DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Poetical Epistle To Dr. Sheridan
by Jonathan Swift

Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence:
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
'Tis six to five he'll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep.
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her.
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn'd you what would follow.
Are the Deanery sober hours?
Be witness for me all ye powers.
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me.
Ask how I fret when she has beckon'd
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite.
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I 'scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven, - get out of doors. - 
This is my constant farewell
Yours,
J. S.
October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.
You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.
Nursery Rhyme. DV. Natural History.
by Unknown

Some little mice sat in a barn to spin;
Pussy came by, and popped her head in;
"Shall I come in, and cut your threads off?"
"Oh! no, kind sir, you will snap our heads off!"
The Flowers
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Some flowers are brighter far in hue
Than others by their side,
But God baptizes all with dew,
And spreads His mantle wide
To cover all for half the day,
From rays of scorching sun,
Though some may shine in colors gay,
And some in sober dun.
And I account each one my friend,
The stately and the plain.
Diverse their hue, but not their end;
For me none bloom in vain;
For all proclaim their Maker's skill,
And point to bloom above;
In God's great plan their part fulfil,
And whisper "God is love."
The fragrance lades the summer air
With health-inspiring germs,
Ascend on high as nature's prayer,
Suggesting well the terms
Of God-accepted prayer from man,
Odors of grateful praise;
For though in penitence began,
It ends in joyful lays.
Reconciliation
by William Butler Yeats

Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you, but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.
Sonnets: Idea XLII
by Michael Drayton

Some men there be which like my method well,
And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain,
Some say that in my humour I excel.
Some who not kindly relish my conceit,
They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
And in bare words paint out by passions' pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeat.
I pass not, I, how men affected be,
Nor who commends or discommends my verse!
It pleaseth me if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my love may see.
Only my comfort still consists in this,
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.
Kept The Flag Floating
by Joseph Horatio Chant

"Thank God, we have kept the flag floating."--General White.
Some men, like French, display much dash;
They boldly rush upon the foe,
Their sword-blades like the lightning flash,
As they on helm or hauberk clash;
Nor fear the foeman's blow.
We praise them for their gallant deeds;
They are the men the Empire needs.
But true as they are those who stand
Within the fort beleaguered round;
Resources few at their command,
Their army but a feeble band,
Yet bravely hold their ground;
And o'er their blood-bespattered coats
The Union Jack in triumph floats.
Reduced their strength through lack of food,
And fever germs on vitals preyed;
Yet they o'er trouble did not brood,
By night or day of cheerful mood;
This burden on them weighed--
To keep the flag afloat--in brief,
Till Buller came to their relief.
Brave White, accept our meed of praise!
We crown thee equal to the best
Of heroes of the olden days,
Whose deeds inspired the poets' lays!
We need no further quest;
But this with gratitude we note,
Thy valour kept the flag afloat!
Valor like thine does not surprise
When we review thy noble past;
A hero is the one who tries,
Though he may not to ideal rise--
His plan may fail at last--
Yet is too brave to lay the blame
On others, but takes all the shame.
"The fault was mine," thy language then,
Revealing the divinest grace
Possessed by truly noble men,
And, prophecy of triumph, when
With foe brought face to face,
The choice remains, defeat or death,
The flag will float till latest breath.
Sonnets: Idea XXXV To Miracle
by Michael Drayton

Some misbelieving and profane in love,
When I do speak of miracles by thee,
May say that thou art flatter'd by me,
Who only write my skill in verse to prove
See miracles, ye unbelieving, see!
A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind,
A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee.
Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine;
And mine ears deaf by thy fame heal'd be;
My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee;
My hopes revived which long in grave had lien.
All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me,
Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.
From Home
by George MacDonald

Some men there are who cannot spare
A single tear until they feel
The last cold pressure, and the heel
Is stamped upon the outmost layer.
And, waking, some will sigh to think
The clouds have borrowed winter's wing,
Sad winter, when the grasses spring
No more about the fountain's brink.
And some would call me coward fool:
I lay a claim to better blood,
But yet a heap of idle mud
Hath power to make me sorrowful.
Some One
by Walter De La Mare

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But naught there was a-stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.
The Rosary of My Tears
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Some reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art;
But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their lives by the moans of their heart.
The dials of earth may show
The length, not the depth, of years,
Few or many they come, few or many they go,
But time is best measured by tears.
Ah! not by the silver gray
That creeps thro' the sunny hair,
And not by the scenes that we pass on our way,
And not by the furrows the fingers of care
On forehead and face have made.
Not so do we count our years;
Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.
For the young are ofttimes old,
Though their brows be bright and fair;
While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold --
O'er them the spring -- but winter is there.
And the old are ofttimes young,
When their hair is thin and white;
And they sing in age, as in youth they sung,
And they laugh, for their cross was light.
But bead, by bead, I tell
The rosary of my years;
From a cross to a cross they lead; 'tis well,
And they're blest with a blessing of tears.
Better a day of strife
Than a century of sleep;
Give me instead of a long stream of life
The tempests and tears of the deep.
A thousand joys may foam
On the billows of all the years;
But never the foam brings the lone back home --
It reaches the haven through tears.
Lyon. Battle Of Springfield, Missouri.
by Herman Melville

