seed,
Perhaps it bears most precious fruit,
And useful leaves and potent root.
Though it seems now a useless weed,
Countless millions it yet may feed,
Or future ages it may prize,
Finding in it beauteous dyes.
Or a valued healing balm,
Will make the heated pulse beat calm,
And the future men of science,
May place on it strong reliance.
And it may play important part,
In advancing skill and art,
And no person now doth know
How useful are the weeds that grow.
Weeds we now look on with loathing,
They may yet be used for clothing,
Producing silken glossy coat,
Or paper fine for the bank note.
But you at present must take heed,
And do not grow the cumbrous weed,
Either in garden or in field,
Where plants with profit now do yield.
Do Not Cheer, Men Are Dying," Said Capt. Phillips, In The Spanish-American War.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Do not cheer, for men are dying
From their distant homes in pain;
And the restless sea is darkened
By a flood of crimson rain.
Do not cheer, for anxious mothers
Wait and watch in lonely dread;
Vainly waiting for the footsteps
Never more their paths to tread.
Do not cheer, while little children
Gather round the widowed wife,
Wondering why an unknown people
Sought their own dear father's life.
Do not cheer, for aged fathers
Bend above their staves and weep,
While the ocean sings the requiem
Where their fallen children sleep.
Do not cheer, for lips are paling
On which lay the mother's kiss;
'Mid the dreadful roar of battle
How that mother's hand they miss!
Do not cheer: once joyous maidens,
Who the mazy dance did tread,
Bow their heads in bitter anguish,
Mourning o'er their cherished dead.
Do not cheer while maid and matron
In this strife must bear a part;
While the blow that strikes a soldier
Reaches to some woman's heart.
Do not cheer till arbitration
O'er the nations holds its sway,
And the century now closing
Ushers in a brighter day.
Do not cheer until the nation
Shall more wise and thoughtful grow
Than to staunch a stream of sorrow
By an avalanche of woe.
Do not cheer until each nation
Sheathes the sword and blunts the spear,
And we sing aloud for gladness:
Lo, the reign of Christ is here,
And the banners of destruction
From the battlefield are furled,
And the peace of God descending
Rests upon a restless world.
Alone And Cold
by John Frederick Freeman

Do not, O do not use me
As you have used others.
Better you did refuse me:
You have refused others.
Better, far better hope to banish
A small child than, grown old,
Hope should decay, his vigour vanish,
And I be left alone and
Cold, cold.
Ah, use no guile nor cunning
If you should even yet love me.
Hark, Time with Love is running,
Death cloud-like floats above me.
Love me with such simplicity
As children, frankly bold,
Do love with; oh, never pity me,
Though I be left alone and
Cold, cold.
Love's Defeat.
by Eric Mackay

Do what I will, I cannot chant so well
As other men; and yet my soul is true.
My hopes are bold; my thoughts are hard to tell,
But thou can'st read them, and accept them, too,
Though, half-abash'd, they seem to hide from view.
I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell;
And why? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel,
And when I count the woes that must ensue.
But for this reason, and no other one,
I dare to look thy way, and bow my head
To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun,
Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed
With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed,
Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!
Tarantella
by Hilaire Belloc

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
Do Not Say That Life Is Waning.
by Thomas Moore

Do not say that life is waning,
Or that hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
Life is in the horizon yet.
Do not think those charms are flying,
Tho' thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
Which in thee survives them all.
Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest.
That is lingering now o'er thine.
Unforgotten
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Do you ever think of me? you who died
Ere our Youth's first fervour chilled,
With your soft eyes and your pulses stilled
Lying alone, aside,
Do you ever think of me, left in the light,
From the endless calm of your dawnless night?
I am faithful always: I do not say
That the lips which thrilled to your lips of old
To lesser kisses are always cold;
Had you wished for this in its narrow sense
Our love perhaps had been less intense;
But as we held faithfulness, you and I,
I am faithful always, as you who lie,
Asleep for ever, beneath the grass,
While the days and nights and the seasons pass, - 
Pass away.
I keep your memory near my heart,
My brilliant, beautiful guiding Star,
Till long live over, I too depart
To the infinite night where perhaps you are.
Oh, are you anywhere?    Loved so well!
I would rather know you alive in Hell
Than think your beauty is nothing now,
With its deep dark eyes and tranquil brow
Where the hair fell softly.    Can this be true
That nothing, nowhere, exists of you?
Nothing, nowhere, oh, loved so well
I have never forgotten.
Do you still keep
Thoughts of me through your dreamless sleep?
Oh, gone from me! lost in Eternal Night,
Lost Star of light,
Risen splendidly, set so soon,
Through the weariness of life's afternoon
I dream of your memory yet.
My loved and lost, whom I could not save,
My youth went down with you to the grave,
Though other planets and stars may rise,
I dream of your soft and sorrowful eyes
And I cannot forget.
Hare Drummer
by Edgar Lee Masters

Do the boys and girls still go to Siever's
For cider, after school, in late September?
Or gather hazel nuts among the thickets
On Aaron Hatfield's farm when the frosts begin?
For many times with the laughing girls and boys
Played I along the road and over the hills
When the sun was low and the air was cool,
Stopping to club the walnut tree
Standing leafless against a flaming west.
Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,
And the dropping acorns,
And the echoes about the vales
Bring dreams of life.
They hover over me.
They question me:
Where are those laughing comrades?
How many are with me, how many
In the old orchards along the way to Siever's,
And in the woods that overlook
The quiet water?
A Double Standard.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Do you blame me that I loved him?
If when standing all alone
I cried for bread a careless world
Pressed to my lips a stone.
Do you blame me that I loved him,
That my heart beat glad and free,
When he told me in the sweetest tones
He loved but only me?
Can you blame me that I did not see
Beneath his burning kiss
The serpent's wiles, nor even hear
The deadly adder hiss?
Can you blame me that my heart grew cold
The tempted, tempter turned;
When he was feted and caressed
And I was coldly spurned?
Would you blame him, when you draw from me
Your dainty robes aside,
If he with gilded baits should claim
Your fairest as his bride?
Would you blame the world if it should press
On him a civic crown;
And see me struggling in the depth
Then harshly press me down?
Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.
Can you blame me if I've learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?
Would you blame me if to-morrow
The coroner should say,
A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,
Has thrown her life away?
Yes, blame me for my downward course,
But oh! remember well,
Within your homes you press the hand
That led me down to hell.
I'm glad God's ways are not our ways
He does not see as man;
Within His love I know there's room
For those whom others ban.
I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,
That whited sepulchres shall wear
The hue of endless night.
That I who fell, and he who sinned,
Shall reap as we have sown;
That each the burden of his loss
Must bear and bear alone.
No golden weights can turn the scale
Of justice in His sight;
And what is wrong in woman's life
In man's cannot be right.
Mongan Laments The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved
by William Butler Yeats

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns!
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.
Two Descriptions Of Action.
by Friedrich Schiller

Do what is good, and humanity's godlike plant thou wilt nourish;
Plan what is fair, and thou'lt strew seeds of the godlike around.
Dialogue
by Nizar Qabbani

Do not say my love was
A ring or a bracelet.
My love is a siege,
Is the daring and headstrong.
Who, searching sail out to their death.
Do not say my love was
A moon.
My love is a burst of sparks.