DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnets: Idea XXX To The Vestals
by Michael Drayton

Those priests which first the vestal fire begun,
Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame,
Devised a vessel to receive the sun,
Being stedfastly oppos'd to the same;
Where with sweet wood laid curiously by art,
On which the sun might by reflection beat,
Receiving strength for every secret part,
The fuel kindled with celestial heat.
Thy bless'd eyes, the sun which lights this fire,
My holy thoughts, they be the vestal flame,
Thy precious odours be my chaste desires,
My breast's the vessel which includes the same;
Thou art my Vesta, thou my goddess art,
Thy hallowed temple only is my heart.
The Passionate Shepherd.
by Nicholas Breton

Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
That hand that holds the heart of every eye,
That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
Doth show my only mistress' excellence.
O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!
O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!
O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!
O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!
The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee,
Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.
To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,
To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
To know that sense, no sense can understand,
To understand that all the world may know,
Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.
The Bride's Homecomming
by Frederic William Moorman

A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
A Yorkshire Wedding-Rhyme.
Thoo mun hod on tight, my darlin',
We've mony a beck to cross;
Twix' thy father's hoose an' mine, love,
There's a vast o' slacks an' moss.
But t' awd mare, shoo weant whemmle(1)
Though there's twee on her back astride;
Shoo's as prood as me, is Snowball,
Noo I's fetchin' heame my bride.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
Gow! but I feel sae leetsome,
Sin I've lived to see this day;
My heart is like a blackbod's
Efter a shoor i' May.
I' t' sky aboon nea lairock
Has sae mich reet to sing
As I have, noo I've wedded
T' lile lass o' Fulsa Ing.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
Does ta hear yon watter bubblin',
Deep doon i' t' moorland streams?
It soonds like childer' voices
When they're laughin' i' their dreams.
An' look at yon lang-tailed pyots,(2)
There s three on 'em, I'll uphod!
Folks say that three's for a weddin',
Ay, a pyot's a canny bod.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
I love to feel thee clingin'
Wi' thy hands aroond my breast;
Thy bosom's leetly heavin',
Like a ship on t' saut waves' crest.
An' thy breath is sweet as t' breezes,
That cooms ower t' soothern hills,
When t' violet blaws i' t' springtime
Wi' t' yollow daffydills.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
Is ta gittin' tired, my honey,
We'll be heame i' hafe an hour;
Thoo'll see our hoose an' staggarth,
Wi' t' birk-trees bendin' ower.
There's a lillilow(3) i' our cham'er
To welcome my viewly bride ;
An' sean we'll be theer oorsels, lass,
Liggin' cosy side by side.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XIV - Waldenses
by William Wordsworth

Those had given earliest notice, as the lark
Springs from the ground the morn to gratulate;
Or rather rose the day to antedate,
By striking out a solitary spark,
When all the world with midnight gloom was dark.
Then followed the Waldensian bands, whom Hate
In vain endeavours to exterminate,
Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous bark:
But they desist not; and the sacred fire,
Rekindled thus, from dens and savage woods
Moves, handed on with never-ceasing care,
Through courts, through camps, o'er limitary floods;
Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share
Of the new Flame, not suffered to expire.
Pardon
by Robert Herrick

Those ends in war the best contentment bring,
Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.
To My Son. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
2.
And thou canst lisp a father's name - 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, - 
No self-reproach - but, let me cease - 
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
3.
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, - 
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
4.
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claims disown?
Ah, no - though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy - 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
5.
Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
6.
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
The Sonnets LXIX - Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
by William Shakespeare

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.
Amour 32
by Michael Drayton

Those teares, which quench my hope, still kindle my desire,
Those sighes, which coole my hart, are coles vnto my loue,
Disdayne, Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire:
With teares, sighes, and disdaine, this contrary I proue.
Quenchles desire makes hope burne, dryes my teares,
Loue heats my hart, my hart-heat my sighes warmeth;
With my soules fire my life disdaine out-weares,
Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, hart, and life charmeth.
My hope becomes a friend to my desire,
My hart imbraceth Loue, Loue doth imbrace my hart;
My life a Phoenix is in my soules fire,
From thence (they vow) they neuer will depart.
Desire, my loue, my soule, my hope, my hart, my life,
With teares, sighes, and disdaine, shall haue immortal strife.
Le Temps Pass'
by James Williams

