DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Birds Of Prey March
by Rudyard Kipling

March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
Front! eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses
Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.
Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
Time! mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er '
Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.
March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
'Alt, an' 'and 'er out ' a woman's gone and fainted!
Cheer! Get on ' Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!
Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)
You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow
No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!
'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us!
'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!
Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin'
Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,
'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.
'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!
Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!)
The jackal an' the kite
'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
The eagle an' the crow
They are waitin' ever so,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
Water-Fowl Observed Frequently Over The Lakes Of Rydal And Grasmere
by William Wordsworth

Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,
With grace of motion that might scarcely seem
Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
(And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars
High as the level of the mountain-tops)
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath
Their own domain; but ever, while intent
On tracing and retracing that large round,
Their jubilant activity evolves
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
Upward and downward, progress intricate
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done
Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;
But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending; they approach I hear their wings,
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,
Past in a moment and as faint again!
They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,
To show them a fair image; 'tis themselves,
Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,
Painted more soft and fair as they descend
Almost to touch; then up again aloft,
Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!
Men Of The Sea
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle's thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves - and under.
Men of the sea, Men of the sea,
I lift mine eyes to the Flags unfurled - 
The Flags of Victory blowing free
Over the new-born world.
And I cry 'Thank God! these things can be!
Thank God, and the Men of the Sea!'
Little it matters to what they belong,
Marine or Navy - or Merchant Ship - 
To the Men of the Sea I sing my song;
A song that rises from heart to lip.
I sing of the valour that ploughed a path
Straight through the snares of a crafty foe,
Through billows raging with wintry wrath,
And over the dens of the devils below.
To the splendid heroes of Jutland Bank
And the Royal Navy I give their due;
And cheek by jowl with them all, I rank
The brave mine-sweepers and merchant crew.
Trawler - Drifter - or English Fleet - 
All are manned by the Men of the Sea,
And all together in my heart meet,
For a boat is a boat to the mind of me.
And who ever over the dread seas fared,
And however humble his work or place,
To the great Christ spirit must be compared - 
Since he offered his life for the good of the race.
And how many lie in the deep-sea bed,
No man can reckon, and no man number;
But not one Soul of them all is dead,
For death is only the body's slumber.
And the Men of the Mist, who from dark to dawn
On the deck or the bridge stand guard at night,
Oft feel the presence of comrades gone
Who keep watch with them, though veiled from sight.
Many the songs of the brave boys sent
Over The Top in the battle's thunder;
But mine is the song of the men who went
Over the top of the waves - and under.
Frost In May
by Madison Julius Cawein

March set heel upon the flowers,
Trod and trampled them for hours:
But when April's bugles rang,
Up their starry legions sprang,
Radiant in the sun-shot showers.
April went her frolic ways,
Arm in arm with happy days:
Then from hills that rim the west,
Bare of head and bare of breast,
May, the maiden, showed her face.
Then, it seemed, again returned
March, the iron-heeled, who turned
From his northward path and caught
May about the waist, who fought
And his fierce advances spurned.
What her strength and her disdain
To the madness in his brain!
He must kiss her though he kill;
Then, when he had had his will,
Go his roaring way again.
Icy grew her finger-tips,
And the wild-rose of her lips
Paled with frost: then loud he laughed,
Left her, like a moonbeam-shaft,
Shattered, where the forest drips....
Mourn for her, O honey-bees!
Mourn, O buds upon the trees!
Birds and blossoms, mourn for May!
Mourn for her, then come away!
Leave her where her flowers freeze.
Leave her. Nothing more may save.
Leave her in her wildwood grave.
Nothing now will waken her,
Loved and lost, and lovelier
For the kiss that wild March gave.
Love Storm
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Many roses in the wind
Are tapping at the window-sash.
A hawk is in the sky; his wings
Slowly begin to plash.
The roses with the west wind rapping
Are torn away, and a splash
Of red goes down the billowing air.
Still hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving
Past him - only a wing-beat proving
The will that holds him there.
The daisies in the grass are bending,
The hawk has dropped, the wind is spending
All the roses, and unending
Rustle of leaves washes out the rending
Cry of a bird.
A red rose goes on the wind. - Ascending
The hawk his wind-swept way is wending
Easily down the sky. The daisies, sending
Strange white signals, seem intending
To show the place whence the scream was heard.
But, oh, my heart, what birds are piping!
A silver wind is hastily wiping
The face of the youngest rose.
And oh, my heart, cease apprehending!
The hawk is gone, a rose is tapping
The window-sash as the west-wind blows.
Knock, knock, 'tis no more than a red rose rapping,
And fear is a plash of wings.
What, then, if a scarlet rose goes flapping
Down the bright-grey ruin of things!
In the Tuberculosis Sanitarium
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Many sick people are walking in the garden
Back and forth and lying in the porches.
Those who are the sickest burn with fever
Every wretched day in the hot
Grave of their beds.
Ah, Catholic sisters float
Around wearily in black clothes.
Yesterday someone died.    Today another can die.
In the city Fasching is begin celebrated.
I would like to be able to play the difference
On the piano.
The World
by Alfred Lichtenstein

