DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Womanly Qualms
by Ellis Parker Butler

When I go rowing on the lake,
I long to be a man;
I'll give my Sunday frock to have
A callous heart like Dan.
I love the ripple of the waves
When gliding o'er the deep,
But when I see the cruel ours,
I close my eyes and weep;
For there are cat-fish in our lake,
And I am filled with dread,
Lest Don should strike a pussy-fish
Upon its tender head.
How would you like it if, some day
An air-ship passing by,
Should flap its cruel, thoughtless oars
And knock you in the eye?
My life would be one long regret
If, for my pleasure vain,
I caused a harmless little fish
An hour of needless pain.
And if Dan's heavy oars should cause
One little fish to die,
I'd never, never dare to look
Smoked herring in the eye!
Loss And Gain
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
Myth And Romance
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,
Just at the time of opening apple-buds,
When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering,
On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods,
There is an unseen presence that eludes:
Perhaps a dryad, in whose tresses cling
The loamy odours of old solitudes,
Who, from her beechen doorway, calls, and leads
My soul to follow; now with dimpling words
Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds;
While here and there is it her limbs that swing?
Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?
II
Or, haply, 'tis a Naiad now who slips,
Like some white lily, from her fountain's glass,
While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips
The moisture rains cool music on the grass.
Her have I heard and followed, yet, alas!
Have seen no more than the wet ray that dips
The shivered waters, wrinkling where I pass;
But in the liquid light where she doth hide,
I have beheld the azure of her gaze
Smiling; and, where the orbing ripple plays,
Among her minnows I have heard her lips,
Bubbling, make merry by the waterside.
III
Or now it is an Oread whose eyes
Are constellated dusk who stands confessed,
As naked as a flow'r; her heart's surprise,
Like morning's rose, mantling her brow and breast:
She, shrinking from my presence, all distressed
Stands for a startled moment ere she flies,
Her deep hair blowing, up the mountain crest,
Wild as a mist that trails along the dawn.
And is't her footfalls lure me? or the sound
Of airs that stir the crisp leaf on the ground?
And is't her body glimmers on yon rise?
Or dogwood blossoms snowing on the lawn?
IV
Now 'tis a satyr piping serenades
On a slim reed. Now Pan and Faun advance
Beneath green-hollowed roofs of forest glades,
Their feet gone mad with music: now, perchance,
Sylvanus sleeping, on whose leafy trance
The nymphs stand gazing in dim ambuscades
Of sun-embodied perfume. Myth, Romance,
Where'er I turn, reach out bewildering arms,
Compelling me to follow. Day and night
I hear their voices and behold the light
Of their divinity that still evades,
And still allures me in a thousand forms.
Seth Compton
by Edgar Lee Masters

When I died, the circulating library
Which I built up for Spoon River,
And managed for the good of inquiring minds,
Was sold at auction on the public square,
As if to destroy the last vestige
Of my memory and influence.
For those of you who could not see the virtue
Of knowing Volney's "Ruins" as well as Butler's "Analogy"
And "Faust" as well as "Evangeline,"
Were really the power in the village,
And often you asked me
"What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?"
I am out of your way now, Spoon River,
Choose your own good and call it good.
For I could never make you see
That no one knows what is good
Who knows not what is evil;
And no one knows what is true
Who knows not what is false.
A Late Walk
by Robert Lee Frost

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
The Little Salamander
by Walter De La Mare

