DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Meeting Of The Dryads
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College. A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following lines.
It was not many centuries since,
When, gathered on the moonlit green,
Beneath the Tree of Liberty,
A ring of weeping sprites was seen.
The freshman's lamp had long been dim,
The voice of busy day was mute,
And tortured Melody had ceased
Her sufferings on the evening flute.
They met not as they once had met,
To laugh o'er many a jocund tale
But every pulse was beating low,
And every cheek was cold and pale.
There rose a fair but faded one,
Who oft had cheered them with her song;
She waved a mutilated arm,
And silence held the listening throng.
"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began,
"From opening bud to withering leaf,
One common lot has bound us all,
In every change of joy and grief.
"While all around has felt decay,
We rose in ever-living prime,
With broader shade and fresher green,
Beneath the crumbling step of Time.
"When often by our feet has past
Some biped, Nature's walking whim,
Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape,
Or lopped away one crooked limb?
"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee
Shall. Nature yield her idle boast;
Her vulgar fingers formed a tree,
But thou halt trained it to a post.
"Go, paint the birch's silver rind,
And quilt the peach with softer down;
Up with the willow's trailing threads,
Off with the sunflower's radiant crown!
"Go, plant the lily on the shore,
And set the rose among the waves,
And bid the tropic bud unbind
Its silken zone in arctic caves;
"Bring bellows for the panting winds,
Hang up a lantern by the moon,
And give the nightingale a fife,
And lend the eagle a balloon!
"I cannot smile, - the tide of scorn,
That rolled through every bleeding vein,
Comes kindling fiercer as it flows
Back to its burning source again.
"Again in every quivering leaf
That moment's agony I feel,
When limbs, that spurned the northern blast,
Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.
"A curse upon the wretch who dared
To crop us with his felon saw!
May every fruit his lip shall taste
Lie like a bullet in his maw.
"In every julep that he drinks,
May gout, and bile, and headache be;
And when he strives to calm his pain,
May colic mingle with his tea.
"May nightshade cluster round his path,
And thistles shoot, and brambles cling;
May blistering ivy scorch his veins,
And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.
"On him may never shadow fall,
When fever racks his throbbing brow,
And his last shilling buy a rope
To hang him on my highest bough!"
She spoke; - the morning's herald beam
Sprang from the bosom of the sea,
And every mangled sprite returned
In sadness to her wounded tree.
The Priest's Heart
by Charles Kingsley

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,
He strode up off the strand;
But seven fisher maidens he left behind
All dancing hand in hand.
He came unto the wise wife's house:
'Now, Mother, to prove your art;
To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes
Out of a young man's heart.'
'My son, you went for a holy man,
Whose heart was set on high;
Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books;
Man's love fleets lightly by.'
'I had liever to talk with May Carleton,
Than with all the saints in Heaven;
I had liever to sit by May Carleton
Than climb the spheres seven.
'I have watched and fasted, early and late,
I have prayed to all above;
But I find no cure save churchyard mould
For the pain which men call love.'
'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse:
Enough that ill be ill.
I know of a spell to draw May Carleton,
And bend her to your will.'
'If thou didst that which thou canst not do,
Wise woman though thou be,
I would run and run till I buried myself
In the surge of yonder sea.
'Scathless for me are maid and wife,
And scathless shall they bide.
Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart
That aches in my left side.'
She charmed him with the white witchcraft,
She charmed him with the black,
But he turned his fair young face to the wall,
Till she heard his heart-strings crack.
1870
The Ballad Of The Student In The South
by James Elroy Flecker

It was no sooner than this morn
That first I found you there,
Deep in a field of southern corn
As golden as your hair.
I had read books you had not read,
Yet I was put to shame
To hear the simple words you said,
And see your eyes aflame.
Shall I forget when prying dawn
Sends me about my way,
The careless stars, the quiet lawn,
And you with whom I lay?
Your's is the beauty of the moon,
The wisdom of the sea,
Since first you tasted, sweet and soon,
Of God's forbidden tree.
Darling, a scholar's fancies sink
So faint beneath your song;
And you are right, why should we think,
We who are young and strong?
For we are simple, you and I,
We do what others do,
Linger and toil and laugh and die
And love the whole night through.
The Horse And Cart Ferry
by Henry Lawson