(Dedicated to a clown)
Many days tread upon human animals,
In gentle oceans hunger-sharks fly.
Heads, beers glisten in coffee-houses.
Girls' screams shred on a man.
Thunderstorms come crashing down.    Forest winds darken.
Women knead prayers in skinny hands:
May the Lord God send an angel.
A shred of moonlight shimmers in the sewers.
Readers of books crouch quietly on their bodies.
An evening dips the world in lilac lye.
The trunk of a body floats in a windshield.
From deep in the brain its eyes sink.
Sonet 3
by Michael Drayton

Many there be excelling in this kind,
Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his minde,
Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell.
That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,
Let none think them disparaged to be,
Poore men with reuerence may speake of a King,
And so may these be spoken of by mee;
My wanton verse nere keepes one certaine stay,
But now, at hand; then, seekes inuention far,
And with each little motion runnes astray,
Wilde, madding, iocond, and irreguler;
Like me that lust, my honest merry rimes,
Nor care for Criticke, nor regard the times.
God-Speed To The Snow
by Archibald Lampman

March is slain; the keen winds fly;
Nothing more is thine to do;
April kisses thee good-bye;
Thou must haste and follow too;
Silent friend that guarded well
Withered things to make us glad,
Shyest friend that could not tell
Half the kindly thought he had.
Haste thee, speed thee, O kind snow;
Down the dripping valleys go,
From the fields and gleaming meadows,
Where the slaying hours behold thee,
From the forests whose slim shadows,
Brown and leafless cannot fold thee,
Through the cedar lands aflame
With gold light that cleaves and quivers,
Songs that winter may not tame,
Drone of pines and laugh of rivers.
May thy passing joyous be
To thy father, the great sea,
For the sun is getting stronger;
Earth hath need of thee no longer;
Go, kind snow, God-speed to thee!
Uncle Sidney To Marcellus
by James Whitcomb Riley

Marcellus, won't you tell us -
Truly tell us, if you can, -
What will you be, Marcellus,
When you get to be a man?
You turn, with never answer
But to the band that plays. -
O rapt and eerie dancer,
What of your future days?
Far in the years before us
We dreamers see your fame,
While song and praise in chorus
Make music of your name.
And though our dreams foretell us
As only visions can,
You must prove it, O Marcellus,
When you get to be a man!
Sonnet LXV. To The Same.
by Anna Seward

Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain
To thy young eyes and kindling fancy, gleam
With somewhat of the vivid hues, that stream
From Poesy's bright orb, each envious stain
Shed by dull Critics, venal, vex'd and vain,
Seems recompens'd at full; - and so wou'd seem
Did not maturer Sons of Phoebus deem
My verse Aonian. - Thou, in time, shalt gain,
Like them, amid the letter'd World, that sway
Which makes encomium fame; - so thou adorn,
Extend, refine and dignify thy lay,
And Indolence, and Syren Pleasure scorn;
Then, at high noon, thy Genius shall display
The splendors promis'd in its shining morn.
Chronicle, The: A Ballad
by Abraham Cowley