Those brave old days when King Abuse did reign
We sigh for, but we shall not see again.
Then Eldon sowed the seed of equity
That grew to bounteous harvest, and with glee
A Bar of modest numbers shared the grain.
Then lived the pleaders who could issues feign,
Who blushed not to aver that France or Spain
Was in the Ward of Chepe;[I] no more can be
Those brave old days.
O'er pauper settlements men fought amain,
And golden guineas followed in their train,
John Doe then flourished like a lusty tree,
And Richard Roe brought many a noble fee,
We mourn in unremunerated pain
Those brave old days.
Possessions.
by Robert Herrick

Those possessions short-liv'd are,
Into the which we come by war.
Tho' The Last Glimpse Of Erin With Sorrow I See.
by Thomas Moore

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes;
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1]
Nursery Rhyme. CCVI. Riddles.
by Unknown

Thomas a Tattamus took two Ts,
To tie two tups to two tall trees,
To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus!
Tell me how many Ts there are in all THAT.
The Ribbon
by Madison Julius Cawein

Those were the days of doubt. How clear
It all comes back! This ribbon, see?
Brings that far past so very near
I lose my own identity,
And seem two beings: one that's here,
And one back in that century
Of cowardice and fear,
Wherein I met with love and her,
When I was but a wanderer.
Those were the days of doubt, I said:
I doubted all things; even God.
Within my heart there was no dread
Of Hell or Heaven. Never a rod
Was there to smite; no mercy led:
And man's reward was death: a clod
He was, alive or dead.
Those were the days of doubt; and so
I scoffed at all things, high and low.
And then I met her. Fair and frail,
A girl whose soul was as a flame
That burns within the Holy Grael;
And through her eyes shone clear the same
Fanatic fire, pure and pale,
That once put Sisera to shame
In the dark eyes of Jael,
When, leading him into her tent,
She used the nail as argument.
There was no argument of grace
She did not use; no dogma, wrought
Of sophistry, she did not place
Before me, leading up my thought
To Heaven from the fearful maze
Of Hell, wherein God's angels fought
With fiends, on darkling ways.
I listened but in her young look
Was more for me than in God's Book.
She seemed a priestess. Heaven to be
Was in her face. A ribbon bound
Her hair like a phylactery.
This is the band. I took it; wound
And laid it on my heart. Ah me!
No other argument I found
As good as that. Convincingly
It held me sane and sound.
And I have kept it here alway
Since first she gave it me that day.
"Where is she now"? I do not know.
She is the wife of one whose hand,
Stretched forth to aid me long-ago,
Took from me more than all this land
In her own self, and gave me woe
To take her place. As here I stand
I stood and took the blow,
While in my heart I looked and saw
The love that fiiled my soul with awe.
And did she love me? Am I sure?
Ah, while I heard angelic hosts
Of Heaven singing love, there were
Black wings about me: all the ghosts
Of all my doubts. I heard them stir,
And so drew back from those bright coasts
Of happiness with her.
Despite the love within my heart
Doubt entered, and began its part.
Make no mistake. I loved her; ay!
And she loved me as women love
The thing they save. I spoke my lie,
That by my lie I so might prove
Her love, and with the proof defy
The doubt, whose shadow hung above,
Watching with jealous eye.
So I denied love. Played a part
And, playing it, broke my own heart.
The better part of me then died;
I killed her love, not mine. You see
I keep this ribbon here, she tied
My heart to hers with. Silkenly
It says, "She is another's bride.
Through me now keep in memory
Your doubt was justified.
She did not love you. She could change."
I keep the ribbon. Is it strange?
Eliot's Oak
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
With sounds of unintelligible speech,
Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
To me a language that no man can teach,
Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
Seated like Abraham at eventide
Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
His Bible in a language that hath died
And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
To Sophia [Miss Stacey].
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Thou art fair, and few are fairer
Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;
They are robes that fit the wearer -
Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion
Ever falls and shifts and glances
As the life within them dances.
2.
Thy deep eyes, a double Planet,
Gaze the wisest into madness
With soft clear fire, - the winds that fan it
Are those thoughts of tender gladness
Which, like zephyrs on the billow,
Make thy gentle soul their pillow.
3.
If, whatever face thou paintest
In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure,
If the fainting soul is faintest
When it hears thy harp's wild measure,
Wonder not that when thou speakest
Of the weak my heart is weakest.
4.
As dew beneath the wind of morning,
As the sea which whirlwinds waken,
As the birds at thunder's warning,
As aught mute yet deeply shaken,
As one who feels an unseen spirit
Is my heart when thine is near it.
To His Book.
by Robert Herrick

Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never,
But like a laurel to grow green for ever.
Dream Tragedies
by William Henry Davies

Thou art not always kind, O sleep:
What awful secrets them dost keep
In store, and ofttimes make us know;
What hero has not fallen low
In sleep before a monster grim,
And whined for mercy unto him;
Knights, constables, and men-at-arms
Have quailed and whined in sleep's alarms.
Thou wert not kind last night to make
Me like a very coward shake, 
Shake like a thin red-currant bush
Robbed of its fruit by a strong thrush.
I felt this earth did move; more slow,
And slower yet began to go;
And not a bird was heard to sing,
Men and great beasts were shivering;
All living things knew well that when
This earth stood still, destruction then
Would follow with a mighty crash.
'Twas then I broke that awful hush:
E'en as a mother, who does come
Running in haste back to her home,
And looks at once, and lo, the child
She left asleep is gone; and wild
She shrieks and loud, so did I break
With a mad cry that dream, and wake.
Babylon.
by A. H. Laidlaw

Thou art mighty,
Babylon!
Thou art haughty,
Babylon!
Haughty, mighty,
Babylon!
Through thy streets the bats shall fly,
O'er thy ruins owls shall cry,
All thy chivalry shall die,
Babylon!
Golden-godded
Babylon!
Idol-curs'd
Babylon!
Idol-curs'd, golden-godded,
Babylon!
All thy gods shall bite the dust,
All thy golden godlets must
Sink to rottenness and rust,
Babylon!
Thou art royal,
Babylon!
Thou art ancient,
Babylon!
Ancient, royal,
Babylon!
Royal laws and ancient lies
Vanish when the people rise,
Truth must live, but Falsehood dies,
Babylon!
Thou art sensual,
Babylon!
Thou art sotted,
Babylon!
Sotted, sensual,
Babylon!
History this tale will tell,
To the righteous all is well;
Daniel rose, Belshazzar fell,
Babylon!
Thou art bloody,
Babylon!
Thou art cruel,
Babylon!
Cruel, bloody,
Babylon!
Cain's curse on your brow is set,
Bloodstains God will not forget,
And His curse pursues you yet,
Babylon!
Thou art crumbled,
Babylon!
Thou art humbled,
Babylon!
Humbled, crumbled,
Babylon!
Vengeance leaves no gated wall,
Vengeance leaves no gilded hall,
Vengeance blasts and buries all,
Babylon!
A Simile.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Soyez comme l'oiseau.")
[XXXIII. vi.]
Thou art like the bird
That alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends - 
For he knows he has wings.
FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)
Out Of The Depths.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God!
Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see;
Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,
And by Thy hand, O Father, laid on me?
I cry to Thee, and shall I cry in vain?
My soul looks up as if through prison bars,
Up through the silent Heaven, ah, turn again
Thy face to me, hide not behind the stars.
Thy presence hath been with me in the past,
Where "heaps of witness" mark out all the way;
Thy years change not, Thy love is still as vast,
I look to Thee, I trust Thee though Thou slay.
My friends walk on the hills the sun hath kissed,
Flowers at their feet, their sky is blue and fair;
I'm prisoned in this vale of tearful mist,
Shut in with sorrow, darkened by despair.
I, too, once walked with footsteps glad and free,
Light round my head, and in my mouth a song;
Manna fell round my dwelling-place for me.
For me the living waters flowed along.
Thy hand had set my feet upon a rock,
That Rock stands fast, why then this loss and harm?
I cannot find the footsteps of the flock,
I cannot feel the Well-Beloved's arm.
They hold me in derision, for they say,
Where is the God in whom you seemed to trust!
Righteous art Thou O Lord! and if I may
But find Thee I will lay me in the dust.
Saying, awake, arise my God, to me
Turn in Thy love the mercy of Thy face;
Then shall the day break, and the shadows flee,
And I will sing of Thy sufficient grace.
Fragments Supposed To Be Parts Of Otho.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil,
Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind,
Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil
Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind
Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur
Chastened by deathful victory now, and find
Foundations in this foulest age, and stir
Me whom they cheer to be their minister.
2.
Dark is the realm of grief: but human things
Those may not know who cannot weep for them.
...
3.
Once more descend
The shadows of my soul upon mankind,
For to those hearts with which they never blend,
Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing mind
From the swift clouds which track its flight of fire,
Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind.
Gone Before
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)
Thou art but gone before - 
Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which my feet are journeying swiftly on
Thou hast but laid thy head
First with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.
Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!
We weep - yet thou art blest!
We mourn - but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
Not that thy race is run,
Thy brief life-journey done,
And thou departed with thy Lord to be.
O no! - yet we may weep,
That sin, so strong, so deep
A root within our tempted souls should have;
That we, with mortal fear,
Still trembling, doubting here,
Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!
To Earth, whose very bloom
Speaks of the dust, the tomb, - 
Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die, - 
Whose hopes are fraught with fears, - 
Whose smiles are washed with tears, - 
Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!
Sleep on, thou early blest!
No cares can mar thy rest,
No years of grief and trial are for thee;
No blighted hopes, no fears,
No wasted, sin-cursed years - 
Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!
Now with the peaceful dead
Lay we thy beauteous head,
No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be!
So may we rest at last,
When all our toils are past,
And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!
Those Words Were Uttered As In Pensive Mood
by William Wordsworth

