DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Foresight
by William Wordsworth

That is work of waste and ruin 
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them here are many:
Look at it the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.
Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
Primroses, the Spring may love them 
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.
God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!
Manna.
by Robert Herrick

That manna, which God on His people cast,
Fitted itself to ev'ry feeder's taste.
A King And No King.
by Robert Herrick

That prince who may do nothing but what's just,
Rules but by leave, and takes his crown on trust.
On Love.
by Robert Herrick

That love 'twixt men does ever longest last
Where war and peace the dice by turns do cast.
The Heckuses
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

That may not be the proper way
To spell their name; I cannot say.
I've never seen 'em written out:
I've only heard 'em talked about.
They're coming here tonight to dine,
So says that little son of mine.
But all last week, 'twas just the same;
They were to come, and never came.
And I'm just skeptical enough
To think they're all a myth, a bluff;
Mere creatures of my youngster's brain,
Whose coming he'll await in vain.
And yet to him they're very real.
They own a big black auto'bile.
They work downtown, and they'll arrive
Out here at one-two-three-four-five.
The Heckuses are four all told.
There's Mrs. H. who's very old,
And Baby Heckus, and a lad
Named Tom, and Bill, the Heckus dad.
Beyond this point I can't describe
The fascinating Heckus tribe.
I can but wonder how he came
To think of such a lovely name.
The Other House
by John Frederick Freeman

That other house, in the same crowded street,
One red-tiled floor had, answering to my feet,
And a bewildering garden all of light and heat.
Only that red floor and garden now remain,
One glowing firelike in my glowing brain,
One with smell, colour, sun and cloud revived again.
Yet in the garden the sky was very small,
Closed by some darkness beyond the low brown wall;
But from the west the gold could long unhindered fall.
Of human faces I remember none
Amid the garden; but myself alone
With creeping-jenny, sunflower, marigold, snapdragon--
These all my love, these now all my light,
Bringing their kindness to any painful night.
The sun brushed all their brightness with his skirt more bright.
And I was happy when I knew it not,
Dreaming of nothing more than that small plot,
And the high sky and sun that floated bright and hot.
But what night was, save dark, I did not know.
The blind shut out the stars: the moon would go
Staring, unstared at, moon and stars unnoted flow.
Until one night, into the strange street led,
To stare at a strange light from the Factory shed,
Wheeling and darting, withdrawn, and sudden again outsped--
No one knew why--but I knew darkness then,
And saw the stars that hung so still; but when
I lay abed the old starless dark came back again.
Night is not night without the stars and moon.
I knew them not, or I forgot too soon,
And now remember only the glowing sun of noon,
The red floor, and yellow flowers, and a lonely child,
And a whistle morn and noon and evening shrilled,
And darkness when the household murmurs even were stilled.
Au Revoir.
by Charles Sangster

That morn our hearts were like artesian wells,
Both deep and calm, and brimming with pure love.
And in each one, like to an April day,
Truth smiled and wept, while Courage wound his horn,
Dispatching echoes that are whispering still
Through all the vacant chambers of our souls;
While Sorrow sat with drooped and aimless wing,
Within the solitary fane of thought.
We wished some warlike Joshua were there
To make the sun stand still, or to put back
The dial to the brighter side of time.
A cloud hung over Couchiching; a cloud
Eclipsed the merry sunshine of our hearts.
We needed no philosopher to teach
That laughter is not always born of joy.
"All's for the best," the fair Eliza said;
And we derived new courage from her lips,
That spake the maxim of her trusting heart.
We even smiled, at some portentous sign
That signified - well, if it turn out true,
Then, I'll believe it. Heaven works in signs
More parting words, more lingering farewells,
Pressure of hands, and thrilling touch of lips,
A waving of white handkerchiefs, and Love
Grew prayerful, and knelt down, and wept
His scattered rosary of human hearts.
Soon looking back, we saw where Ramah lay;
Cold, wan, and cheerless as the race it holds.
And as we neared the Lake the sun came forth,
As tardily as if the sluggard day
Had slept more soundly for the piping storm,
That, veering round, had flung its challenge out
In sullen menace to the western sky,
Now black with clouds. A flash, a muffled roll
Of elemental passion, broke the spell,
And down on Simcoe fell the sudden rain,
Veiling the gloomy landscape from our sight.
Throughout the changeful day, alternate cloud
And sunshine left their traces on our hearts,
Until the evening reared its dreamy piles
Of cloud-built ch'teaux steeped in gorgeous tints,
That from celestial censers are outpoured
When the grand miracle of sunset draws
Our souls, all yearning with a joy divine,
To share the fleeting glory, ere it goes
To glean new splendors for the ruby morn.
'Tis ever thus with true impassioned love;
Love's sun, like that of day, may set, and set,
It hath as bright a rising in the morn.
True love has no gray hairs; his golden looks
Can never whiten with the snows of time.
Sorrow lies drear on many a youthful heart,
Like snow upon the evergreens; but love
Can gather sweetest honey by the way,
E'en from the carcass of some prostrate grief.
We have been spoiled with blessings. Though the world
Holds nothing dearer than the hope that's fled,
God ever opens up new founts of bliss - 
Spiritual Bethsaidas where the soul
Can wash the earth-stains from its fevered loins.
We carve our sorrows on the face of joy,
Reversing the true image; we are weak
Where strength is needed most, and most is given.
Thus musing, as they chatted in the train,
The whistle broke my reverie, as one
Might be awakened from a truthful dream.
The city gas-lights flashed into our eyes;
And we, half-shrinking from the glare and din,
Thought but of two more partings on the morn,
When Love should be enfettered, hand and foot,
For the long aeon of a human year.
That out of sight is out of mind
by Arthur Hugh Clough

