DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Man's Devotion
by James Whitcomb Riley

A lover said, "O Maiden, love me well,
For I must go away:
And should ANOTHER ever come to tell
Of love - What WILL you say?"
And she let fall a royal robe of hair
That folded on his arm
And made a golden pillow for her there;
Her face - as bright a charm
As ever setting held in kingly crown -
Made answer with a look,
And reading it, the lover bended down,
And, trusting, "kissed the book."
He took a fond farewell and went away.
And slow the time went by -
So weary - dreary was it, day by day
To love, and wait, and sigh.
She kissed his pictured face sometimes, and said:
"O Lips, so cold and dumb,
I would that you would tell me, if not dead,
Why, why do you not come?"
The picture, smiling, stared her in the face
Unmoved - e'en with the touch
Of tear-drops - HERS - bejeweling the case -
'Twas plain - she loved him much.
And, thus she grew to think of him as gay
And joyous all the while,
And SHE was sorrowing - "Ah, welladay!"
But pictures ALWAYS smile!
And years - dull years - in dull monotony
As ever went and came,
Still weaving changes on unceasingly,
And changing, changed her name.
Was she untrue? - She oftentimes was glad
And happy as a wife;
But ONE remembrance oftentimes made sad
Her matrimonial life. -
Though its few years were hardly noted, when
Again her path was strown
With thorns - the roses swept away again,
And she again alone!
And then - alas! ah THEN! - her lover came:
"I come to claim you now -
My Darling, for I know you are the same,
And I have kept my vow
Through these long, long, long years, and now no more
Shall we asundered be!"
She staggered back and, sinking to the floor,
Cried in her agony:
"I have been false!" she moaned, "I am not true -
I am not worthy now,
Nor ever can I be a wife to YOU -
For I have broke my vow!"
And as she kneeled there, sobbing at his feet,
He calmly spoke - no sign
Betrayed his inward agony - "I count you meet
To be a wife of mine!"
And raised her up forgiven, though untrue;
As fond he gazed on her,
She sighed, - "SO HAPPY!"    And she never knew
HE was a WIDOWER.
The Father And Jupiter.
by John Gay

A man to Jupiter preferred
Prayers for a wife: his prayer was heard.
Jove smiled to see the man caressing
The granted prayer and doubtful blessing.
Again he troubled Jove with prayers:
Fraught with a wife, he wanted heirs:
They came, to be annoys or joys - 
One girl and two big bouncing boys.
And, a third time, he prayed his prayer
For grace unto his son and heir - 
That he, who should his name inherit,
Might be replete with worth and merit.
Then begged his second might aspire,
With strong ambition, martial fire;
That Fortune he might break or bend,
And on her neck to heights ascend.
Last, for the daughter, prayed that graces
Might tend upon her face and paces.
Jove granted all and every prayer,
For daughter, and cadet, and heir.
The heir turned out a thorough miser,
And lived as lives the college sizar;
He took no joy in show or feat,
And starving did not choose to eat.
The soldier - he held honours martial,
And won the baton of field-marshal;
And then, for a more princely elf,
They laid the warrior on the shelf.
The beauty viewed with high disdain
The lover's hopes - the lover's pain;
Age overtook her, undecided,
And Cupid left her much derided.
The father raised his voice above,
Complaining of the gifts to Jove;
But Jove replied that weal and woe
Depended not on outward show - 
That ignorant of good or ill,
Men still beset the heavenly will:
The blest were those of virtuous mind,
Who were to Providence resigned.
Prehistoric Smith, Quaternary Epoch, Post-Pliocene Period
by David Law Proudfit