(August, 1861.)
Some hearts there are of deeper sort,
Prophetic, sad,
Which yet for cause are trebly clad;
Known death they fly on:
This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.
"They are more than twenty thousand strong,
We less than five,
Too few with such a host to strive"
"Such counsel, fie on!
'Tis battle, or 'tis shame;" and firm stood Lyon.
"For help at need in van we wait - 
Retreat or fight:
Retreat the foe would take for flight,
And each proud scion
Feel more elate; the end must come," said Lyon.
By candlelight he wrote the will,
And left his all
To Her for whom 'twas not enough to fall;
Loud neighed Orion
Without the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.
The night-tramp done, we spied the Vale
With guard-fires lit;
Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it:
"A field to die on"
Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.
We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn - 
Fate seemed malign;
His horse the Leader led along the line - 
Star-browed Orion;
Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.
There came a sound like the slitting of air
By a swift sharp sword - 
A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad
Of black Orion
Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.
"General, you're hurt - this sleet of balls!"
He seemed half spent;
With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:
"The field to die on;
But not - not yet; the day is long," breathed Lyon.
For a time becharmed there fell a lull
In the heart of the fight;
The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light;
Warm noon-winds sigh on,
And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.
Texans and Indians trim for a charge:
"Stand ready, men!
Let them come close, right up, and then
After the lead, the iron;
Fire, and charge back!" So strength returned to Lyon.
The Iowa men who held the van,
Half drilled, were new
To battle: "Some one lead us, then we'll do"
Said Corporal Tryon:
"Men! I will lead," and a light glared in Lyon.
On they came: they yelped, and fired;
His spirit sped;
We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled,
Nor stayed the iron,
Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.
This seer foresaw his soldier-doom,
Yet willed the fight.
He never turned; his only flight
Was up to Zion,
Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.
Be Happy.
by John Hartley

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel,
At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it;
If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel,
They try to pick faults in a minnit.
We all have a strinklin o' care,
An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble,
But aw think its unkind, an unfair,
To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.
Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine, - 
If it does they find cause for complainin;
Discontented when th' weather wor fine,
They start findin fault if its rainin.
Aw hate sich dissatisfied men,
An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa,
Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen,
Aght o'th' world, - like a Robinson Crusoe.
To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less,
Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful;
When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless,
Ov happiness let's have a skinful.
Aw truly mooast envy that man,
Who's gladly devotin his leisure,
To mak th' world as breet as he can,
An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.
It's true ther's hard wark to be done,
An mooast on us drop in to share it;
But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun,
Why, we're far better able to bear it.
May we live long surraanded wi' friends,
To enjoy what is healthful an pure;
An at last when this pilgrimage ends,
We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.
Bryant.
by James McIntyre

Some in front rank will defiant,
Boldly place the poet Bryant.
I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Some find work where some find rest,
And so the weary world goes on:
I sometimes wonder which is best;
The answer comes when life is gone.
Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake,
And so the dreary night-hours go;
Some hearts beat where some hearts break;
I often wonder why 'tis so.
Some wills faint where some wills fight,
Some love the tent, and some the field;
I often wonder who are right --
The ones who strive, or those who yield?
Some hands fold where other hands
Are lifted bravely in the strife;
And so thro' ages and thro' lands
Move on the two extremes of life.
Some feet halt where some feet tread,
In tireless march, a thorny way;
Some struggle on where some have fled;
Some seek when others shun the fray.
Some swords rust where others clash,
Some fall back where some move on;
Some flags furl where others flash
Until the battle has been won.
Some sleep on while others keep
The vigils of the true and brave:
They will not rest till roses creep
Around their name above a grave.
Summer's Armies.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Some rainbow coming from the fair!
Some vision of the world Cashmere
I confidently see!
Or else a peacock's purple train,
Feather by feather, on the plain
Fritters itself away!
The dreamy butterflies bestir,
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year's sundered tune.
From some old fortress on the sun
Baronial bees march, one by one,
In murmuring platoon!
The robins stand as thick to-day
As flakes of snow stood yesterday,
On fence and roof and twig.
The orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover, Don the Sun,
Revisiting the bog!
Without commander, countless, still,
The regiment of wood and hill
In bright detachment stand.
Behold! Whose multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas,
Or what Circassian land?
The Little Green Orchard
by Walter De La Mare

