DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Prairie Battlements
by Vachel Lindsay

(To Edgar Lee Masters, with great respect.)
Here upon the prairie
Is our ancestral hall.
Agate is the dome,
Cornelian the wall.
Ghouls are in the cellar,
But fays upon the stairs.
And here lived old King Silver Dreams,
Always at his prayers.
Here lived grey Queen Silver Dreams,
Always singing psalms,
And haughty Grandma Silver Dreams,
Throned with folded palms.
Here played cousin Alice.
Her soul was best of all.
And every fairy loved her,
In our ancestral hall.
Alice has a prairie grave.
The King and Queen lie low,
And aged Grandma Silver Dreams,
Four tombstones in a row.
But still in snow and sunshine
Stands our ancestral hall.
Agate is the dome,
Cornelian the wall.
And legends walk about,
And proverbs, with proud airs.
Ghouls are in the cellar,
But fays upon the stairs.
Road-Song Of The Bandar-Log
by Rudyard Kipling

Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Would n't you like if your tails were, so, 
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but, never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two, 
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we're going to, never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird, 
Hide or fin or scale or feather, 
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.
Let 's pretend we are... never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind.
Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings,
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!
What of the hunting, hunter bold?
Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
Brother, I go to my lair, to die.
The House Of Hospitalities
by Thomas Hardy

Here we broached the Christmas barrel,
Pushed up the charred log-ends;
Here we sang the Christmas carol,
And called in friends.
Time has tired me since we met here
When the folk now dead were young,
Since the viands were outset here
And quaint songs sung.
And the worm has bored the viol
That used to lead the tune,
Rust eaten out the dial
That struck night's noon.
Now no Christmas brings in neighbours,
And the New Year comes unlit;
Where we sang the mole now labours,
And spiders knit.
Yet at midnight if here walking,
When the moon sheets wall and tree,
I see forms of old time talking,
Who smile on me.
Midsummer
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Here! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that, - the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef
Its breath is heated; - I would swing
The broad gray plumes, - the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not, - this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil, - 
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow!
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest, - 
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
Fare Thee Well
by John Clare

[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."]
Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love,
To friends and foes a smile:
I leave but one regret behind,
That's left with thee the while,
But hopes that fortune is our friend
Already pays the toil.
Force bids me go, your friends to please.
Would they were not so high!
But be my lot on land or seas,
It matters not where by,
For I shall keep a thought for thee,
In my heart's core to lie.
Winter shall lose its frost and snow,
The spring its blossomed thorn,
The summer all its bloom forego,
The autumn hound and horn
Ere I will lose that thought of thee,
Or ever prove forsworn.
The dove shall change a hawk in kind,
The cuckoo change its tune,
The nightingale at Christmas sing,
The fieldfare come in June--
Ere I do change my love for thee
These things shall change as soon.
So keep your heart at ease, my love,
Nor waste a joy for me:
I'll ne'er prove false to thee, my love,
Till fish drown in the sea,
And birds forget to fly, my love,
And then I'll think of thee.
The red cock's wing may turn to grey,
The crow's to silver white,
The night itself may be for day,
And sunshine wake at night:
Till then--and then I'll prove more true
Than Nature, life, and light.
Though you may break your fondest vow,
And take your heart from me,
And though my heart should break to hear
What I may never see,
Yet never can'st thou break the link
That binds my love to thee.
So fare-thee-well, my own true love;
No vow from thee I crave,
But thee I never will forego,
Till no spark of life I have,
Nor will I ever thee forget
Till we both lie in the grave.
Kisses
by Unknown

Here's to the red of the holly berry,
And to its leaf so green;
And here's to the lips that are just as red,
And the fellow who's not so green.
To Thomas Moore, Esq.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse
The midnight moon's soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman's lips,
The smiles of affection play:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the warrior's sword is bound
With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned
With the halo of liberty:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
In thy strains is dearer still.
A Song Of Cheer.
by Jean Blewett