A man sat on a rock and sought
Refreshment from his thumb;
A dinotherium wandered by
And scared him some.
His name was Smith. The kind of rock
He sat upon was shale.
One feature quite distinguished him,
He had a tail.
The danger past, he fell into
A revery austere;
While with his tail he whisked a fly
From off his ear.
"Mankind deteriorates," he said,
"Grows weak and incomplete;
And each new generation seems
Yet more effete.
"Nature abhors imperfect work,
And on it lays her ban;
And all creation must despise
A tailless man.
"But fashion's dictates rule supreme,
Ignoring common sense;
And fashion says, to dock your tail
Is just immense.
"And children now come in the world
With half a tail or less;
Too stumpy to convey a thought,
And meaningless.
"It kills expression. How can one
Set forth, in words that drag,
The best emotions of the soul,
Without a wag?"
Sadly he mused upon the world,
Its follies and its woes;
Then wiped the moisture from his eyes,
And blew his nose.
But clothed in earrings, Mrs. Smith
Came wandering down the dale;
And, smiling, Mr. Smith arose,
And wagged his tail.
How The Helpmate Of Blue-Beard Made Free With A Door
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A maiden from the Bosphorus,
With eyes as bright as phosphorus,
Once wed the wealthy bailiff
Of the caliph
Of Kelat.
Though diligent and zealous, he
Became a slave to jealousy.
(Considering her beauty,
'Twas his duty
To be that!)
When business would necessitate
A journey, he would hesitate,
But, fearing to disgust her,
He would trust her
With his keys,
Remarking to her prayerfully:
"I beg you'll use them carefully.
Don't look what I deposit
In that closet,
If you please."
It may be mentioned, casually,
That blue as lapis lazuli
He dyed his hair, his lashes,
His mustaches,
And his beard.
And, just because he did it, he
Aroused his wife's timidity:
Her terror she dissembled,
But she trembled
When he neared.
This feeling insalubrious
Soon made her most lugubrious,
And bitterly she missed her
Elder sister
Marie Anne:
She asked if she might write her to
Come down and spend a night or two,
Her husband answered rightly
And politely:
"Yes, you can!"
Blue-Beard, the Monday following,
His jealous feeling swallowing,
Packed all his clothes together
In a leather-
Bound valise,
And, feigning reprehensibly,
He started out, ostensibly
By traveling to learn a
Bit of Smyrna
And of Greece.
His wife made but a cursory
Inspection of the nursery;
The kitchen and the airy
Little dairy
Were a bore,
As well as big or scanty rooms,
And billiard, bath, and ante-rooms,
But not that interdicted
And restricted
Little door!
For, all her curiosity
Awakened by the closet he
So carefully had hidden,
And forbidden
Her to see,
This damsel disobedient
Did something inexpedient,
And in the keyhole tiny
Turned the shiny
Little key:
Then started back impulsively,
And shrieked aloud convulsively--
Three heads of girls he'd wedded
And beheaded
Met her eye!
And turning round, much terrified,
Her darkest fears were verified,
For Blue-Beard stood behind her,
Come to find her
On the sly!
Perceiving she was fated to
Be soon decapitated, too,
She telegraphed her brothers
And some others
What she feared.
And Sister Anne looked out for them,
In readiness to shout for them
Whenever in the distance
With assistance
They appeared.
But only from her battlement
She saw some dust that cattle meant.
The ordinary story
Isn't gory,
But a jest.
But here's the truth unqualified.
The husband wasn't mollified
Her head is in his bloody
Little study
With the rest!
The Moral: Wives, we must allow,
Who to their husbands will not bow,
A stern and dreadful lesson learn
When, as you've read, they're cut in turn.
A Man Who Would Woo A Fair Maid
by William Schwenck Gilbert

A man who would woo a fair maid,
Should 'prentice himself to the trade;
And study all day,
In methodical way,
How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.
He should 'prentice himself at fourteen
And practise from morning to e'en;
And when he's of age,
If he will, I'll engage,
He may capture the heart of a queen!
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
If he's made the best use of his time,
His twig he'll so carefully lime
That every bird
Will come down at his word.
Whatever its plumage and clime.
He must learn that the thrill of a touch
May mean little, or nothing, or much;
It's an instrument rare,
To be handled with care,
And ought to be treated as such.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack,
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Then a glance may be timid or free;
It will vary in mighty degree,
From an impudent stare
To a look of despair
That no maid without pity can see.
And a glance of despair is no guide -
It may have its ridiculous side;
It may draw you a tear
Or a box on the ear;
You can never be sure till you've tried.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Red Fox (Red Horse Lake)
by Paul Cameron Brown