Some one is always sitting there,
In the little green orchard;
Even when the sun is high
In noon's unclouded sky,
And faintly droning goes
The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there,
In the little green orchard.
Yes, and when twilight is falling softly
In the little green orchard;
When the grey dew distils
And every flower-cup fills;
When the last blackbird says,
"What - what!" and goes her way - s-sh!
I have heard voices calling softly
In the little green orchard.
Not that I am afraid of being there,
In the little green orchard;
Why, when the moon's been bright,
Shedding her lonesome light,
And moths like ghosties come,
And the horned snail leaves home:
I've sat there, whispering and listening there,
In the little green orchard.
Only it's strange to be feeling there,
In the little green orchard;
Whether you paint or draw,
Dig, hammer, chop, or saw;
When you are most alone,
All but the silence gone ...
Some one is waiting and watching there,
In the little green orchard.
Upon Love.
by Robert Herrick

Some salve to every sore we may apply;
Only for my wound there's no remedy.
Yet if my Julia kiss me, there will be
A sovereign balm found out to cure me.
Some One
by Walter De La Mare

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a-stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.
Swords And Roses
by Paul Cameron Brown

Some lives have themes.
Goldfish that stubbornly die;
compatability only with distant lovers
- flowers (but no sweet-breads)
that wilt to the touch.
Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat
agreeably on a green linoleum table
with light basking in....
a tad playful,
paws up,
(classic boxer stance)
but no one notices.
Others oblique in their transparency,
are unmindful of even the empty closet
and greeting cards that smile hello.
In the dark
this room shimmers below
life-raft status;
chairs are buoys
bobbing under waves
of congealed fright.
In the morning
the first pigeons
rifle over rooftops,
mad flutterings like your eyes
stabbing gables looking curiously
like your heart.
A tree bandaged in wood
manages a feeble handshake
with sky cajoling winter.
But it is the moon,
large and eerie,
a golden earring
mindful of a Chinese panda
that plies its trade.
Mandarin-like, a snout
so cloud-entrenched
soft night barely resembles
willow and bamboo shoots
the universe left to feed her.
Nuggets or nougats?
Should I call you "opaque",
use coke-bottle glass as a
symbol of light-headedness, transparency?
Keen vision?
Could it be more is known of outer space
than your mind
or that leaves,
frosted with cold,
are conducting interviews
maliciously within the park fold?
Rather (and this is so circumspect)
no one owes anyone
in the brisk coinage and trade
that breeds human waste ...
So drivel passes as conversation,
a handshake for real investment.
A lot in common, the wrong dreams.
Pretty awareness, the desolate pennies
stumble from our hands.
More substance, really,
in the rustle of a silk dress
or static electricity
that pops over orb-sized breasts.
Hide and seek
peek a boo,
you don't need me
I don't need you.
The Little Green Orchard
by Walter De La Mare

Some one is always sitting there,
In the little green orchard;
Even when the sun is high
In noon's unclouded sky,
And faintly droning goes
The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there
In the little green orchard.
Yes, when the twilight's falling softly
In the little green orchard;
When the grey dew distills
And every flower-cup fills;
When the last blackbird says,
'What - what!' and goes her way - ssh!
I have heard voices calling softly
In the little green orchard
Not that I am afraid of being there,
In the little green orchard;
Why, when the moon's been bright,
Shedding her lonesome light,
And moths like ghosties come,
And the horned snail leaves home:
I've sat there, whispering and listening there,
In the little green orchard.
Only it's strange to be feeling there,
In the little green orchard;
Whether you paint or draw,
Dig, hammer, chop or saw;
When you are most alone,
All but the silence gone...
Some one is watching and waiting there,
In the little green orchard.
For A Charity Fair (In A Copy Of Minor Pieces)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

Some poor man in need
To bless and to feed,
I bring at its worth,
This day of my birth,
A book, - from my youth I must own.
But Who in His power
Gave bud and gave flower,
To bread can transform
In want's winter-storm
Each leaf that my Springtime has grown.
Borrowing
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

FROM THE FRENCH
Some of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From evils which never arrived!
Passion.
by Charlotte Bronte

Some have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.
Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try!
Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.
Tell me, if with wandering bands
I roam full far away,
Wilt thou to those distant lands
In spirit ever stray?
Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid me, bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
On Indian Sutlej's flow.
Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus' borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go!
Though rank and high the holocaust
Of nations steams to heaven,
Glad I'd join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.
Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.
If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside?
Darest thou then my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride?
No, my will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul,
Yes, tenderest love for me.
I'll read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.
I'd die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
Life's dull dregs only lie.
Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge!
Jennie
by Eugene Field

Some men affect a liking
For the prim in face and mind,
And some prefer the striking
And the loud in womankind;
Wee Madge is wooed of many,
And buxom Kate, as well,
And Jennie--charming Jennie--
Ah, Jennie doesn't tell!
What eyes so bright as Daisy's,
And who as Maud so fair?
Who does not sing the praises
Of Lucy's golden hair?
There's Sophie--she is witty,
A very sprite is Nell,
And Susie's, oh, so pretty--
But Jennie doesn't tell!
And now for my confession:
Of all the virtues rare,
I argue that discretion
Doth most beseem the fair.
And though I hear the many
Extol each other belle,
I--I pronounce for Jennie,
For Jennie doesn't tell!
A Service Of Song.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
God preaches, -- a noted clergyman, --
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I'm going all along!