DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Why Should The Enthusiast, Journeying Through This Isle
by William Wordsworth

Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle
Repine as if his hour were come too late?
Not unprotected in her mouldering state,
Antiquity salutes him with a smile,
'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil,
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate
Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style.
Fair land! by Time's parental love made free,
By Social Order's watchful arms embraced;
With unexampled union meet in thee,
For eye and mind, the present and the past;
With golden prospect for futurity,
If that be reverenced which ought to last.
Song
by Richard Lovelace

Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.
Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unploughed-up ground.
Then, if when I have loved my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crowned
I laden will return to thee,
Even sated with variety.
Remembrance.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Why should we dream of days gone by?
Why should we wait and wonder?
Sweet summer days have come and gone,
The leaves are falling yonder.
The wee sweet flowers we loved the best,
The king of frost has chosen;
And now the sun looks sadly down
Upon his darlings frozen.
Ah! summer sun and autumn frost,
You are at war forever;
For all the ties that one would make
The other fain would sever.
With autumn days remembrance comes
Of golden glories fleeting;
Of pleasures gone and sorrows come--
Of parting and of meeting.
Oh! summer days, why haunt us still?
Remembrance is a sorrow;
And all the dreams we dream to-day
Will fade upon the morrow.
Each life has some sweet summer-time,
Some perfect day of beauty;
When flowers of love and leaves of hope
Are twined around each duty.
But oh! the autumn-time will come,
Which fades each golden glory;
And life, when we are old and gray,
Seems but a sad, old story.
The Last Chrysanthemum
by Thomas Hardy

Why should this flower delay so long
To show its tremulous plumes?
Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,
When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun
Called to each frond and whorl
That all he could for flowers was being done,
Why did it not uncurl?
It must have felt that fervid call
Although it took no heed,
Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,
And saps all retrocede.
Too late its beauty, lonely thing,
The season's shine is spent,
Nothing remains for it but shivering
In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay,
Dreaming in witlessness
That for a bloom so delicately gay
Winter would stay its stress?
- I talk as if the thing were born
With sense to work its mind;
Yet it is but one mask of many worn
By the Great Face behind.
The Gardener And The Robin
by Frederic William Moorman

Why! Bobbie, so thou's coom agean!
I'm fain to see thee here;
It's lang sin I've set een on thee,
It's ommost hauf a yeer.
What's that thou says? Thou's taen a wife
An' raised a family.
It seems thou's gien 'em all the slip
Now back-end's drawin' nigh.
I mun forgi'e thee; we're owd friends,
An' fratchin's not for us;
Blackbirds an' spinks(1) I can't abide,
At doves an' crows I cuss.
But thou'll noan steal my strawberries,
Or nip my buds o' plum;
Most feather-fowl I drive away,
But thou can awlus coom.
Ay, that's thy place, at top o' t' clod,
Thy heead cocked o' one side,
Lookin' as far-learnt as a judge.
Is that a worrm thou's spied?
By t' Megs! he's well-nigh six inch lang,
An' reed as t' gate i' t' park;
If thou don't mesh him up a bit,
He'll gie thee belly-wark.
My missus awlus lets me know
I'm noan so despert thin;
If I ate sausages as thou
Eats worrms, I'd brust my skin!
Howd on! leave soom for t' mowdiwarps(2)
That scrats down under t' grund ;
Of worrms, an' mawks,(3) an' bummel-clocks(4)
Thou's etten hauf a pund.
So now thou'll clear thy pipes an' sing:
Grace after meat, I s'pose.
Thou looks as holy as t' owd saint
I' church wi' t' brokken nose.
Thou's plannin' marlocks(5) all the time,
Donned i' thy sowdier coat;
An' what we tak for hymns o' praise
Is just thy fratchin' note.
I've seen thee feightin' theer on t' lawn,
Beneath yon laurel tree;
Thy neb was reed wi' blooid, thou looked
As chuffy(6) as could be.
Thou's got no mense nor morals, Bob,
But weel I know thy charm.
Ay, thou can stand upon my spade.
I'll niver do thee harm.
To My Missionary Friends, Mr. And Mrs. I.G. Bliss.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Why, dear friends, oh! tell us wherefore
You're so anxious to be gone;
Is the country late adopted
Dearer to you than your own?
Have you found a father, mother,
In that distant clime to love,
Or a sister, friend, or brother,
Better than the long-tried prove?
"Oh, no! believe us, no such motives
Prompt us to tempt old ocean's wave;
We go among the poor benighted,
Perhaps to find an early grave.
"Ah! you know not half our anguish - 
Only those who feel can tell - 
When we think of the sad parting,
And that solemn word - farewell.
"But while lingering, souls are dying,
Souls that Jesus came to save;
And of such a priceless value,
That for them his life he gave.
"Trials great no doubt await us
In that distant home of ours;
Work requiring so much labor,
As to exceed our utmost powers.
"But He who said 'Go preach the gospel,'
All powerful is, to aid, defend;
'Lo I am with you always,' said he,
'And will be even to the end.'
"With such command, and such a promise,
Sure our path of duty's plain;
Do not then, dear friends, persuade us
Longer with thee to remain."
Go then, go! we'll not detain you,
We dare not ask your longer stay;
And may winds and waves of ocean,
Waft you safely on your way.
They who all forsake for Jesus,
Father, mother, country, home,
Here an hundred fold are promised,
And eternal life to come.
Go then, go! but when far distant,
Bear us sometimes on your mind;
When for others interceding,
Forget not those you leave behind.
And when your earthly warfare's ended,
And you have laid your armor down,
May souls of poor benighted Asia
Add many stars to your bright crown.
Songs Set To Music: 10. Set By Mr. Smith
by Matthew Prior

Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?
To think and ne'er drink will make you stark mad.
'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy,
Which create all the pleasure poor mortals enjoy;
But wine of the three's the most cordial brother,
For one it relieves, and it strengthens the other.
A Dirge.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo's calling,
Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
For their far off flying
From summer dying.
Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
You should have died at the apples' dropping,
When the grasshopper comes to trouble,
And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble,
And all winds go sighing
For sweet things dying.
By The Seashore, Isle Of Man
by William Wordsworth

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine,
With wonder smit by its transparency,
And all-enraptured with its purity?
Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline,
Have ever in them something of benign;
Whether in gem, in water, or in sky,
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye
Of a young maiden, only not divine.
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm
For beverage drawn as from a mountain-well;
Temptation centres in the liquid Calm;
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle
To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea!
And reveling in long embrace with thee.
Sonnet
by William Wordsworth

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,
For such thou wert ere from our sight removed,
Holy, and ever dutiful beloved
From day to day with never-ceasing joy,
And hopes as dear as could the heart employ
In aught to earth pertaining? Death has proved
His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved,
Death conscious that he only could destroy
The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low
To moulder in a far-off field of Rome;
But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's home:
When such divine communion, which we know,
Is felt, thy Roman-burial place will be
Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee.
The Doodle Bug.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Why that's a doodle bug, my child
Who lives alone, remote and wild.
His domicile's a hole in the ground
And when at home he's easily found.
The only plan allowed by law
Is to lure him forth upon a straw,
For the doodle bug is a misanthrope
And otherwise is sure to elope.
Aw Wodn't For All Aw Could See.
by John Hartley

Why the dickens do some fowk keep thrustin,
As if th' world hadn't raam for us all?
Wi consarn an consait they're fair brustin,
One ud think th' heavens likely to fall.
They fidge an they fume an they flutter,
Like a burd catched wi lime on a tree,
And they'll fratch wi ther own breead an butter: - 
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
Bless mi life! th' world could get on withaat em!
It ud have to do if they wor deead;
They may be sincere but aw daat em,
If they're honest, they're wrang i' ther heead.
They've all some pet doctrine, an wonder
Why fowk wi ther plans disagree,
They expect yo should all knuckle under,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
My old woman may net be perfection,
But we're wed soa we know we've to stick;
An if shoo made another selection,
Aw mightn't be th' chap at shoo'd pick.
But we get on reight gradely together,
An her failins aw try net to see,
Some will bend under th' weight ov a feather,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
A chap at aits peaches and cherries,
Mun expect to be bothered wi stooans;
An he's nobbut a fooil if he worries
Coss yearins arnt made withaat booans.
To mak th' best o' things just as aw find em,
Seems th' reight sooart o' wisdom to me;
An when things isn't reight aw neer mind em,
For aw wodn't for all aw could see.
All araand me aw see ther's moor pleasure
Nor aw can enjoy wol aw live;
An contentment is this world's best treasure,
Then why should aw sit daan an grieve?
If they enjoy naggin an growlin,
It maks little difference to me,
But wi th' world full o' pleasure to roll in: - 
Why, aw wodn't for all aw could see.
Domestic Peace
by Anne Bronte