A magnificent Red Devil
splayed out in his tracks;
this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods
with his provenance unknown ...
this compromise to individuality
abandons him to chorome death
under a canopy-canap' dream-coated rock dome.
Trepanned, empire of trees, dark matter
& a castle of leaves,
a fish-hawk for a tomahawk
in his thermo-cline eyes ...
dithyrambic young osprey in the offing,
candelabra under stars.
Going inland for freshwater prawns,
sandalwood and tortoiseshells
finding bewitchment amid moving cars.
Penitency.
by Robert Herrick

A man's transgressions God does then remit,
When man He makes a penitent for it.
The Way Of Wooing.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a Prince's bride,
Yet nobody came to claim her.
She sat like a beautiful picture there,
With pretty bluebells and roses fair,
And jasmine-leaves to frame her.
And why she sat there nobody knows;
But this she sang as she plucked a rose,
The leaves around her strewing:
"I've time to lose and power to choose;
'T is not so much the gallant who woos,
But the gallant's way of wooing!"
A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
Some maids would value greatly -
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
And cold demeanour stately,
"You've still," said she to her suitor stern,
"The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn,
If thus you come a-cooing.
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'T is not so much the gallant who woos,
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
A second lover came ambling by -
A timid lad with a frightened eye
And a colour mantling highly.
He muttered the errand on which he'd come,
Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,
And simpered, simpered shyly.
"No," said the maiden, "go your way;
You dare but think what a man would say,
Yet dare to come a-suing!
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'T is not so much the gallant who woos,
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
A third rode up at a startling pace -
A suitor poor, with a homely face -
No doubts appeared to bind him.
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,
And off he rode with the maiden, placed
On a pillion safe behind him.
And she heard the suitor bold confide
This golden hint to the priest who tied
The knot there's no undoing;
With pretty young maidens who can choose,
'T is not so much the gallant who woos,
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
Broken Raft Adventure.
by James McIntyre

A man on Nova Scotian Bay
On broken raft was borne away,
Right out on the open sea
Where the storm did blow so free,
No shelter from the wind or wave
He thought the gulf would be his grave,
He had no food life to sustain,
He laid him down there to remain,
What happened he did know no more,
But old man on Prince Edward's shore
Saw raft drifting near his shed
And thought the poor man was quite dead,
He called for help and soon they bore
His lifeless body to the shore,
But old man he did them desire
To place the body near the fire,
And wrap it up in blankets warm,
Which did act like to a charm,
And soon the breath it did return,
With gratitude his heart did burn,
To think he was again restored
Unto his friends whom he adored.
How The Babes In The Wood Showed They Couldn't Be Beaten
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A man of kind and noble mind
Was H. Gustavus Hyde.
'Twould be amiss to add to this
At present, for he died,
In full possession of his senses,
The day before my tale commences.
One half his gold his four-year-old
Son Paul was known to win,
And Beatrix, whose age was six,
For all the rest came in,
Perceiving which, their Uncle Ben did
A thing that people said was splendid.
For by the hand he took them, and
Remarked in accents smooth:
"One thing I ask. Be mine the task
These stricken babes to soothe!
My country home is really charming:
I'll teach them all the joys of farming."
One halcyon week they fished his creek,
And watched him do the chores,
In haylofts hid, and, shouting, slid
Down sloping cellar doors:--
Because this life to bliss was equal
The more distressing is the sequel.
Concealing guile beneath a smile,
He took them to a wood,
And, with severe and most austere
Injunctions to be good,
He left them seated on a gateway,
And took his own departure straightway.
Though much afraid, the children stayed
From ten till nearly eight;
At times they wept, at times they slept,
But never left the gate:
Until the swift suspicion crossed them
That Uncle Benjamin had lost them.
Then, quite unnerved, young Paul observed:
"It's like a dreadful dream,
And Uncle Ben has fallen ten
Per cent. in my esteem.
Not only did he first usurp us,
But now he's left us here on purpose!"
*             *             *             *             *
For countless years their childish fears
Have made the reader pale,
For countless years the public's tears
Have started at the tale,
For countless years much detestation
Has been expressed for their relation.
So draw a veil across the dale
Where stood that ghastly gate.
No need to tell. You know full well
What was their touching fate,
And how with leaves each little dead breast
Was covered by a Robin Redbreast!
But when they found them on the ground,
Although their life had ceased,
Quite near to Paul there lay a small
White paper, neatly creased.
"Because of lack of any merit,
B. Hyde," it ran, "we disinherit!"
The Moral: If you deeply long
To punish one who's done you wrong,
Though in your lifetime fail you may,
Where there's a will, there is a way!
Nursery Rhyme. LXXXIX. Proverbs.
by Unknown