That out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind;
It is not sure, nor can be true,
My own and only love, of you.
They were my friends, 'twas sad to part;
Almost a tear began to start;
But yet as things run on they find
That out of sight is out of mind.
For men, that will not idlers be,
Must lend their hearts to things they see;
And friends who leave them far behind,
When out of sight are out of mind.
I blame it not; I think that when
The cold and silent meet again,
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,
'Twas 'out of sight,' was 'out of mind.'
I knew it when we parted, well,
I knew it, but was loth to tell;
I felt before, what now I find,
That 'out of sight' is 'out of mind.'
That friends, however friends they were,
Still deal with things as things occur,
And that, excepting for the blind,
What's out of sight is out of mind.
But love, the poets say, is blind;
So out of sight and out of mind
Need not, nor will, I think, be true,
My own and only love, of you.
Crazy Jane On God
by William Butler Yeats

That lover of a night
Came when he would,
Went in the dawning light
Whether I would or no;
Men come, men go;
All things remain in God.
Banners choke the sky;
Men-at-arms tread;
Armoured horses neigh
In the narrow pass:
All things remain in God.
Before their eyes a house
That from childhood stood
Uninhabited, ruinous,
Suddenly lit up
From door to top:
All things remain in God.
I had wild Jack for a lover;
Though like a road
That men pass over
My body makes no moan
But sings on:
All things remain in God.
Farewell Snow.
by Edwin C. Ranck

(After Walt Whitman.)
That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow
Is slowly sifting through the bare branches--and ever and anon
My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret.
Yes, full of pale regret and other things--you know what I mean.
And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part.
Yes, it cannot wait much longer--like the flakes my thoughts are melting
'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere--the snow I mean.
Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.
The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies.
And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou ilt never come again. Alas!
How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks.
When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop
And when I ventured--poor foolish mortal that I was--to look,
Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me.
There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow--
It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks,
But still we swear--we cannot help it, Snow.
Now it is "Skidoo," or "23 for you." Oh, cursed inconstancy of man!
To Mystics.
by Friedrich Schiller

That is the only true secret, which in the presence of all men
Lies, and surrounds thee for ay, but which is witnessed by none.
Neutral
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

That pale word 'Neutral' sits becomingly
On lips of weaklings.    But the men whose brains
Find fuel in their blood, the men whose minds
Hold sympathetic converse with their hearts,
Such men are never neutral.    That word stands
Unsexed and impotent in Realms of Speech.
When mighty problems face a startled world
No virile man is neutral.    Right or wrong
His thoughts go forth, assertive, unafraid
To stand by his convictions, and to do
Their part in shaping issues to an end.
Silence may guard the door of useless words,
At dictate of Discretion; but to stand
Without opinions in a world which needs
Constructive thinking, is a coward's part.
Upon A Maid That Died The Day She Was Married.
by Robert Herrick

That morn which saw me made a bride,
The evening witness'd that I died.
Those holy lights, wherewith they guide
Unto the bed the bashful bride,
Serv'd but as tapers for to burn
And light my relics to their urn.
This epitaph, which here you see,
Supplied the epithalamy.
Sonnet for a Picture
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,
She pants upon the passionate lips that ache
With the red drain of her own mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp,
One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp.
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake
Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.
The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.
The legs are absolutely abominable.
Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes
Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?
Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell,
Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,
But may be ravenously unripped in hell?
The British Gyp.
by A. H. Laidlaw

