DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To My Son
by John Drinkwater

(AGED SIXTEEN)
Dear boy unborn: the son but of my dream,
Promise of yet unrisen day,
Come, sit beside me; let us talk, and seem
To take such cares and courage for your way,
As some year yet we may.
As some year yet, when you, my son to be,
Look out on life, and turn to go,
And I, grown grey, shall wish you well, and see
Myself imprinted as but she could know
To make amendment so.
I see you then, your sixteen years alight
With limbs all true and golden hair,
And you, unborn, I will, this April night,
Tell of the faith and honour you must wear
For love, whose light you bear.
Beauty you have; as, mothered so, could face
Or limbs or hair be otherwise?
Years gone, dear boy, there was a virgin grace
Worth Homer's laurel under western skies
To wander and devise.
Beauty you have. Cherish it as divine,
Wash it with dews of diligence,
Not vainly, but because it is the sign
Of inward light, the spirit's excellence
Made visible to sense.
Athlete be you; strong runner to the goal,
Glad though the game be lost or won:
Fleet limbs that chronicle a fleeter soul,
In every winter valiantly to run,
Till the last race be done.
Love wisdom that is suited in a rhyme,
And be in all your learning known
Old minstrels chanting out of faded time,
Since he who counts all years gone by alone
Makes any year his own.
And when one day you are a lover too,
Come back to her who bore you, dear,
Tell out your tale; you shall the better woo
For every word that from her lips you hear,
For she made love most clear.
Most clear for him who sits beside you now;
There was a certain frost that fell
Before its time upon a summer bough,, 
And how at last that reckoning was well,
She for your love shall tell.
Labour to build your house, but ever keep
That greater garden fresh in mind,
That England with its bird-song buried deep
In cool great woods where chivalry can find
The province of its kind.
Be great or little your inheritance,
Know there shall number in that dower
No treasure from the treasuries of chance
So rare as that you came the perfect flower
Of love's most perfect hour.
Go now, my son. Be all I might have been.
(Ask her. She knows, and none but she.)
Her beauty and her wisdom weathered clean
Some part of me in you, that you might be
Her own eternity.
To Dean Bourn, A Rude River In Devon, By Which Sometimes He Lived.
by Robert Herrick

Dean Bourn, farewell; I never look to see
Dean, or thy watery[1] incivility.
Thy rocky bottom, that doth tear thy streams
And makes them frantic even to all extremes,
To my content I never should behold,
Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold.
Rocky thou art, and rocky we discover
Thy men, and rocky are thy ways all over.
O men, O manners, now and ever known
To be a rocky generation!
A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude almost as rudest savages,
With whom I did, and may re-sojourn when
Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men.
A Letter
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Dear brother, would you know the life,
Please God, that I would lead?
On the first wheels that quit this weary town
Over yon western bridges I would ride
And with a cheerful benison forsake
Each street and spire and roof, incontinent.
Then would I seek where God might guide my steps,
Deep in a woodland tract, a sunny farm,
Amid the mountain counties, Hants, Franklin, Berks,
Where down the rock ravine a river roars,
Even from a brook, and where old woods
Not tamed and cleared cumber the ground
With their centennial wrecks.
Find me a slope where I can feel the sun
And mark the rising of the early stars.
There will I bring my books,--my household gods,
The reliquaries of my dead saint, and dwell
In the sweet odor of her memory.
Then in the uncouth solitude unlock
My stock of art, plant dials in the grass,
Hang in the air a bright thermometer
And aim a telescope at the inviolate sun.
CHARDON ST., BOSTON, 1831.
The Desk's Dry Wood
by Richard Le Gallienne

(TO JAMES WELCH)
Dear Desk, Farewell! I spoke you oft
In phrases neither sweet nor soft,
But at the end I come to see
That thou a friend hast been to me,
No flatterer but very friend.
For who shall teach so well again
The blessed lesson-book of pain,
The truth that souls that would aspire
Must bravely face the scourge and fire,
If they would conquer in the end?
Two days!
Shall I not hug thee very close?
Two days,
And then we part upon our ways.
Ah me!
Who shall possess thee after me?
O pray he be no enemy to poesy,
To gentle maid or gentle dream.
How have we dreamed together, I and thou,
Sweet dreams that like some incense wrapt us round
The last new book, the last new love,
The last new trysting-ground.
How many queens have ruled and passed
Since first we met; how thick and fast
The letters used to come at first, how thin at last;
Then ceased, and winter for a space!
Until another hand
Brought spring into the land,
And went the seasons' pace.
And now, Dear Desk, thou knowest for how long time
I have no queen but song:
Yea, thou hast seen the last love fade, and now
Behold the last of many a secret rhyme!
To A Captious Critic
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dear critic, who my lightness so deplores,
Would I might study to be prince of bores,
Right wisely would I rule that dull estate--
But, sir, I may not, till you abdicate.
To My Daughter[1] On Her Birthday.
by Thomas Hood

Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smiled - 
Whilst lowed the newly-waken'd herds - 
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
"Thou hast a Child!"
Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me, as Time:
It was not sorrow - not annoy - 
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this - I wept.
To The King's Bulldog
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Dear Brindle, -
Possibly your name is not Brindle,
But that is of no consequence;
The great point, my dear Brindle, being
That when his Majesty Edward VII.
Landed at Flushing the other day
He was accompanied
By
You.
At least so I gather from the halfpenny papers,
And I am free to admit
That when I read the paragraph
Descriptive of your landing at Flushing
My bosom swelled with honest pride.
I am not a doggy man myself,
Dear Brindle,
And no judge of points.
Also,
When I see a dog coming towards me
I invariably
Whisper
"Bite,"
And consequently
My hair
Is apt to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine
At pretty well every canine approach.
Bulldogs especially
Affright me,
So that I can well understand
How the little foreign boy,
Assembled at Flushing
To scoff in his sleeve at the English King,
Remained to flee as it were
At the sight of you.
That, in a nutshell,
Is why my bosom swelled
When I read the paragraph
To which previous reference has been made.
It was a picturesque circumstance, my dear Brindle.
And may be taken
As one more illustration
Of his Majesty's determination
(Pray excuse the rhyme)
To do things as a king of England should.
To have alighted at Flushing
Accompanied by a Lion
Would have been a little outr',
And Unicorns, we know,
Are not obtainable -
What does his Majesty do?
Why he takes, as he always has taken,
The middle and dignified course:
He disjects himself on Flushing
With You by his side.
Next to the Lion and the Unicorn
The Bulldog may be reckoned
The truest
Exemplar and symbol
Of our great nation.
It is like this:
The Bulldog is not too beautiful,
Neither is our great nation;
But he frightens people -
So do we;
He is tenacious
And magnanimous -
Which is just our game;
He fears no foe in shining armour,
Or any other sort of armour -
That is precisely our case;
And he is kept by Lord Charles Beresford,
The Duke of Manchester,
And Mr. G. R. Sims -
Three eminently typical Britons.
In short,
The genius of the British nation,
My dear Brindle,
Is not a policeman
But a Bulldog.
To Chloe Jealous
by Matthew Prior

Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
The Hut
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Dear little Hut by the rice-fields circled,
That cocoa-nuts shade above.
I hear the voices of children singing,
And that means love.
When shall the traveller's march be over,
When shall his wandering cease?
This little homestead is bare and simple,
And that means peace.
Nay! to the road I am not unfaithful;
In tents let my dwelling be!
I am not longing for Peace or Passion
From any one else but thee,
My Krishna,
Any one else but thee!
Restraint
by Madison Julius Cawein

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sit
And watch the firelight's varying shade and shine
On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine--
As through glad windows--mark fair fancies flit
In sumptuous chambers of thy soul's chaste wit
Like graceful women: then to take in mine
Thy hand, whose pressure brims my heart's divine
Hushed rapture as with music exquisite!
When I remember how thy look and touch
Sway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy,
I dare not think to what fierce heaven might lead
Thy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how much
Sweet hell,--beyond all help of me,--might be,
Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!
To A Little Boy.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
Dear little one with eyes so blue,
And silken ringlets of flaxen hair!
Oh, may life have in store for you
Something better than anguish and care!
Oh, may thy footsteps guided be
In paths of peace and pleasantness!
Oh, may those bright eyes never see
Much of the cold world's bitterness!
II.
Dear little one with innocent lips,
Tasting life's cup at the sparkling brim!
Oh, may the dregs that sorrow sips
Ever be kept aloof from him!
Oh, may the smile on his dimpled face
Through the years to come still linger there!
Oh, may Time's fingers gently place
The silver strands in his flaxen hair!
It Is Finished.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Dear Lord, let me recount to Thee
Some of the great things thou hast done
For me, even me
Thy little one.
It was not I that cared for Thee, -
But Thou didst set Thy heart upon
Me, even me
Thy little one.
And therefore was it sweet to Thee
To leave Thy Majesty and Throne,
And grow like me
A Little One,
A swaddled Baby on the knee
Of a dear Mother of Thine own,
Quite weak like me
Thy little one.
Thou didst assume my misery,
And reap the harvest I had sown,
Comforting me
Thy little one.
Jerusalem and Galilee, -
Thy love embraced not those alone,
But also me
Thy little one.
Thy unblemished Body on the Tree
Was bared and broken to atone
For me, for me
Thy little one.
Thou lovedst me upon the Tree, -
Still me, hid by the ponderous stone, -
Me always, - me
Thy little one.
And love of me arose with Thee
When death and hell lay overthrown:
Thou lovedst me
Thy little one.
And love of me went up with Thee
To sit upon Thy Father's Throne:
Thou lovest me
Thy little one.
Lord, as Thou me, so would I Thee
Love in pure love's communion,
For Thou lov'st me
Thy little one:
Which love of me brings back with Thee
To Judgment when the Trump is blown,
Still loving me
Thy little one.
Ode To The Goddess Ceres.
by Thomas Moore