It was old Jerry Brown,
Who'd an office in town,
And he used to get jocular, very;
And he'd go to the Shore
When they'd serve him no more,
And, of course, by the passenger ferry,
A sight on the passenger ferry.
Now this is a song of the ferry,
And a lay of the juice of the berry;
'Tis the ballad of Brown,
Who'd a business in town,
And commenced to go down
Very slow,
Don't you know?
By coming home just a bit merry.
By the Drunks' Boat, that's right,
On a Saturday night
He would often be past being merry;
With his back teeth afloat,
On the twelve o'clock boat,
And a spectacle there on the ferry
(A picture to all on the ferry).
In the mornings, ashamed,
'Twas the last drink he blamed,
Though the first was the matter with Jerry,
With his nerve out of joint,
He'd sneak down to Blue's Point,
And he'd cross by the horse-and-cart ferry,
Like a thief, by the horse-and-cart ferry.
But long before night
He'd most likely be tight,
And a subject and theme for George Perry;
And he'd cross to the Shore,
Somewhat worse than before,
And a nuisance to all on the ferry;
Singing-drunk on the passenger ferry.
And so it went on
Till his reason seemed gone,
And the Law, so it seemed, got a derry
On Brown. He went down,
And they sent him to town
One day, by 'the trap,' on the ferry,
The Government trap on the ferry.
He was sober and sane
When he came back again,
And the past he'd determined to bury,
Or, I mean, live it down,
And he crossed from the town
Like a man, on the passenger ferry.
(There were sceptical souls on that ferry.)
They say 'twas the jaw
Of his mother-in-law
Drove him back to the juice of the berry;
But he soon got afloat
On the passenger boat
Or adrift on the horse-and-cart ferry
(Wrongly called the ve-hic-ular ferry).
The drink had him fast,
And he drank till at last
He dried up, a withered old cherry;
And they thought him no loss
When they sent him across
In a box, on the cart-and-horse ferry,
In a low, covered trap on the ferry.
Which I rise to explain,
If the moral ain't plain,
And if you're a cove that gets merry,
Always stick, when 'afloat,'
To the passenger boat;
Or else to the cart-and-horse ferry,
Or you'll make matters worse, like old Jerry.
But this is the song of the ferry,
And the lay of the juice of the berry;
And you will not deny,
If you read by-and-bye,
That the casual eye
Of the Tight
At first sight
Misses much in the song of the ferry.
Chloe.
by Robert Burns

Air - "Daintie Davie."
I.
It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay,
One morning, by the break of day,
The youthful charming Chloe
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o'er the flowery mead she goes,
The youthful charming Chloe.
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,
The youthful charming Chloe.
II.
The feather'd people you might see,
Perch'd all around, on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
They hail the charming Chloe;
Till painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.
It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, --
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And 't was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos, -- stopless, cool, --
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.
The Little Go-Cart
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower
Unfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour.
It was long, long ago; and the memory seems
Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joy
Since the going away of my wee little boy;
Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss,
And left some delight - knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elate
A baby I see in his carriage of state,
As proud as a king, in his little go-cart - 
I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May;
And the baby, who came but to hurry away
In the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive,
And out in his little go-cart for a drive.
I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street,
And my thoughts follow after him, tender and sweet;
For I know, by a law that is vast and divine,
(Though I know not his name) that the baby is mine!
San Stefano. A Ballad of the Bold Menelaus
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

It was morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days,
And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide,
When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze
And she hauled her cable home and took the tide.
She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
When the bold Menelaus put to sea.
She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
When the bold Menelaus put to sea.
She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land,
When she spied a pennant red and white and blue;
They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand,
But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew.
She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt,
But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay,
And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out,
With the guns grinning round them where they lay.
Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race,
Son and grandson of an admiral was he;
And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase,
And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea.
And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late
If they kept it till the Menelaus runs;
Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight
For the prize lying yonder by the guns!"
When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay
Came the Menelaus gliding like a ghost;
And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away,
And in silence every gunner took his post.
With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke,
And they hammered back like heroes all the night;
But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke
With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight.
It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time,
And the sky behind the down was flushing far;
And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime,
When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar.
She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore,
When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.
She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more,
Nine and forty guns in tackle running free;
And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore,
When the bold Menelaus came from the sea.
Master Johnny's Next-Door Neighbor
by Bret Harte (Francis)