Margarita first possess'd,
If I remember well, my breast,
Margarita, first of all;
But when a while the wanton maid
With my restless heart had play'd,
Martha took the flying ball.
Martha soon did it resign
To the beauteous Catharine.
Beauteous Catharine gave place
(Though loth and angry she to part
With the possession of my heart)
To Eliza's conquering face.
Eliza till this hour might reign,
Had she not evil counsel ta'en:
Fundamental laws she broke,
And still new favourites she chose,
Till up in arms my passions rose,
And cast away her yoke.
Mary then and gentle Anne,
Both to reign at once began,
Alternately they swayed:
And sometimes Mary was the fair,
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,
And sometimes both I obey'd.
Another Mary then arose,
And did rigorous laws impose;
A mighty tyrant she!
Long, alas, should I have been
Under that iron-scepter'd queen,
Had not Rebecca set me free.
When fair Rebecca set me free,
'Twas then a golden time with me,
But soon those pleasures fled;
For the gracious princess died
In her youth and beauty's pride,
And Judith reigned in her stead.
One month, three days, and half an hour,
Judith held the sovereign power,
Wondrous beautiful her face;
But so weak and small her wit,
That she to govern was unfit,
And so Susanna took her place.
But when Isabella came,
Arm'd with a resistless flame,
And th' artillery of her eye;
Whilst she proudly march'd about
Greater conquests to find out:
She beat out Susan by the bye.
But in her place I then obey'd
Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid,
To whom ensued a vacancy:
Thousand worse passions then possess'd
The interregnum of my breast;
Bless me from such an anarchy.
Gentle Henrietta then,
And a third Mary next began;
Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria:
And then a pretty Thomasine,
And then another Catharine,
And then a long et caetera.
But should I now to you relate
The strength and riches of their state,
The powder, patches, and the pins,
The ribbons, jewels, and the rings,
The lace, the paint, and warlike things,
That make up all their magazines:
If I should tell the politic arts
To take and keep men's hearts;
The letters, embassies, and spies,
The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries,
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries,
Numberless, nameless, mysteries!
And all the little lime-twigs laid
By Machiavel, the waiting maid;
I more voluminous should grow
(Chiefly if I, like them, should tell
All change of weather that befel)
Than Holinshed or Stow.
But I will briefer with them be,
Since few of them were long with me:
An higher and a nobler strain
My present empress does claim,
Eleonora, first o' th' name,
Whom God grant long to reign.
The Poet's New Year's Gift. To Mrs. (Afterwards Lady) Throckmorton.
by William Cowper

Maria! I have every good
For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper flaws unsightly.
What favour then not yet possess'd
Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,
To thy whole heart's desire?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some wish in every heart,
And doubtless one in thine.
That wish on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild
('Tis blameless, be it what it may),
I wish it all fulfill'd.
Sonnet I: To My Brother George
by John Keats

Many the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kissed away the tears
That filled the eyes of Morn; the laurelled peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; 
The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discovered revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
On Music
by Walter Savage Landor

Many love music but for music's sake;
Many because her touches can awake
Thoughts that repose within the breast half dead,
And rise to follow where she loves to lead.
What various feelings come from days gone by!
What tears from far-off sources dim the eye!
Few, when light fingers with sweet voices play,
And melodies swell, pause, and melt away,
Mind how at every touch, at every tone,
A spark of life hath glisten'd and hath gone.
Reply To A Toast
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

SENT BY MR. W. TO THE LADIES OF WAYLAND, AT THEIR FAIR HELD ON MAY-DAY.
Many, many kind thanks from the Waylanders fair,
Who are sorry, quite sorry you could not be there,
To receive their warm greeting, partake of their cheer,
And repaid by their smiles for your wishes sincere.
That health and content may your footsteps attend,
Believe me, dear sir, is the wish of your friend.
May 2, 1853.
Sonnet LXXXV. To March.
by Anna Seward

MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray
May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,
Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,
And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.
Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn,
Her bleak, grey garb: - yet not for this we mourn,
Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,
With festal viands, and Associates gay,
Arm 'gainst the Skies; - nor shun the piercing gale;
But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,
Meet its rough breath; - and peep for primrose pale,
Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;
And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim
The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.
1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.
In The Carpenter's Shop
by Sara Teasdale

Mary sat in the corner dreaming,
Dim was the room and low,
While in the dusk, the saw went screaming
To and fro.
Jesus and Joseph toiled together,
Mary was watching them,
Thinking of kings in the wintry weather
At Bethlehem.
Mary sat in the corner thinking,
Jesus had grown a man;
One by one her hopes were sinking
As the years ran.
Jesus and Joseph toiled together,
Mary's thoughts were far
Angels sang in the wintry weather
Under a star.
Mary sat in the corner weeping,
Bitter and hot her tears
Little faith were the angels keeping
All the years.
Brutal Mary.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Mary had a little lamb,
The lamb was always buttin'
So Mary killed the little lamb
And turned him into mutton.
Joseph And Mary
by James Elroy Flecker