Here's a song of cheer
For the whole long year:
We've only to do our best,
Take up our part
With a strong, true heart - 
The Lord will do all the rest.
A Toast.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Here's a health to thee, Roberts,
And here's a health to me;
And here's to all the pretty girls
From Denver to the sea!
Here's to mine and here's to thine!
Now's the time to clink it!
Here's a flagon of old wine,
And here are we to drink it.
Wine that maketh glad the heart
Of the bully boy!
Here's the toast that we love most,
"Love and song and joy!"
Song that is the flower of love,
And joy that is the fruit!
Here's the love of woman, lad,
And here's our love to boot!
You and I are far too wise
Not to fill our glasses.
Here's to me and here's to thee,
And here's to all the lasses!
Skeleton Flat
by Henry Lawson

Here's never a bough to be tossed in the breeze,
For it's long since the forest was green;
And round all the trunks of the naked white trees
The marks of the death-ring are seen.
The solemn-faced bear, who had looked on the blacks
From his home with the 'possum and cat,
Blinked anxiously down when the death-dealing axe
Was ring-barking Skeleton Flat.
And, strange to be seen in the evergreen south,
The gums for ten summers have stood,
And dried in the terrible furnace of drouth,
Till harder than flint is the wood.
Now tall grows the grass at the roots of the trees,
But a beautiful forest it cost;
And the heart of the splitter is sad when he sees
And thinks of the timber that's lost.
Here flies, through a sky that is glazed, the black crow,
And the eagle goes circling around,
Or evilly sits on a branch that is low,
With his gleaming black eye on the ground.
And loudly the jackasses chuckle in mirth,
When a comrade flies upward, until
Like a fragment of thread, in its height from the earth,
Is the writhing brown snake in his bill.
O fit for the place are the curlews that wail
On the banks of a distant lagoon,
Or round by the swamps that are shallow and pale
In the light of the nights of the moon;
When glist'ning and white are the frost-covered trees
That dead for ten summers have stood;
And the stranger, benighted, might fancy he sees
The skeleton wraith of a wood.
Friendship
by Unknown

Here's to the four hinges of Friendship -
Swearing, Lying, Stealing and Drinking.
When you swear, swear by your country;
When you lie, lie for a pretty woman,
When you steal, steal away from bad company
And when you drink, drink with me.
To The Maid With Fancy Free
by Oliver Herford

Here's to the maid with Fancy Free;
If Cupid's necromancy
Imprison not her heart, maybe,
It will arrest her Fancy.
Woman
by Unknown

Here's to the soldier and his arms,
Fall in, men, fall in;
Here's to woman and her arms,
Fall in, men, fall in!
Here's The Bower.
by Thomas Moore

Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
Where's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower, etc.
Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower, etc.
The Old Cruiser
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Here's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers
Just as she 's done for these forty years,
Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!
Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!
Comes a vessel out of the dock
Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock,
Feathered with sails and spurred with steam,
Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard,
Every man as fine as a lord.
Gay they look and proud they feel,
Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide, - 
Gain at last the old ship's side;
Every man looks down in turn, - 
Reads the name that's on her stern.
"Twenty-nine! - Diable you say!
That was in Skipper Kirkland's day!
What was the Flying Dutchman's name?
This old rover must be the same.
"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck,
How does it happen you're not a wreck?
One and another have come to grief,
How have you dodged by rock and reef?"
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,
Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid
"Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief
Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf."
"I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat
With all you jolly old boys afloat,
When scores of vessels as good as she
Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?
"Many a crew from many a craft
Goes drifting by on a broken raft
Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine
Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.
"Some capsized in an angry breeze,
Some were lost in the narrow seas,
Some on snags and some on sands
Struck and perished and lost their hands.
"Tell us young ones, you gray old man,
What is your secret, if you can.
We have a ship as good as you,
Show us how to keep our crew."
So in his ear the youngster cries;
Then the gray Boatswain straight replies: - 
"All your crew be sure you know, - 
Never let one of your shipmates go.
"If he leaves you, change your tack,
Follow him close and fetch him back;
When you've hauled him in at last,
Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
"If you've wronged him, speak him fair,
Say you're sorry and make it square;
If he's wronged you, wink so tight
None of you see what 's plain in sight.
"When the world goes hard and wrong,
Lend a hand to help him along;
When his stockings have holes to darn,
Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.
"Once in a twelvemonth, come what may,
Anchor your ship in a quiet bay,
Call all hands and read the log,
And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.
"Stick to each other through thick and thin;
All the closer as age leaks in;
Squalls will blow and clouds will frown,
But stay by your ship till you all go down!"
To Our Lady Nicotine
by Oliver Herford