TO MARGOT
When I go free,
I think 'twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody - nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.
VOICES
Who is it calling by the darkened river
Where the moss lies smooth and deep,
And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,
Silent and vague in sleep,
And the bright-heeled constellations pass
In splendour through the gloom;
Who is it calling o'er the darkened river
In music, "Come!"?
Who is it wandering in the summer meadows
Where the children stoop and play
In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning
The guileless hours away?
Who touches their bright hair? who puts
A wind-shell to each cheek,
Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,
"Seek! seek!"?
Who is it watching in the gathering twilight
When the curfew bird hath flown
On eager wings, from song to silence,
To its darkened nest alone?
Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,
For locks the still moonbeam,
Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully
Falling, "Dream!"
SORCERY
"What voice is that I hear
Crying across the pool?"
"It is the voice of Pan you hear,
Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,
In the twilight dim and cool."
"What song is it he sings,
Echoing from afar;
While the sweet swallow bends her wings,
Filling the air with twitterings,
Beneath the brightening star?"
The woodman answered me,
His faggot on his back: - 
"Seek not the face of Pan to see;
Flee from his clear note summoning thee
To darkness deep and black!
"He dwells in thickest shade,
Piping his notes forlorn
Of sorrow never to be allayed;
Turn from his coverts sad
Of twilight unto morn!"
The woodman passed away
Along the forest path;
His ax shone keen and grey
In the last beams of day:
And all was still as death: - 
Only Pan singing sweet
Out of Earth's fragrant shade;
I dreamed his eyes to meet,
And found but shadow laid
Before my tired feet.
Comes no more dawn to me,
Nor bird of open skies.
Only his woods' deep gloom I see
Till, at the end of all, shall rise,
Afar and tranquilly,
Death's stretching sea.
When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer
by Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
The Fiddler Of Dooney
by William Butler Yeats

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With 'Here is the fiddler of Dooney!'
And dance like a wave of the sea.
A Child's Pet
by William Henry Davies

When I sailed out of Baltimore
With twice a thousand head of sheep,
They would not eat, they would not drink,
But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day,
To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth
Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep,
That had no fear of man or sea,
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near,
'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep:
It seems a child has lost her pet,
And cried herself to sleep.'
So every time we passed it by,
Sailing to England's slaughter-house,
Eight ragged sheep-men - tramps and thieves -
Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
When I Roved A Young Highlander.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2]
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you?
2.
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name, - 
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd,
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
3.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted [4] the billows of Dee's [5] rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
4.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
5.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; [6]
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
6.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? - ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, - 
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
The Sonnets LXIV - When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
by William Shakespeare

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate 
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.
A Blessing. Translations. After Heine.
by John Milton Hay

When I look on thee and feel how dear,
How pure, and how fair thou art,
Into my eyes there steals a tear,
And a shadow mingled of love and fear
Creeps slowly over my heart.
And my very hands feel as if they would lay
Themselves on thy fair young head,
And pray the good God to keep thee alway
As good and lovely, as pure and gay, -
When I and my wild love are dead.
A Few Lines On Completing Forty-Seven.
by Thomas Hood

When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summoned hence - 
There's cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We're hourly standing at Death's door - 
There's some one double knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms - 
They're come to lunch of course!
And when my body's turned to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh let them give a sigh and say - 
I hear the upstairs bell!
Sonnet XXXII.
by Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa

When I have sense of what to sense appears,
Sense is sense ere 'tis mine or mine in me is.
When I hear, Hearing, ere I do hear, hears.
When I see, before me abstract Seeing sees.
I am part Soul part I in all I touch--
Soul by that part I hold in common with all,
And I the spoiled part, that doth make sense such
As I can err by it and my sense mine call.
The rest is wondering what these thoughts may mean,
That come to explain and suddenly are gone,
Like messengers that mock the message' mien,
Explaining all but the explanation;
As if we a ciphered letter's cipher hit
And find it in an unknown language writ.
When I Peruse The Conquer'd Fame
by Walt Whitman

When I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,
Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house;
But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them,
How through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,
Through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,
Then I am pensive, I hastily walk away, fill'd with the bitterest envy.
The Rabbits (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