[One version of the following song, which I believe to be the genuine one, is written on the last leaf of MS. Harl. 6580, between the lines of a fragment of an old charter, originally used for binding the book, in a hand of the end of the seventeenth century, but unfortunately it is scarcely adapted for the "ears polite" of modern days.]
A man of words and not of deeds,
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.
The Christian Militant.
by Robert Herrick

A man prepar'd against all ills to come,
That dares to dead the fire of martyrdom;
That sleeps at home, and sailing there at ease,
Fears not the fierce sedition of the seas;
That's counter-proof against the farm's mishaps,
Undreadful too of courtly thunderclaps;
That wears one face, like heaven, and never shows
A change when fortune either comes or goes;
That keeps his own strong guard in the despite
Of what can hurt by day or harm by night;
That takes and re-delivers every stroke
Of chance (as made up all of rock and oak);
That sighs at others' death, smiles at his own
Most dire and horrid crucifixion.
Who for true glory suffers thus, we grant
Him to be here our Christian militant.
The Man Between Two Ages, And His Two Mistresses.[1]
by Jean de La Fontaine

A man of middle age, whose hair
Was bordering on the grey,
Began to turn his thoughts and care
The matrimonial way.
By virtue of his ready,
A store of choices had he
Of ladies bent to suit his taste;
On which account he made no haste.
To court well was no trifling art.
Two widows chiefly gain'd his heart;
The one yet green, the other more mature,
Who found for nature's wane in art a cure.
These dames, amidst their joking and caressing
The man they long'd to wed,
Would sometimes set themselves to dressing
His party-colour'd head.
Each aiming to assimilate
Her lover to her own estate,
The older piecemeal stole
The black hair from his poll,
While eke, with fingers light,
The young one stole the white.
Between them both, as if by scald,
His head was changed from grey to bald.
'For these,' he said, 'your gentle pranks,
I owe you, ladies, many thanks.
By being thus well shaved,
I less have lost than saved.
Of Hymen, yet, no news at hand,
I do assure ye.
By what I've lost, I understand
It is in your way,
Not mine, that I must pass on.
Thanks, ladies, for the lesson.'
Woman's Love.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;
So journeys she along life's crowded way,
Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.
That 30 U.S. On The Wall
by Pat O'Cotter

A man that's spent years knocking round "out in front"
Has most usually had lots of pals--
He's mixed up with pardners at various times
And he's had his affairs with the gals.
Now, a pardner's peculiar in lots of his ways
And he'll ditch you for various reasons,
And a gal never knows straight up from twice
And her mind seems to change with the seasons.
I've been in on good ground with pardners I've staked
And I thought they were square, till I found
They were trying to cross me, the miserable pups,
And whipsaw me out of my ground.
I've had a few pards that would stand the hard grind
And they'd stick through hard luck night and day;
They were all you could ask while you rustled for grub,
But they blew up when you uncovered the "pay."
Way back in the "eighties" when I'm just a kid,
I crossed up with a breed gal I'd met
One winter at Circle; she cleaned me that year
And skipped out with all she could get.
I've fallen for females in half of the camps
That's spread over this country up here,
But "square guys" or "pretzels" I couldn't get by
And none of them stuck for a year.
I got kind of discouraged and quit the she sex
And figgered I'd just herd with males,
But it don't make no difference, I guess that I'm wrong,
'Cause there's always the parting of trails.
I've had lots of dogs, but a dog always dies,
Or else the poor devil gets killed.
When you like 'em and lose 'em, their loss leaves a hole
That seems for a time can't be filled.
So pardners and females and dogs is taboo
And I know, 'cause I've fussed with 'em all.
There's only one pal that I know is true blue
And it's that Thirty U.S. on the wall.
She's stood by my shoulder and stopped a brown bear
And she keeps the cache full in the Fall;
She's got the one talk that a claim jumper knows
And she craves no attention at all.
I'm getting old now, and some sot in my ways,
And I don't loosen up like I did.
I'm slower to make friends and slower to trust
Than I used to be when I'm a kid.
So it's good-by to females and good-by to dogs,
And good-by to pardners and all,
For the only one pal that I find I can trust
Is that Thirty U.S. on the wall.
The Athlete
by Alfred Lichtenstein

