DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Three Songs In A Garden III
by Theodosia Garrison

Will the garden never forget
That it whispers over and over,
"Where is your lover, Nanette?
Where is your lover--your lover?"
Oh, roses I helped to grow,
Oh, lily and mignonette,
Must you always question me so,
"Where is your lover, Nanette?"
Since you looked on my joy one day,
Is my grief then a lesser thing?
Have you only this to say
When I pray you for comforting?
Now that I walk alone
Here where our hands were met,
Must you whisper me every one,
"Where is your lover, Nanette?"
I have mourned with you year and year,
When the Autumn has left you bare,
And now that my heart is sere
Does not one of your roses care?
Oh, help me forget--forget,
Nor question over and over,
"Where is your lover, Nanette?
Where is your lover--your lover?"
The Miniature.
by George Pope Morris

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:--he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.
"This picture is yourself, dear Jane--
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is much like you."
"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
"Why--no--my love," said he.
"Then, William, it is very clear
'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"
Willy And His Sister.
by Kate Greenaway

Willy said to his sister,
"Please may I go with you?"
She said, "You must behave
Very nicely if you do."
"Please will you take me then
To look at the mill?"
"Yes," she said, "because you are
So very good I will."
"The miller he is
So very white and kind;
And sprinkled all over
With the flour they grind.
"And the big heaps of corn
That lie upon the floor;
He will let me play with those
I am quite sure.
"I like to hear the wheel
Make such a rushing sound,
And see the pretty water
Go round, and round, and round.
"So take me to the mill,
For then you shall see
What a very, very good boy
I really mean to be."
In The Edgware Road. (To Lord L - - .)
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Will you not buy? She asks you, my lord, you
Who know the points desirable in such.
She does not say that she is perfect. True,
She's not too pleasant to the sight or touch.
But then - neither are you!
Her cheeks are rather fallen in; a mist
Glazes her eyes, for all their hungry glare.
Her lips do not breathe balmy when they're kissed.
And yet she's not more loathsome than, I swear,
Your grandmother at whist.
My lord, she will admit, and need not frame
Excuses for herself, that she's not chaste.
First a young lover had her; then she came
From one man's to another's arms, with haste.
Your mother did the same.
Moreover, since she's married, once or twice
She's sold herself for certain things at night,
To sell one's body for the highest price
Of social ease and power, all girls think right.
Your sister did it thrice.
What, you'll not buy? You'll curse at her instead? - 
Her children are alone, at home, quite near.
These winter streets, so gay at nights, 'tis said,
Have 'ticed the wanton out. She could not hear
Her children cry for bread!
The Millennium
by James Kenneth Stephen

TO R. K.
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman's latest piece of graphic.
-     Robert Browning    .
Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more?
James Kenneth Stephen.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXVI. Relics.
by Unknown

Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going?
I'll go with you, if I may.
I'm going to the meadow to see them a mowing,
I'm going to help them make hay.
Song.
by John Carr (Sir)

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng,
With him to dwell in peaceful groves,
With him to hear the shepherd's song?
Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign
The homage by thy charms inspir'd?
To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine
What oft so many have admir'd?
Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love,
Till time shall bid it cease to flow;
With thee shall ev'ry moment prove
A little heaven form'd below!
Reluctance
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Will I have some mo' dat pie?
No, ma'am, thank-ee, dat is--I--
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Dat ah pie look sutny good:
How 'd you feel now ef I would?
I don' reckon dat I should;
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Look hyeah, I gwine tell de truf,
Mine is sholy one sweet toof:
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Yass'm, yass'm, dat's all right,
I 's done tried to be perlite:
But dat pie 's a lakly sight,
Wha 's de use o' daihin' me?
My, yo' lips is full an' red,
Don't I wish you 'd tu'n yo' haid?
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Dat ain't faih, now, honey chile,
I 's gwine lose my sense erwhile
Ef you des set daih an' smile,
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Nuffin' don' look ha'f so fine
Ez dem teef, deah, w'en dey shine:
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Now look hyeah, I tells you dis;
I 'll give up all othah bliss
Des to have one little kiss,
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Laws, I teks yo' little han',
Ain't it tendah? bless de lan'--
Bettah quit daihin' me.
I 's so lonesome by myse'f,
'D ain't no fun in livin' lef';
Dis hyeah life's ez dull ez def:
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Why n't you tek yo' han' erway?
Yass, I 'll hol' it: but I say
Bettah quit daihin' me.
Holin' han's is sholy fine.
Seems lak dat 's de weddin' sign.
Wish you 'd say dat you 'd be mine;--
Dah you been daihin' me.
Friends Beyond
by Thomas Hardy