That luscious lip, the British Gyp,
I leave to rove, a reckless ranger,
To seek a life, with War for wife,
Defying Death, despising danger;
Yet while I speed from field to field,
Enamored of the stranger's daughter,
I know the best that earth can yield
Are nested by the British water.
Her lithe, blithe form outbraves the storm
That spreads disaster in its shadow,
And when it clears, her form appears
A flower upon the greening meadow;
And if, for fame, you'll have me name
The land of most bewitching daughters,
My heart replies, with softening sighs,
The land begirt by British waters.
Her starry eye lets arrows fly,
That pierce the ice of arctic reason;
The kiss that thrills, the glance that kills,
Make wild the wise and laugh at Treason;
And when, a soldier on parade,
Beyond the bourne of British waters,
My eyes are on the stranger maid,
My heart is with the English daughters.
Sonnets: Idea XII To The Soul
by Michael Drayton

That learned Father which so firmly proves
The soul of man immortal and divine,
And doth the several offices define
Anima.    Gives her that name, as she the body moves.
Amor.    Then is she love, embracing charity.
Animus.    Moving a will in us, it is the mind;
Mens.    Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind.
Memoria.    As intellectual, it is memory.
Ratio.    In judging, reason only is her name.
Sensus.    In speedy apprehension, it is sense.
Conscientia.    In right and wrong they call her conscience;
Spiritus.    The spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame:
These of the soul the several functions be,
Which my heart lightened by thy love doth see.
A Certain Evening
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

That night the whole world mingled,
The souls were babes at play,
And angel danced with devil.
And God cried, 'Holiday!'
The sea had climbed the mountain peaks,
And shouted to the stars
To come to play: and down they came
Splashing in happy wars.
The pine grew apples for a whim,
The cart-horse built a nest;
The oxen flew, the flowers sang,
The sun rose in the west.
And 'neath the load of many worlds,
The lowest life God made
Lifted his huge and heavy limbs
And into heaven strayed.
To where the highest life God made
Before His presence stands;
But God himself cried, 'Holiday!'
And she gave me both her hands.
Her Secret
by Thomas Hardy

That love's dull smart distressed my heart
He shrewdly learnt to see,
But that I was in love with a dead man
Never suspected he.
He searched for the trace of a pictured face,
He watched each missive come,
And a note that seemed like a love-line
Made him look frozen and glum.
He dogged my feet to the city street,
He followed me to the sea,
But not to the neighbouring churchyard
Did he dream of following me.
The Lime Tree
by John Frederick Freeman

That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
To His Saviour. The New-Year's Gift.
by Robert Herrick

That little pretty bleeding part
Of foreskin send to me:
And I'll return a bleeding heart
For New-Year's gift to Thee.
Rich is the gem that Thou did'st send,
Mine's faulty too and small;
But yet this gift Thou wilt commend
Because I send Thee all.
That Music Always Round Me
by Walt Whitman

That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning yet long untaught I did not hear;
But now the chorus I hear, and am elated;
A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with glad notes of day-break I hear,
A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,
A transparent bass, shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,
The triumphant tutti the funeral wailings, with sweet flutes and violins all these I fill myself with;
I hear not the volumes of sound merely I am moved by the exquisite meanings,
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving, contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;
I do not think the performers know themselves but now I think I begin to know them.
Ending.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

That is solemn we have ended, --
Be it but a play,
Or a glee among the garrets,
Or a holiday,
Or a leaving home; or later,
Parting with a world
We have understood, for better
Still it be unfurled.
Gentleness.
by Robert Herrick

That prince must govern with a gentle hand
Who will have love comply with his command.
Channel Firing
by Thomas Hardy

That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgment-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, "No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
"All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christes sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
"That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening . . .
"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need)."
So down we lay again. "I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,"
Said one, "than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!"
And many a skeleton shook his head.
"Instead of preaching forty year,"
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
April 1914.
That Little Dog
by James Whitcomb Riley