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in
Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin;
For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat,
There were 'Johnny-jump-ups' all around her, and I knew it was spring just by that.
I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say nothing to me,
But 'Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next door can see.'
But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says I've a right,
And she calls out, 'Well, peekin' is manners!' and I answered her, 'Sass is perlite!'
But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very next day,
When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in her way,
For you know I am 'chunked' and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size,
And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes.
And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage,
And she wasn't a girl that would flatter 'that she thought I was tall for my age.'
And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled,
And 'What am I telling you this for?' Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead!
You don't hear one half I am saying, I really do think it's too bad!
Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day I've been sad.
And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white,
And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died at eleven last night.
And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,
That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that you ought to attend;
But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,
And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just what to say.
So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know
I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie to my toe;
And I'll crawl through the fence, and I'll gather the 'Johnny-jump-ups' as they grew
Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give them to you.
For you're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go just where you choose,
And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll never refuse;
But, Papa, don't say they're from Johnny; they won't understand, don't you see?
But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she'll know they're from Me.
Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the Time of Roses, - 
We plucked them as we passed!
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet: - 
Oh, no - the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the Time of Roses, - 
We pluck'd them as we pass'd. - 
What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?
And when I ask'd the like of Love,
You snatched a damask bud;
And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last. - 
It was the Time of Roses, - 
We plucked them as we pass'd!
Aristarchus (The Name Of The Mountain In The Moon)
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It was long and long ago our love began;
It is something all unmeasured by time's span:
In an era and a spot, by the Modern World forgot,
We were lovers, ere God named us, Maid and Man.
Like the memory of music made by streams,
All the beauty of that other love life seems;
But I always thought it so, and at last I know, I know,
We were lovers in the Land of Silver Dreams.
When the moon was at the full, I found the place;
Out and out, across the seas of shining space,
On a quest that could not fail, I unfurled my memory's sail
And cast anchor in the Bay of Love's First Grace.
At the foot of Aristarchus lies this bay,
(Oh! the wonder of that mountain far away!)
And the Land of Silver Dreams all about it shines and gleams,
Where we loved before God fashioned night or day.
We were souls, in eerie bodies made of light;
We were winged, and we could speed from height to height;
And we built a nest called Hope, on the sheer Moon Mountain Slope,
Where we sat, and watched new worlds wheel into sight.
And we saw this little planet known as Earth,
When the mighty Mother Chaos gave it birth;
But in love's conceit we thought all those worlds from space were brought,
For no greater aim or purpose than our mirth.
And we laughed in love's abandon, and we sang,
Till the echoing peals of Aristarchus rang,
As hot hissing comets came, and white suns burst into flame,
And a myriad worlds from out the darkness sprang.
I can show you, when the Moon is at its best,
Aristarchus, and the spot we made our nest,
Oh!    I always wondered why, when the Moon was in the sky,
I was stirred with such strange longing, and unrest.
And I knew the subtle beauty and the force
Of our love was never bounded by Earth's course.
So with Memory's sail unfurled, I went cruising past this world,
And I followed till I traced it to its source.
The Monkey And The Dolphin.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
It was the custom of the Greeks
For passengers o'er sea to carry
Both monkeys full of tricks
And funny dogs to make them merry.
A ship, that had such things on deck,
Not far from Athens, went to wreck.
But for the dolphins, all had drown'd.
They are a philanthropic fish,
Which fact in Pliny may be found; - 
A better voucher who could wish?
They did their best on this occasion.
A monkey even, on their plan
Well nigh attain'd his own salvation;
A dolphin took him for a man,
And on his dorsal gave him place.
So grave the silly creature's face,
That one might well have set him down
That old musician of renown.[2]
The fish had almost reach'd the land,
When, as it happen'd, - what a pity! - 
He ask'd, 'Are you from Athens grand?'
'Yes; well they know me in that city.
If ever you have business there,
I'll help you do it, for my kin
The highest offices are in.
My cousin, sir, is now lord mayor.'
The dolphin thank'd him, with good grace,
Both for himself and all his race,
And ask'd, 'You doubtless know Piraeus,
Where, should we come to town, you'll see us.'
'Piraeus? yes, indeed I know;
He was my crony long ago.'
The dunce knew not the harbour's name,
And for a man's mistook the same.
The people are by no means few,
Who never went ten miles from home,
Nor know their market-town from Rome,
Yet cackle just as if they knew.
The dolphin laugh'd, and then began
His rider's form and face to scan,
And found himself about to save
From fishy feasts, beneath the wave,
A mere resemblance of a man.
So, plunging down, he turn'd to find
Some drowning wight of human kind.
Andrew M'Crie. From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe
by Robert Fuller Murray

It was many and many a year ago,
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M'Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.
I was an ass and he was an ass,
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M'Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.
And this was the reason that, one dark night,
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.
And once some low-bred tertians came,
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.
Professors, not half so well up in their work,
Went envying him and me--
Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.
But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts
Of many more famous than he--
Of many more gory than he--
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.
For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,
'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.
Time Cures All
by Hilaire Belloc

It was my shame, and now it is my boast,
That I have loved you rather more than most.
The Dissemblers
by Thomas Hardy

"It was not you I came to please,
Only myself," flipped she;
"I like this spot of phantasies,
And thought you far from me."
But O, he was the secret spell
That led her to the lea!
"It was not she who shaped my ways,
Or works, or thoughts," he said.
"I scarcely marked her living days,
Or missed her much when dead."
But O, his joyance knew its knell
When daisies hid her head!
The Beginnings
by Rudyard Kipling

It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud, 
When the English began to hate. 
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date 
That the English began to hate.
The Breaking Point
by Stephen Vincent Benet

It was not when temptation came,
Swiftly and blastingly as flame,
And seared me white with burning scars;
When I stood up for age-long wars
And held the very Fiend at grips;
When all my mutinous body rose
To range itself beside my foes,
And, like a greyhound in the slips,
The Beast that dwells within me roared,
Lunging and straining at his cord....
For all the blusterings of Hell,
It was not then I slipped and fell;
For all the storm, for all the hate,
I kept my soul inviolate!
But when the fight was fought and won,
And there was Peace as still as Death
On everything beneath the sun.
Just as I started to draw breath,
And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself,
-- The grass began to whisper things --
And every tree became an elf,
That grinned and chuckled counsellings:
Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said,
Beating and dinning at my head.
I could not fly. I could not shun it.
Slimily twisting, slow and blind,
It crept and crept into my mind.
Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed,
Screamed out until my brain was daft....
One snaky word, "WHAT IF YOU'D DONE IT?"
And I began to think...
Ah, well,
What matter how I slipped and fell?
Or you, you gutter-searcher say!
Tell where you found me yesterday!