JOSEPH
Mary, art thou the little maid
Who plucked me flowers in Spring?
I know thee not: I feel afraid:
Thou'rt strange this evening.
A sweet and rustic girl I won
What time the woods were green;
No woman with deep eyes that shone,
And the pale brows of a Queen.
MARY (inattentive to his words.)
A stranger came with feet of flame
And told me this strange thing, -
For all I was a village maid
My son should be a King.
JOSEPH
A King, dear wife. Who ever knew
Of Kings in stables born!
MARY
Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blue
The clarion and the horn?
JOSEPH
Mary, alas, lest grief and joy
Have sent thy wits astray;
But let me look on this my boy,
And take the wraps away.
MARY
Behold the lad.
JOSEPH
I dare not gaze:
Light streams from every limb.
MARY
The winter sun has stored his rays,
And passed the fire to him.
Look Eastward, look! I hear a sound.
O Joseph, what do you see?
JOSEPH
The snow lies quiet on the ground
And glistens on the tree;
The sky is bright with a star's great light,
And clearly I behold
Three Kings descending yonder hill,
Whose crowns are crowns of gold.
O Mary, what do you hear and see
With your brow toward the West?
MARY
The snow lies glistening on the tree
And silent on Earth's breast;
And strong and tall, with lifted eyes
Seven shepherds walk this way,
And angels breaking from the skies
Dance, and sing hymns, and pray.
JOSEPH
I wonder much at these bright Kings;
The shepherds I despise.
MARY
You know not what a shepherd sings,
Nor see his shining eyes.
Mark Yonder Pomp.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Deil tak the wars."
I.
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compar'd with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish'd jewel's blaze
May draw the wond'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.
II.
But did you see my dearest Chloris
In simplicity's array;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day;
O then the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny
His worship'd deity,
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.
Song. "Mary, The Day Of Love's Pleasures Has Been"
by John Clare

Mary, the day of love's pleasures has been,
And the day is o'erclouded and gone;
These eyes all their fulness of pleasure have seen,
What they never again shall look on.
The sun has oft risen and shrunk from the heaven,
And flowers with the night have been wet;
And many a smile on another's been given,
Since the first smile of Mary I met.
And eyes have been won with thy charms when thou smil'd,
As ripe blossoms tempting the bee;
And kisses the sweets of thy lips have defiled,
Since last they breath'd heaven on me.
Their honey's first tasting was lovely and pleasant,
But others have rifled the cell:
Love sickens to think of the past and the present,
Bidding all that was Mary--farewel!
The blushes of rose-blossoms shortly endure,
Though sweet is their unbudding gem;
But love in long absence may often keep pure,
If jealousy blight not the stem.
We look o'er the doubts of our minds, and we sicken,
And hope what we think is a dream;
We turn to the past and love's jealousies quicken---
We cannot first pleasures redeem.
The sun will rise bright, though in night it be set;
And the dew-drop from blossoms will sever;
But the doubtfulness, Mary, that rose since we met,
Is pain to this bosom for ever.
The beauty of things raises constant desire;
The gem rarely 'scapeth the view;
In the fears of a second first love doth expire,
And biddeth false Mary adieu!
Masata
by Alan L. Strang

Masata was an Indian boy, he lived on the banks of the Ohio River in
Kentucky. During the Revolutionary War in 1771, the Americans were
taking over the land very fast, and when Masata was ten years old his
parents moved to the wild regions of the Dakotas, taking Masata with
them.
Here he enjoyed life although it was much colder than in his native
Kentucky, and in the Winter months he wore coats of fur made from bear
skin.
The days soon became filled with interesting things for Masata. One day
when he was roaming through the wilds, he heard a wild buffalo
approaching. He seemed almost helpless, as he had nothing but a small
bow and a few arrows, and the buffalo was only a short distance from
him. He began to run in what he thought was the direction of his home,
but instead he was going in the opposite way. In a few minutes he saw
the smoke of a camp fire and ran toward it. By this time the beast was
very close to him and he was almost in despair, when the buffalo lurched
forward, then rolled over dead. Three Indians hunting near by had hit
him in a vital spot with an arrow.
The Indians belonged to a tribe which was his father's most bitter
enemy, and they took him before their chief. The chief ordered that he
be let live for two moons, and he was given a bed of dry twigs to sleep
on as the night was drawing near.
Time passed quietly for Masata until the approach of the morning of the
second moon. He had been planning how he would escape from his father's
enemies. Finally one morning he slipped into a bear skin and hopped
bravely off toward the woods. The Indians thinking he was a bear, shot
arrows at him and wounded him in the right arm, but Masata kept
bravely on and was soon out of range of the arrows. Then he bandaged his
wounded arm the best he could and set out for his father's wigwam.
He arrived safely the same evening, and his parents were overjoyed to
see him and know he was safe once more, and the tribe made a great
feast, or as they call it, Pow Wow, as a welcome to his home coming.
While Masata was still a young "brave" their chief died and after a
great ceremony, Masata was made Chief of the tribes, and was known as
great and good ruler.
Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose
by William Wordsworth

Mark the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.