"That little dog 'ud scratch at that door
And go on a-whinin' two hours before
He'd ever let up! There! - Jane: Let him in. - 
(Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin!
Come down off o' that! - 
W'y, look at him! (Drat
You! you-rascal-you!) - bring me that hat!
Look out! - He'll snap you! - He wouldn't let
You take it away from him, now you kin bet!
That little rascal's jist natchurly mean. - 
I tell you, I never (Git out!! ) never seen
A spunkier little rip! (Scratch to git in,
And now yer a-scratchin' to git out agin!
Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from here
Out through the winder! - You notice one ear
Kindo' in side-out, like he holds it? - Well,
He's got a tick in it - I kin tell!
Yes, and he's cunnin' - 
Jist watch him a-runnin',
Sidelin' - see! - like he ain't 'plum'd true'
And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do: - 
Plowin' his nose through the weeds - I jing!
Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!
"W'y, that little dog's got grown-people's sense! - 
See how he gits out under the fence? - 
And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore
His dead square run of a miled er more - 
'Cause Noey's a-comin', and Trip allus knows
When Noey's a-comin' - and off he goes! - 
Putts out to meet him and - There they come now!
Well-sir! it's raially singalar how
That dog kin tell, - 
But he knows as well
When Noey's a-comin' home! - Reckon his smell
'Ud carry two miled? - You needn't to smile - 
He runs to meet him, ever'-once-n-a-while,
Two miled and over - when he's slipped away
And left him at home here, as he's done to-day - 
'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin' - 
But that little dog allus hits the right way!
Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin? - 
(Little tormentin' fice!) Jane: Let him in.
" - You say he ain't there? - 
Well now, I declare! - 
Lem me limp out and look! ... I wunder where - 
Heuh, Trip! - Heuh, Trip! - Heuh, Trip!... There - 
There he is! - Little sneak! - What-a'-you-'bout? - 
There he is - quiled up as meek as a mouse,
His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout,
A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house!
Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in,
My fine little feller, the best way you kin!
- Noey he learns him sich capers! - And they - 
Both of 'em's ornrier every day! - 
Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin - 
Allus a - (Listen there!) - Jane: Let him in.
" - O! yer so innocent! hangin' yer head! - 
(Drat ye! you'd better git under the bed!)
- Listen at that! - 
He's tackled the cat! - 
Hah, there! you little rip! come out o' that! - 
Git yer blame little eyes scratched out
'Fore you know what yer talkin' about! - 
Here! come away from there! - (Let him alone - 
He'll snap you, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!)
Hi, Trip! - Hey, here! - What-a'-you-'bout! - 
Oo! ouch! 'Ll I'll be blamed! - Blast ye! GIT OUT!
... O, it ain't nothin' - jist scratched me, you see. - 
Hadn't no idy he'd try to bite me!
Plague take him! - Bet he'll not try that agin! - 
Hear him yelp. - (Pore feller!) Jane: Let him in."
That Kind Heart You Were Jealous Of, My Nurse
by Charles Baudelaire

That kind heart you were jealous of, my nurse
Who sleeps her sleep beneath the humble turf,
I'd like to give her flowers, wouldn't you?
The dead, the poor dead, have their sorrows too,
And when October trims the branches down,
Blowing its sombre wind around their stones,
The living seem ungrateful to the dead,
For sleeping as they do, warm in their beds;
Meanwhile, devoured by black imaginings,
No bedmate, and without good gossiping,
Worked by the worm, cold skeletons below
Seem to be filtering the winter's snows,
And time flows by, no family who will
Tend to the scraps that hang from iron grills.
If in the dusk, while logs would smoke and sing,
I'd see her in the armchair, pondering,
Or find her in a night of wintry gloom
Abinding in a corner of my room,
Grae spirit, who'd ascended from her pain
To watch with love her grown-up child again,
What could I offer this most pious soul,
Watching her tears fall from their hollow holes?
A Caution.
by Robert Herrick

That love last long, let it thy first care be
To find a wife that is most fit for thee.
Be she too wealthy or too poor, be sure
Love in extremes can never long endure.
The Rover
by Helen Leah Reed

That it be love, I dare not say,
I only know when he's away,
Dark as the night, so dark the day.
But still he'll rove, and still I'll try
Some light to see in yon grim sky.
For I will prove if power there be
To lead him through the night to me
In that soul-star, - fair Constancy.
William Bede Dalley
by Henry Kendall

That love of letters which is as the light
Of deathless verse, intense, ineffable,
Hath made this scholar's nature like the white,
Pure Roman soul of whom the poets tell.
He having lived so long with lords of thought,
The grand hierophants of speech and song,
Hath from the high, august communion caught
Some portion of their inspiration strong.
The clear, bright atmosphere through which he looks
Is one by no dim, close horizon bound;
The power shed as flame from noble books
Hath made for him a larger world around.
And he, thus strengthened with the fourfold force
Which scholarship to genius gives, is one
That liberal thinkers, pausing in their course,
With fine esteem are glad to look upon.
He, with the faultless intuition born
Of splendid faculties, sees things aright,
And all his strong, immeasurable scorn
Falls like a thunder on the hypocrite.
But for the sufferer and the son of shame
On whom remorse a great, sad burden lies,
His kindness glistens like a morning flame,
Immense compassion shines within his eyes.
Firm to the Church by which his fathers stood,
But tolerant to every form of creed,
He longs for universal brotherhood,
And is a Christian gentleman indeed.
These in his honour. May his life be long,
And, like a summer with a brilliant close,
As full of music as a perfect song,
As radiant as a rich, unhandled rose.