Those words were uttered as in pensive mood
We turned, departing from that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable as a dream of night;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
The Mastiff.
by John Gay

Those who in quarrels interpose
Must often wipe a bloody nose.
A mastiff of true English mood
Loved fighting better than his food.
When dogs were snarling o'er a bone
He wished to make their war his own;
And often found (where two contend)
To interpose, obtained his end:
The scars of honour seamed his face;
He deemed his limp endued with grace.
Once on a time he heard afar
Two dogs contend with noisy jar;
Away he scoured to lay about him,
Resolved no fray should be without him.
Forth from the yard - which was a tanner's - 
The master rushed to teach him manners;
And with the cudgel tanned his hide,
And bullied him with words beside.
Forth from another yard - a butcher's - 
The master rushed - his name was Mutchers - 
"Why, who the deuce are you?" he cried:
"Why do you interfere? Bankside
Has, at the Bull-pit, seen and known,
And Hockleyhole and Marry-bone,
That when we go to work we mean it - 
Why should you come and intervene it?"
So said, they dragged the dogs asunder,
And kicks and clubs fell down like thunder.
And parted now, and freed from danger,
The curs beheld the meddling stranger,
And where their masters whacked they hurried,
And master mastiff he was "worried."
To The Willow Tree
by Robert Herrick

Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest
And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead
Or laid aside forlorn,
Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,
For their love lost their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.
Sonnet I
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,--I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink--and live--what has destroyed some men.
To A Lost Melody
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
Sung beyond memory,
When golden to the winds this world of ours
Waved wild with boundless flowers;
Sung in some past when wildernesses were,-
Not dead, not dead, lost air!
Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,
And what soul knows thee now?
Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind
From that o'erburdened mind
That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue
By which thou first wert sung?
Was not the holy choir the endless dome,
And nature all thy home?
Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast.
Lulling thy storms to rest?
And is the June air laden with thee now,
Passing the summer-bough?
And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea
Balmy with thoughts of thee?
To rock on daybreak winds dost thou rejoice,
As first on his strong voice
Whose radiant morning soul did give thee birth,
Gave thee to heaven and earth?
Or did each bird win one dear note of thee
To pipe eternally?
Art thou the secret of the small field-flowers
Nodding thy time for hours,
-Blown by the happy winds from hill to hill,
And such a secret still?
Or wert thou rapt awhile to other spheres
To gladden tenderer ears?
Doth music's soul contain thee, precious air,
Sleepest thou clasped there,
Until a time shall come for thee to start
Into some unborn heart?
Then wilt thou as the clouds of ages roll,
Thou migratory soul,
Amid a different, wilder, wilderness
-In crowds that throng and press,
Revive thy blessed cadences forgotten
In some soul new-begotten?
Oh, wilt thou ever tire of thy long rest
On nature's silent breast?
And wilt thou leave thy rainbow showers, to bear
A part in human care?
-Forsake thy boundless silence to make choice
Of some pathetic voice?
-Forsake thy stars, thy suns, thy moons, thy skies
For man's desiring sighs?