A man walked back and forth in his torn slippers
In the small room
He inhabited.
He thought about the events
About which he was informed by the evening paper.
And sadly yawned, the way only that man yawns
Who has read much that is strange - 
And the thought suddenly overcame him,
Like a timid person who gets gooseflesh,
And the way the person who stuffs himself
Starts to burp,
Like a mother in labor:
The great yawn might perhaps be a sign,
A nod from fate,
To lie down to rest.
And the thought would not leave him.
And then he began to undress...
When he was stark naked, he lifted something.
The Crisis
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A man of low degree was sore oppressed,
Fate held him under iron-handed sway,
And ever, those who saw him thus distressed
Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray.
But he, strong in himself and obdurate,
Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.
Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp,
Or took it not at all; and Poverty,
That bruised his body with relentless grasp,
Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free.
But though with helpless hands he beat the air,
His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.
Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate,
Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet;
Those who had scorned forgave and called him great--
His friends found out that friendship still was sweet.
But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head
In prayer, and trembling with its import, said:
"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown;
So I prevailed, for human strength was mine;
But from the killing pow'r of great renown,
Naught may protect me save a strength divine.
Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause;
I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"
The Husband, The Wife, And The Thief.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A man that loved, - and loved his wife, - 
Still led an almost joyless life.
No tender look, nor gracious word,
Nor smile, that, coming from a bride,
Its object would have deified,
E'er told her doting lord
The love with which he burn'd
Was in its kind return'd.
Still unrepining at his lot,
This man, thus tied in Hymen's knot,
Thank'd God for all the good he got.
But why? If love doth fail to season
Whatever pleasures Hymen gives,
I'm sure I cannot see the reason
Why one for him the happier lives.
However, since his wife
Had ne'er caress'd him in her life,
He made complaint of it one night.
The entrance of a thief
Cut short his tale of grief,
And gave the lady such a fright,
She shrunk from dreaded harms
Within her husband's arms.
'Good thief,' cried he,
'This joy so sweet, I owe to thee:
Now take, as thy reward,
Of all that owns me lord,
Whatever suits thee save my spouse;
Ay, if thou pleasest, take the house.'
As thieves are not remarkably
O'erstock'd with modesty,
This fellow made quite free.
From this account it doth appear,
The passions all are ruled by fear.
Aversion may be conquer'd by it,
And even love may not defy it.
But still some cases there have been
Where love hath ruled the roast, I ween.
That lover, witness, highly bred,
Who burnt his house above his head,
And all to clasp a certain dame,
And bear her harmless through the flame.
This transport through the fire,
I own, I much admire;
And for a Spanish soul, reputed coolish,
I think it grander even than 'twas foolish.[2]
In Tara's Halls
by William Butler Yeats

A man I praise that once in Tara's Hals
Said to the woman on his knees, "Lie still.
My hundredth year is at an end. I think
That something is about to happen, I think
That the adventure of old age begins.
To many women I have said, ""Lie still,''
And given everything a woman needs,
A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
But never asked for love; should I ask that,
I shall be old indeed.'
Thereon the man
Went to the Sacred House and stood between
The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear.
"God I have loved, but should I ask return
Of God or woman, the time were come to die.'
He bade, his hundred and first year at end,
Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;
Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,
Summoned the generations of his house,
Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.
Beer
by Unknown

A man to whom illness was chronic,
When told that he needed a tonic,
Said, "O Doctor dear,
Won't you please make it beer?"
"No, no," said the Doc., "that's Teutonic."