When I have noticed how man acts at times, and how, in a thousand ways, he comports himself just as the lower animals do, I have often said to myself that the lord of these lower orders has no fewer faults than his subjects.
Nature has allowed every living thing a drop or two from the fount at which the spirits of all creatures imbibe.
I will prove what I say.
If at the hour when night has scarcely passed and day hardly begun I climb into a tree, on the edge of some wood, and, like a new Jupiter from the heights of Olympus, I send a shot at some unsuspecting rabbit, then the whole colony of rabbits, who were enjoying their thyme-scented meal with open eyes and listening ears upon the heath, immediately scamper away. The report sends them all to seek refuge in their subterranean city.
But their great fright is soon over; the danger quickly forgotten. Again I see the rabbits more light-hearted than ever coming close under my death-dealing hand.
Does not this give us a picture of mankind? Dispersed by some storm, men no sooner reach a haven than they are ready again to risk the same winds and the same distress. True rabbits, they run again into the death-dealing hands of fortune.
Let us add to this example another of a more ordinary kind.
When strange dogs pass through any spot beyond their customary route there is a grand to-do. I leave you to picture it. All the dogs of the district with one idea in their heads join forces, barking and biting, to chase the intruder beyond the bounds of their territory.
So, it may be, a similar joint-interest in property or in glory and grandeur leads such people as the governors of states, certain favoured courtiers, and people of a trade to behave exactly like these jealous dogs. All of us, as a rule, rob the chance-comer and tear him to pieces. Vain ladies and men of letters are usually so disposed. Woe betide the newly-arrived beauty or a new writer!
As few as possible fighting round the cake! That's the best way!
I could bring a hundred examples to bear upon this subject; but the shorter a discourse is the better. I take the masters of literature for my model in this and hold that in the best of themes something should be left unsaid for the reader to consider about. Therefore this discourse shall end.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quand' io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.
When I look back upon the many years
Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb'd,
And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed,
And finish'd the repose so full of tears,
Broken the faith which Love's young dream endears,
And the two parts of all my blessing doom'd,
This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed,
And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears,
I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind
So bare, I envy the worst lot I see;
Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait.
O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind!
O day for ever dark and drear to me!
How have ye sunk me in this abject state!
MACGREGOR.
When memory turns to gaze on time gone by
(Which in its flight hath arm'd e'en thought with wings),
And to my troubled rest a period brings,
Quells, too, the flame which long could ice defy;
And when I mark Love's promise wither'd lie,
That treasure parted which my bosom wrings
(For she in heaven, her shrine to nature clings),
Whilst thus my toils' reward she doth deny;--
I then awake and feel bereaved indeed!
The darkest fate on earth seems bliss to mine--
So much I fear myself, and dread its woe!
O Fortune!--Death! O star! O fate decreed!
O bitter day! that yet must sweetly shine,
Alas! too surely thou hast laid me low!
WOLLASTON.
Nature's Questioning
by Thomas Hardy

When I look forth at dawning, pool,
Field, flock, and lonely tree,
All seem to gaze at me
Like chastened children sitting silent in a school;
Their faces dulled, constrained, and worn,
As though the master's ways
Through the long teaching days
Their first terrestrial zest had chilled and overborne.
And on them stirs, in lippings mere
(As if once clear in call,
But now scarce breathed at all) -
"We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us here!
"Has some Vast Imbecility,
Mighty to build and blend,
But impotent to tend,
Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry?
"Or come we of an Automaton
Unconscious of our pains? . . .
Or are we live remains
Of Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye now gone?
"Or is it that some high Plan betides,
As yet not understood,
Of Evil stormed by Good,
We the Forlorn Hope over which Achievement strides?"
Thus things around. No answerer I . . .
Meanwhile the winds, and rains,
And Earth's old glooms and pains
Are still the same, and gladdest Life Death neighbours nigh.
Masha
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