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.
"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.
Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorned with somniferous poppies to show
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.
Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee
An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.
Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee),
Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--never-last speeches.
Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn
Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,
'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.
In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us--
Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt
That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus
And Gods of high fashion, know little about.
There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,--
Who thinks just as little of settling a nation
As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking
(What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]
There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading
Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;--
And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding,
Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!
In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided
Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages;--
With which of these classes we landlords have sided
Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.
For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction
And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting
That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction
To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.
On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food
That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,
They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,
That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!
And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,
Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination
(Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)[5]
Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!
Long life to the Minister!--no matter who,
Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he
Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too--
We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,
And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,
Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,
That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!
Alice.
by John Hartley

Dear little Alice lay dying; - 
I see her as if 'twas to-day,
And we stood round her snowy bed, crying,
And watching her life ebb away.
'Twas a beautiful day in the spring,
The sun shone out warmly and clear;
And the wee birds, their love songs to sing
Came and perched on the trees that grew near.
In the distance, the glistening sea,
Could be heard in a deep solemn tone,
As if murmuring in sad sympathy,
For our griefs and our hopes that had flown.
The windows, wide open, allowed
The soft wind to fan her white cheek,
As with uncovered heads, mutely bowed,
We stood watching, not daring to speak.
We were only her playmates, - no tie
Of relationship drew us that way,
We'd been told that dear Alice must die,
And she'd begg'd she might see us that day.
We were all full of sorrow, and tears
We all shed, - but not one showed surprise;
Of her future we harboured no fears,
For we knew she was fit for the skies.
Ever gentle and kind as a dove,
To each one she knew she had been;
She had ruled her dominion by love,
And we all paid her homage as Queen.
Her strange beauty, now, as I look back,
I can see as I ne'er saw it then;
But words to describe it I lack,
It could never be told by a pen.
Half asleep, half awake, as she lay,
With her golden curls round her pale face;
A smile round her lips 'gan to play,
And her eyes gazed intently on space.
With an effort she half raised her head,
And looked lovingly round us on all,
Then she motioned us nearer the bed;
And we silently answered her call.
Then she put out her tiny white hand,
The friend nearest her took it in his;
And so faintly she whispered "Good-bye,"
As he printed upon it a kiss.
One by one, boy and girl, did the same,
And she bade them 'farewell' as they passed
Calling everyone by their name,
'Till it came to my turn; - I was last,
"Good-bye, Harry," she breathed very low,
And her eyes to my soul seemed to speak;
And she strove not to let my hand go,
Till I stooped down and kissed her pale cheek.
Then she wearily laid down her head,
And she closed her blue eyes with a sigh; - 
"Don't forget me, dear Harry, when dead,
But meet me in Heaven by-and-bye."
And that whisper I never forgot,
And her hand's dying clasp I feel still;
For I swore, that whatever my lot,
I'd be true to that child, - and I will.
It may be a foolish conceit,
But it oft is a solace for me,
To think, when life's troubles I meet,
There's an angel in Heaven cares for me.
Friends deplore my lone bachelor state,
Some may pity, and others deride;
But they know not for Alice I wait,
Who took with her my heart when she died.
For The Centennial Dinner Of The Proprietors Of Boston Pier, Or The Long Wharf, April 16, 1873
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Dear friends, we are strangers; we never before
Have suspected what love to each other we bore;
But each of us all to his neighbor is dear,
Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier.
As I look on each brother proprietor's face,
I could open my arms in a loving embrace;
What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long,
Should burst all at once in a blossom of song!
While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers,
Whose throne has stood firm through his eightscore of years,
My thought travels backward and reaches the day
When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay.
See! The joiner, the shipwright, the smith from his forge,
The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for King George,
The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane,
The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane,
Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen
The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine;
The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud;
And, to! the great timber sinks deep in the mud!
They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles,
And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles;
The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view,
And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue.
The redcoats have vanished; the last grenadier
Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier;
They found that our hills were not easy to climb,
And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time!"
They are gone, friend and foe, - anchored fast at the pier,
Whence no vessel brings back its pale passengers here;
But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood,
Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in the mud.
Who - who that has loved it so long and so well - 
The flower of his birthright would barter or sell?
No: pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run,
You shall pass, as an heirloom, from father to son!
Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought,
With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought,
With my bank-shares, - old "Union," whose ten per cent stock
Stands stiff through the storms as the Eddystone rock;
With my rights (or my wrongs) in the "Erie," - alas!
With my claims on the mournful and "Mutual Mass.;"
With my "Phil. Wil. and Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;"
But I never, no never, will sell out of you.
We drink to thy past and thy future to-day,
Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay.
May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee,
And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea!
Dear Is The Lost Wife To A Lone Man's Heart. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"I have loved thee with an everlasting love."
Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart,
When in a dream he meets her at his door,
And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart,
All unresponsive on a silent shore;
Dearer, yea, more desired art thou - for thee
My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea.
More than the mother's for her sucking child;
She wants, with emptied arms and love untold,
Her most dear little one that on her smiled
And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold,
I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me
Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree;
The tree of life that I won back for men,
And planted in the city of My God.
Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then,
Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod
Sleeping for sorrow? Rise, for dawn doth break - 
I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake."
Serve, - woman whom I love, ere noon be high,
Ere the long shadow lengthen at thy feet.
Work, - I have many poor, O man, that cry,
My little ones do languish in the street.
Love, - 'tis a time for love, since I love thee.
Live, - 'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me.
To Mrs. Julia Ward Howe
by Helen Leah Reed