William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough,
Robert's kin, and John's, and Ned's,
And the Squire, and Lady Susan, lie in Mellstock churchyard now!
"Gone," I call them, gone for good, that group of local hearts and heads;
Yet at mothy curfew-tide,
And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back from walls and leads,
They've a way of whispering to me fellow-wight who yet abide -
In the muted, measured note
Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide:
"We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to antidote,
Unsuccesses to success,
- Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of thought.
"No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial stress;
Chill detraction stirs no sigh;
Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we possess."
W. D. "Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that I set such vallie by."
Squire. "You may hold the manse in fee,
You may wed my spouse, my children's memory of me may decry."
Lady. "You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take each household key;
Ransack coffer, desk, bureau;
Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept by me."
Far. "Ye mid zell my favourite heifer, ye mid let the charlock grow,
Foul the grinterns, give up thrift."
Wife. "If ye break my best blue china, children, I shan't care or ho."
All. "We've no wish to hear the tidings, how the people's fortunes shift;
What your daily doings are;
Who are wedded, born, divided; if your lives beat slow or swift.
"Curious not the least are we if our intents you make or mar,
If you quire to our old tune,
If the City stage still passes, if the weirs still roar afar."
- Thus, with very gods' composure, freed those crosses late and soon
Which, in life, the Trine allow
(Why, none witteth), and ignoring all that haps beneath the moon,
William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough,
Robert's kin, and John's, and Ned's,
And the Squire, and Lady Susan, murmur mildly to me now.
Nursery Rhyme. XXIV. Historical
by Unknown

[The following nursery song alludes to William III and George prince of Denmark.]
William and Mary, George and Anne,
Four such children had never a man:
They put their father to flight and shame,
And call'd their brother a shocking bad name.
Bells Beyond the Forest
by Henry Kendall

Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees;
Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze.
Far away from dusky towns and cities twinkling with the feet of men;
Listening to a sound of mellow music fleeting down the gusty glen;
Sitting by a rapid torrent, with the broken sunset in my face;
By a rapid, roaring torrent, tumbling through a dark and lonely place!
And I hear the bells beyond the forest, and the voice of distant streams;
And a flood of swelling singing, wafting round a world of ruined dreams.
Like to one who watches daylight dying from a lofty mountain spire,
When the autumn splendour scatters like a gust of faintly-gleaming fire;
So the silent spirit looketh through a mist of faded smiles and tears,
While across it stealeth all the sad and sweet divinity of years
All the scenes of shine and shadow; light and darkness sleeping side by side
When my heart was wedded to existence, as a bridegroom to his bride:
While I travelled gaily onward with the vapours crowding in my wake,
Deeming that the Present hid the glory where the promised Morn would break.
Like to one who, by the waters standing, marks the reeling ocean wave
Moaning, hide his head all torn and shivered underneath his lonely cave,
So the soul within me glances at the tides of Purpose where they creep,
Dashed to fragments by the yawning ridges circling Life's tempestuous Deep!
Oh! the tattered leaves are dropping, dropping round me like a fall of rain;
While the dust of many a broken aspiration sweeps my troubled brain;
With the yearnings after Beauty, and the longings to be good and great;
And the thoughts of catching Fortune, flying on the tardy wings of Fate.
Bells, beyond the forest chiming, where is all the inspiration now
That was wont to flush my forehead, and to chase the pallor from my brow?
Did I not, amongst these thickets, weave my thoughts and passions into rhyme,
Trusting that the words were golden, hoping for the praise of after-time?
Where have all those fancies fled to? Can the fond delusion linger still,
When the Evening withers o'er me, and the night is creeping up the hill?
If the years of strength have left me, and my life begins to fail and fade,
Who will learn my simple ballads; who will stay to sing the songs I've made?
Bells, beyond the forest ringing, lo, I hasten to the world again;
For the sun has smote the empty windows, and the day is on the wane!
Hear I not a dreamy echo, soughing through the rafters of the tree;
Like a sound of stormy rivers, or the ravings of a restless sea?
Should I loiter here to listen, while this fitful wind is on the wing?
No, the heart of Time is sobbing, and my spirit is a withered thing!
Let the rapid torrents tumble, let the woodlands whistle in the blast;
Mighty minstrels sing behind me, but the promise of my youth is past.
Hexameters
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Italic sentences below are Samuel Taylor Coleridge's.
William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-fork'd left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!
All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the staghounds,
Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,
I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.
William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest!
Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
Long, long, comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
O! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle:
Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my belov'd!
Feverish and wakeful I lie, I am weary of feeling and thinking.
Every thought is worn down, I am weary, yet cannot be vacant.
Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.
I forget the beginning of the line:
... my eyes are a burthen,
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and `Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs:
`Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'
There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. ... The last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:
William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea!
You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!
God And The Universe
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Will my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights?
Must my day be dark by reason, O ye Heavens, of your boundless nights,
Rush of Suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites?
II.
'Spirit, nearing yon dark portal at the limit of thy human state,
Fear not thou the hidden purpose of that Power which alone is great,
Nor the myriad world, His shadow, nor the silent Opener of the Gate.'
The Lobster-Quadrille
by Lewis Carroll