When I lived, many years ago, in Petersburg, every time I chanced to hire a sledge, I used to get into conversation with the driver.
I was particularly fond of talking to the night drivers, poor peasants from the country round, who come to the capital with their little ochre-painted sledges and wretched nags, in the hope of earning food for themselves and rent for their masters.
So one day I engaged such a sledge-driver.... He was a lad of twenty, tall and well-made, a splendid fellow with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks; his fair hair curled in little ringlets under the shabby little patched cap that was pulled over his eyes. And how had that little torn smock ever been drawn over those gigantic shoulders!
But the handsome, beardless face of the sledge-driver looked mournful and downcast.
I began to talk to him. There was a sorrowful note in his voice too.
'What is it, brother?' I asked him; 'why aren't you cheerful? Have you some trouble?'
The lad did not answer me for a minute. 'Yes, sir, I have,' he said at last. 'And such a trouble, there could not be a worse. My wife is dead.'
'You loved her ... your wife?'
The lad did not turn to me; he only bent his head a little.
'I loved her, sir. It's eight months since then ... but I can't forget it.
My heart is gnawing at me ... so it is! And why had she to die? A young thing! strong!... In one day cholera snatched her away.'
'And was she good to you?'
'Ah, sir!' the poor fellow sighed heavily, 'and how happy we were together!
She died without me! The first I heard here, they'd buried her already, you know; I hurried off at once to the village, home - I got there - it was past midnight. I went into my hut, stood still in the middle of the room, and softly I whispered, "Masha! eh, Masha!" Nothing but the cricket chirping.
I fell a-crying then, sat on the hut floor, and beat on the earth with my fists! "Greedy earth!" says I ... "You have swallowed her up ... swallow me too! - Ah, Masha!"
'Masha!' he added suddenly in a sinking voice. And without letting go of the cord reins, he wiped the tears out of his eyes with his sleeve, shook it, shrugged his shoulders, and uttered not another word.
As I got out of the sledge, I gave him a few coppers over his fare. He bowed low to me, grasping his cap in both hands, and drove off at a walking pace over the level snow of the deserted street, full of the grey fog of a January frost.
April 1878.
When I Love You
by Nizar Qabbani

When I love you
A new language springs up,
New cities, new countries discovered.
The hours breathe like puppies,
Wheat grows between the pages of books,
Birds fly from your eyes with tiding of honey,
Caravans ride from your breasts carrying Indian herbs,
The mangoes fall all around, the forests catch fire
And Nubian drums beat.
When I love you your breasts shake off their shame,
Turn into lightning and thunder, a sword, a sandy storm.
When I love you the Arab cities leap up and demonstrate
Against the ages of repression
And the ages
Of revenge against the laws of the tribe.
And I, when I love you,
March against ugliness,
Against the kings of salt,
Against the institutionalization of the desert.
And I shall continue to love you until the world flood arrives;
I shall continue to love you until the world flood arrives.
Hymn To The Grace
by Robert Herrick

When I love, as some have told
Love I shall, when I am old,
O ye Graces!    make me fit
For the welcoming of it!
Clean my rooms, as temples be,
To entertain that deity;
Give me words wherewith to woo,
Suppling and successful too;
Winning postures; and withal,
Manners each way musical;
Sweetness to allay my sour
And unsmooth behaviour:
For I know you have the skill
Vines to prune, though not to kill;
And of any wood ye see,
You can make a Mercury.
Decision Reversed
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

When I mixed with the shoppers and fought in vain
To get what I sought, in the Christmas rush;
When they stood on my toes in the crowded train,
Or dented my ribs in the sidewalk crush,
I dropped my manners and snarled and swore,
And thought: "It's a bothersome, beastly bore!"
But when, at the Christmas dawn, they brought
My kid to the room where his things were piled,
And when, from my vantage point, I caught
The look on his face, I murmured: "Child,
Your dad was a fool when he snarled and swore,
And called it a bothersome, beastly bore."
A Hymn To The Graces
by Robert Herrick

When I love, as some have told
Love I shall, when I am old,
O ye Graces!    make me fit
For the welcoming of it!
Clean my rooms, as temples be,
To entertain that deity;
Give me words wherewith to woo,
Suppling and successful too;
Winning postures; and withal,
Manners each way musical;
Sweetness to allay my sour
And unsmooth behaviour:
For I know you have the skill
Vines to prune, though not to kill;
And of any wood ye see,
You can make a Mercury.