Here's to Lady Nicotine!
Saint and Sorceress and Queen!
Saint, whose purple halo rings
Lift our eyes from earthly things;
Witch, whose wand of scented briar
Transmutes dead weeds to fragrant fire;
Queen, whose rod her slaves adore!
What can freedom offer more?
To Our Readers
by Oliver Herford

Here's to our Readers, Health! good Looks!
And Joy ad infinitum
And may they live to read our Books
As long as we may write 'em.
To The Creditor
by Oliver Herford

Here's to the Creditor,
Long may he reign!
May his Faith never waver,
His Trust never wane.
May the Lord make him gentle
And gracious and gay,
Yet quick to resent
The least offer of pay:
May he soften his heart
As he softened, we're told,
To the Israelite's 'touch,'
The Egyptian of old;
And when on his last
Long account he shall look,
The angel will say
As he closes the book:
"The Lord gives you Credit
For Credit you gave"!
So here's to the Creditor--
Long may he waive.
John S. Sargent
by Oliver Herford

Here's Sargent doing the Duchess X
In pink velours and pea-green checks.
"It helps," says he, "to lift your Grace
A bit above the commonplace."
Guests
by Unknown

"Here's a health to thee and thine
From the hearts of me and mine;
And when thee and thine
Come to see me and mine,
May me and mine make thee and thine
As welcome as thee and thine
Have ever made me and mine."
To Music
by Oliver Herford

Here's to Music,
Joy of joys!
One man's music's
Another man's noise.
Here's To Thy Health, My Bonnie Lass.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Laggan Burn."
I.
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass,
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee;
I'll come na mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo'e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care
How lang ye look about ye.
II.
Thou'rt ay sae free informing me
Thou hast na mind to marry;
I'll be as free informing thee
Nae time hae I to tarry.
I ken thy friends try ilka means,
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance - 
But fortune may betray thee.
III.
I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
But I'm as free as any he,
Sma' siller will relieve me.
I count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae long as I'll enjoy it:
I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae want,
As lang's I get employment.
IV.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And ay until ye try them:
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care,
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.
Here's Looking
by Oliver Herford

Here's looking
at you, dear!
though I should pour
A sea of wine,
my eyes would
thirst for more.
Autumn.
by H. P. Nichols

Here's the purple aster,
And the golden-rod,
And the blue fringed gentian,
By the meadow sod.
And the scarlet cardinal
Grows beside the brook,
And the yellow sunflower
In some sheltered nook.
Maple boughs are covered
With their foliage red,
And the withered elm leaves
On the ground lie dead.
And within the orchard,
Heavy-laden trees
Shower down the apples,
With each passing breeze.
So by these we know thee,
Lovely autumn time,
With thy deep blue heavens,
And thy snowy rime.
And we gladly greet thee,
With thy colors gay,
Though thou tell'st us summer
Hence hath fled away.
Egotism
by Unknown

Here's to the man who is wisest and best,
Here's to the man who with judgment is blest.
Here's to the man who's as smart as can be -
I mean the man who agrees with me.
To The Clock
by Oliver Herford

Here's to the Clock!
Whose hands, we pray heaven,
When we come home at three,
Have stopped at eleven!
The Well-Dressed Children.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown:
Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat.
Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down,
Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note.
Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade
And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue,
You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade.
No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you.
I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick,
Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made.
I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK,
Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade.
On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer:
Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see
Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share.
How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery.
To Liberty
by Oliver Herford

Here's to our Goddess, Liberty,
Idol of bronze and stone!
May she awake to life some day
And let her charms be known.
Kisses
by Unknown

Here's to a kiss:
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss add a score,
Then to that twenty add a hundred more;
A thousand to that hundred, and so kiss on,
To make that thousand quite a million,
Treble that million, and when that is done
Let's kiss afresh as though we'd just begun.
To Her Shadow
by Oliver Herford

Here's to her shadow!
May it mark the hours
Upon the sundial of her life--in flowers!
The Little Coat
by James Whitcomb Riley