Dear Lady of Tranquillity, Ah! lightly have the years
Their music on thy heart-strings played, and all the smiles and tears
That mark the joy of living, that sound the depths of pain
For thee make one great harmony - a happy heart's refrain.
(On her eighty-sixth birthday.)
Dear Little Ethel.
by Wilfred S. Skeats

Dear little Ethel,
Child that I love,
Come, as an angel,
Down from above.
Golden-rayed tresses,
Shining and bright,
Inviting caresses,
Mirroring light.
Eyes blue and tender,
Beaming with joy.
Who would offend her?
Who would annoy?
Ripple thy laughter!
Bubble thy glee!
Loud will the rafter
Echo to thee.
Clinging to mother,
Set on her knee;
She has no other
Dearer than thee.
Slave thou hast bound her;
Nestles thine arm,
Twining around her,
Telling thy charm.
Innocent speeches
Silencing strife;
Hallowed each is:
Pearls of a life.
Come, come and kiss me,
Child of my heart.
Oh! I would miss thee
Were we to part.
God in His mercy
Shelter my dove,
Dear little Ethel,
Child that I love.
Fragment: Home.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,
The least of which wronged Memory ever makes
Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears.
Song of Taj Mahomed
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Dear is my inlaid sword; across the Border
It brought me much reward; dear is my Mistress,
The jewelled treasure of an amorous hour.
Dear beyond measure are my dreams and Fancies.
These I adore; for these I live and labour,
Holding them more than sword or jewelled Mistress,
For this indeed may rust, and that prove faithless,
But, till my limbs are dust, I have my Fancies.
To Lizbie Browne
by Thomas Hardy

I
Dear Lizbie Browne,
Where are you now?
In sun, in rain? -
Or is your brow
Past joy, past pain,
Dear Lizbie Browne?
II
Sweet Lizbie Browne
How you could smile,
How you could sing! -
How archly wile
In glance-giving,
Sweet Lizbie Browne!
III
And, Lizbie Browne,
Who else had hair
Bay-red as yours,
Or flesh so fair
Bred out of doors,
Sweet Lizbie Browne?
IV
When, Lizbie Browne,
You had just begun
To be endeared
By stealth to one,
You disappeared
My Lizbie Browne!
V
Ay, Lizbie Browne,
So swift your life,
And mine so slow,
You were a wife
Ere I could show
Love, Lizbie Browne.
VI
Still, Lizbie Browne,
You won, they said,
The best of men
When you were wed . . .
Where went you then,
O Lizbie Browne?
VII
Dear Lizbie Browne,
I should have thought,
"Girls ripen fast,"
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Lizbie Browne!
VIII
But, Lizbie Browne,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign;
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Lizbie Browne!
IX
So, Lizbie Browne,
When on a day
Men speak of me
As not, you'll say,
"And who was he?" -
Yes, Lizbie Browne!