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here?
We are as many as we were
That other night, when all were gay
And full of hope, and free from care;
Yet is there something gone away.
The moon without, as pure and calm,
Is shining as that night she shone;
But now, to us, she brings no balm,
For something from our hearts is gone.
Something whose absence leaves a void--
A cheerless want in every heart;
Each feels the bliss of all destroyed,
And mourns the change--but each apart.
The fire is burning in the grate
As redly as it used to burn;
But still the hearth is desolate,
Till mirth, and love, and PEACE return.
'Twas PEACE that flowed from heart to heart,
With looks and smiles that spoke of heaven,
And gave us language to impart
The blissful thoughts itself had given.
Domestic peace! best joy of earth,
When shall we all thy value learn?
White angel, to our sorrowing hearth,
Return--oh, graciously return!
Sonnet 43
by Michael Drayton

Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace,
Dispearse their raies on euery vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darknes in the selfesame place,
Get not one glance to recompence my merit:
So doth the plow-man gaze the wandring starre,
And onely rests contented with the light,
That neuer learnd what constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his vnknowing sight.
O why should beautie (custome to obey)
To their grosse sence applie her selfe so ill?
Would God I were as ignorant as they
When I am made vnhappy by my skill;
Onely compeld on this poore good to boast,
Heauens are not kind to them that know them most.
Why?
by Madison Julius Cawein

Why smile high stars the happier after rain?
Why is strong love the stronger after pain?
Ai me! ai me! thou wotest not nor I!
Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?
Why spake the dumb lips sweetest that we prize
For maddening memories? O why! O why!
Why are dead kisses dearer when they're dead?
Why are dead faces lovelier vanished?
And why this heart-ache? None can answer why!
How The Wall-Flower Came First, And Why So Called.
by Robert Herrick

Why this flower is now call'd so,
List, sweet maids, and you shall know.
Understand, this firstling was
Once a brisk and bonnie lass,
Kept as close as Dana' was:
Who a sprightly springall lov'd,
And to have it fully prov'd,
Up she got upon a wall,
Tempting down to slide withal:
But the silken twist untied,
So she fell, and, bruis'd, she died.
Love, in pity of the deed,
And her loving-luckless speed,
Turn'd her to this plant we call
Now the flower of the wall.
Sonnet III
by Alan Seeger

Why should you be astonished that my heart,
Plunged for so long in darkness and in dearth,
Should be revived by you, and stir and start
As by warm April now, reviving Earth?
I am the field of undulating grass
And you the gentle perfumed breath of Spring,
And all my lyric being, when you pass,
Is bowed and filled with sudden murmuring.
I asked you nothing and expected less,
But, with that deep, impassioned tenderness
Of one approaching what he most adores,
I only wished to lose a little space
All thought of my own life, and in its place
To live and dream and have my joy in yours.
Why Wilt Thou Chide?
by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Why wilt thou chide,
Who hast attained to be denied?
Oh learn, above
All price is my refusal, Love.
My sacred Nay
Was never cheapened by the way.
Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord
Of an unpurchasable word.
Oh strong, Oh pure!
As Yea makes happier loves secure,
I vow thee this
Unique rejection of a kiss.
I guard for thee
This jealous sad monopoly.
I seal this honour thine. None dare
Hope for a part in thy despair.
Why Sit'st Thou By That Ruin'd Hall?
by Walter Scott (Sir)

"Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and grey?
Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away?"
"Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried;
"So long enjoy'd, so oft misused,
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and accused!
"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away!
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay,
"Redeem mine hours, the space is brief,
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,
When Time and thou shalt part for ever!"
Monday Night May 11th 1846 - Domestic Peace
by Anne Bronte

Why should such gloomy silence reign;
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want have entered here?
We are as many as we were
That other night, when all were gay,
And full of hope, and free from care;
Yet, is there something gone away.
The moon without as pure and calm
Is shining as that night she shone;
but now, to us she brings no balm,
For something from our hearts is gone.
Something whose absence leaves a void,
A cheerless want in every heart.
Each feels the bliss of all destroyed
And mourns the change - but each apart.
The fire is burning in the grate
As redly as it used to burn,
But still the hearth is desolate
Till Mirth and Love with Peace return.
'Twas Peace that flowed from heart to heart
With looks and smiles that spoke of Heaven,
And gave us language to impart
The blissful thoughts itself had given.
Sweet child of Heaven, and joy of earth!
O, when will Man thy value learn?
We rudely drove thee from our hearth,
And vainly sigh for thy return.
The Diamond And The Pebble.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Why value ye the diamond, and
The pearl from Ceylon's balmy shore,
When stones unnumber'd strew the land,
And in the sea are millions more?
Why treasure ye each silver bar,
And watch, with Argus eye, your gold,
When lead and iron, near and far,
Are strewn beneath the rocks and mould.
Ye prize those shining gems, because
Their sparkling beauty cheers the eye,
And, by the force of nature's laws,
They never in profusion lie.
Could we, Aladdin like, descend
Into a place where diamonds grow,
Our minds would then most surely tend
To value diamonds very low.
The emerald's or diamond's shine,
Is valued not for that alone,
But for its absence in the mine,
Where thousands lie, of common stone.
And thus, within the world of thought,
The pebble and the lead abound,
But real pearls are seldom brought,
And gold or silver rarely found.
We all have thoughts, we speak them, too,
The world is fill'd with words of men,
But still is priz'd the precious hue,
Of golden thoughts from tongue or pen;
And he who digs and brings to light
A lovely thought, a pearly gem,
'Twill surely shine with lustre bright,
For men, to cheer and better them.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XLVII - Conclusion
by William Wordsworth

Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,
Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD
Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored,
Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold
His drowsy rings. Look forth! that Stream behold,
That stream upon whose bosom we have passed
Floating at ease while nations have effaced
Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold
Long lines of mighty Kings look forth, my Soul!
(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust)
The living Waters, less and less by guilt
Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll,
Till they have reached the eternal City built
For the perfected Spirit of the just!
Earrings.
by Robert Herrick

Why wore th' Egyptians jewels in the ear?
But for to teach us, all the grace is there,
When we obey, by acting what we hear.
Byron And The Angel
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Poet:
"Why this fever why this sighing? 
Why this restless longing dying
For a something dreamy something,
Undefined, and yet defying
All the pride and power of manhood?
"O these years of sin and sorrow!
Smiling while the iron harrow
Of a keen and biting longing
Tears and quivers in the marrow
Of my being every moment 
Of my very inmost being.
"What to me the mad ambition
For men's praise and proud position 
Struggling, fighting to the summit
Of its vain and earthly mission,
To lie down on bed of ashes 
Bed of barren, bitter ashes?
"Cure this fever? I have tried it;
Smothered, drenched it and defied it
With a will of brass and iron;
Every smile and look denied it;
Yet it heeded not denying,
And it mocks at my defying
While my very soul is dying.
"Is there balm in Gilead? tell me!
Nay no balm to soothe and quell me?
Must I tremble in this fever?
Death, O lift thy hand and fell me;
Let me sink to rest forever
Where this burning cometh never.
"Sometimes when this restless madness
Softens down to mellow sadness,
I look back on sun-lit valleys
Where my boyish heart of gladness
Nestled without pain or longing 
Nestled softly in a vision
Full of love and hope's fruition,
Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.
"Then I ponder, and I wonder
Was some heart-chord snapped asunder
When the threads were soft and silken?
Did some fatal boyish blunder
Plant a canker in my bosom
That hath ever burned and rankled?
"O this thirsting, thirsting hanker!
O this burning, burning canker'
Driving Peace and Hope to shipwreck 
Without rudder, without anchor,
On the reef-rocks of Damnation!"
Invisible Angel:
"Jesus Son of Virgin Mary;
Lift the burden from the weary:
Pity, Jesus, and anoint him
With the holy balm of Gilead."
Poet:
"Yea, Christ Jesus, pour thy blessings
On these terrible heart-pressings:
O I bless thee, unseen Angel;
Lead me teach me, holy Spirit."
Angel:
"There is balm in Gilead!
There is balm in Gilead!
Peace awaits thee with caressings 
Sitting at the feet of Jesus 
At the right-hand of Jehovah 
At the blessed feet of Jesus; Alleluia!"
Miracles
by Walt Whitman

Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love - or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds - or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down - or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best - mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans - or to the soiree - or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring - yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass - the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships, with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Why Wilt Thou Chide?
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Why wilt thou chide,
Who hast attained to be denied?
Oh learn, above
All price is my refusal, Love.
My sacred Nay
Was never cheapened by the way.
Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord
Of an unpurchasable word.
Oh strong, Oh pure!
As Yea makes happier loves secure,
I vow thee this
Unique rejection of a kiss.
I guard for thee
This jealous sad monopoly.
I seal this honour thine. None dare
Hope for a part in thy despair.
Sonnets: Idea XLIII
by Michael Drayton

Why should your fair eyes with such sov'reign grace
Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darkness in the self-same place,
Get not one glance to recompense my merit?
So doth the plowman gaze the wand'ring star,
And only rest contented with the light,
That never learned what constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight.
O why should beauty, custom to obey,
To their gross sense apply herself so ill!
Would God I were as ignorant as they,
When I am made unhappy by my skill,
Only compelled on this poor good to boast!
Heavens are not kind to them that know them most.