Here's his ragged "roundabout";
Turn the pockets inside out:
See; his pen-knife, lost to use,
Rusted shut with apple-juice;
Here, with marbles, top and string,
Is his deadly "devil-sling,"
With its rubber, limp at last
As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax - buckles - leather straps -
Bullets, and a box of caps, -
Not a thing of all, I guess,
But betrays some waywardness -
E'en these tickets, blue and red,
For the Bible-verses said -
Such as this his mem'ry kept -
"Jesus wept."
Here's a fishing hook-and-line,
Tangled up with wire and twine,
And dead angle-worms, and some
Slugs of lead and chewing-gum,
Blent with scents that can but come
From the oil of rhodium.
Here - a soiled, yet dainty note,
That some little sweetheart wrote,
Dotting, - "Vine grows round the stump,"
And - "My sweetest sugar lump!"
Wrapped in this - a padlock key
Where he's filed a touch-hole - see!
And some powder in a quill
Corked up with a liver pill;
And a spongy little chunk
Of "punk."
Here's the little coat - but O!
Where is he we've censured so!
Don't you hear us calling, dear?
Back! come back, and never fear. -
You may wander where you will,
Over orchard, field and hill;
You may kill the birds, or do
Anything that pleases you!
Ah, this empty coat of his!
Every tatter worth a kiss;
Every stain as pure instead
As the white stars overhead:
And the pockets - homes were they
Of the little hands that play
Now no more - but, absent, thus
Beckon us.
To Hope
by Oliver Herford

Here's to Hope,
the child of Care,
And pretty sister
of Despair!
Here's hoping that
Hope's children shan't
Take after their Grandma
or Aunt!
The Dove Of Peace
by Oliver Herford

Here's to the Dove of Peace!
May she find a mate some day,
And may her tribe increase
As fast as she can lay!
With cooing doves galore
Then may the sky be dark
Until the Dogs of War
Can't see each other bark!
Here's to the Mice!
by Vachel Lindsay

(Written with the hope that the socialists might yet dethrone Kaiser and Czar.)
Here's to the mice that scare the lions,
Creeping into their cages.
Here's to the fairy mice that bite
The elephants fat and wise:
Hidden in the hay-pile while the elephant thunder rages.
Here's to the scurrying, timid mice
Through whom the proud cause dies.
Here's to the seeming accident
When all is planned and working,
All the flywheels turning,
Not a vassal shirking.
Here's to the hidden tunneling thing
That brings the mountain's groans.
Here's to the midnight scamps that gnaw,
Gnawing away the thrones.
Men
by Unknown

Here's to the men! God bless them!
Worst of me sins, I confess them!
In loving them all; be they great or small,
So here's to the boys! God bless them!
Spinsters
by Unknown

Here's to the Bachelor, so lonely and gay,
For it's not his fault, he was born that way;
And here's to the Spinster, so lonely and good;
For it's not her fault, she hath done what she could.
A Valentine
by John Clare

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of Spring's earliest flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.
Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.
The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose,
And aconites under the lilac, like fairies;
The best in the bunches for Mary I chose,
Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.
The one will make Spring in my verses so bare,
The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.
Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary,
Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind,
Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary;
And appear in my verses all Summer, and be
A memento of fondness and friendship for thee.
Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold,
Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy:
I place them as such in these verses so cold,
But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary,
These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field,
And see what the valley and pasture land yield.
Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood,
And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green;
The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood,
On the very same spot, as no changes have been--
In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves,
And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves.
And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes,
Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring;
And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes,
While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing;
And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth,"
To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth.
Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines!
It speaks without words to the ear and the eye;
The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines;
They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy.
That you may remain so and your love never vary,
I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary.
Here's A Nut
by Louisa May Alcott

"Here's a nut, there's a nut;
Hide it quick away,
In a hole, under leaves,
To eat some winter day.
Acorns sweet are plenty,
We will have them all:
Skip and scamper lively
Till the last ones fall."
To The Typewriter
by Oliver Herford

Here's to the Typewriter!
Health to her type!
Whether blond or brunette
Or budding or ripe.
If she be the right type
Be she buxom or slight,
When she doesn't type wrong
She is sure to typewrite.
Drinking
by Unknown

Here's to the girls of the American shore,
I love but one, I love no more,
Since she's not here to drink her part,
I'll drink her share with all my heart.