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle, will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance,
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France,
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you joint the dance?
Lines Addressed To Miss Theodora Jane Cowper.
by William Cowper

William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.
Howe'er, it happen'd, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress'd a little smarter;
Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.
He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So that there was, or seem'd to be,
No fear of a relapse.
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
'The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish.'
At length improved from head to heel,
'Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel
Or half so d'gag'.
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E'en claim him for her own!
Desiree
by Barcroft Boake

Will she spring with a blush from the arms of Dawn,
When the sleepy songsters prune
Their dewy vestments on bush and thorn,
And the jovial magpie winds his horn
In sweet r'veil to the lazy morn
And the sun comes all too soon?
Will she come with him from the farthest rim
Of the blue Pacific sea?
But how shall I know my lady? and by
What token will she know me?
Will she come to me in the noonday hush,
When the flowers are fast asleep
'Neath their counterpane of emerald plush
In the fragrant warmth of the under-brush,
Where Spring still lingers on moist and lush
While naught but the shadows creep,
And all is rest but the eager quest
And the buzz of the tireless bee?
But how shall I know my lady then?
And how will my love know me?
Or will she come when the gallant Day
At the hands of the Night lies dead?
When stealthy creatures have right of way
Among the branches to romp and play,
And the great green forest turns ashen gray
At the sound of the dead men's tread?
Will my lady slip with smile on lip
From the heart of a white box tree?
But how shall I know 'tis she who comes?
And how will she know 'tis me?
Will her hair be tinged as when sunbeams gird
A castle of carmine rock?
Or brown as a leaf in the sun's kiss curled?
Or dark as the wing of that sable bird
Whose hated voice is so often heard
In the wake of the bleating flock?
Or will it be rolled in a crown of gold,
An emblem of royalty?
But how will I know 'tis she who comes?
And how will she know 'tis me?
Is her ear as shapely as Venus' shell,
And pierced by a diamond gleam?
Is her hand as white as the immortelle?
Her voice as sweet as that sounding bell
The gray bird tolls to the listening dell
Where the ti-tree hides the stream?
Have the words been said? is my lady wed?
Is my lady bond or free?
No matter who claims her earthly form,
For her heart belongs to me!
Will her eyes be clear as the amber flight
Of the stream over sandstone bar?
Or darkly blue as the vault of night?
Will her flesh show pink through its veil of white,
And its violet-pencilled curves be bright
As the polished breast of a star?
And where, oh, where may you find a pair
Who shall love so well as we?
But how shall I know my lady? by
What token will she know me?
Will her cloak be shaped from the southern skies
And girt by a starry sash
Like an azure mist, as my lady hies
With the light of love in her kindling eyes?
Will she move with the solemn grace that lies
In the towering mountain ash! . . .
Will she come at all? may it not befall
That our fates are dark and dree?
That I may never know her at all,
And she may never know me?
Upon His Julia.
by Robert Herrick

Will ye hear what I can say
Briefly of my Julia?
Black and rolling is her eye,
Double-chinn'd and forehead high;
Lips she has all ruby red,
Cheeks like cream enclareted;
And a nose that is the grace
And proscenium of her face.
So that we may guess by these
The other parts will richly please.
Jockey And Jenny
by John Clare

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither?
Will Jockey come to-day?
He's taen sic likings to my brither
He's sure to come the day."
"Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie;
But th'other day ye wore a pockie.
What can ye mean to think o' Jockey?
Ye've bin content the season long,
Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."
"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither,
If love's a sin in youth;
He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither,
But I know the secret truth.
He's courted me the year, mither;
Judge not the matter queer, mither;
Ye're a' the while as dear, mither,
As ye've been the Summer long.
I cannot sing my song.
I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither;
I'se bin a child ower lang;
He led me frae the teaching, mither,
Ann wherefore did he wrang?
I ken he often tauks wi' brither;
I neither look at ane or 'tither;
You ken as well as I, mither,
There's nae love in my song,
Though I've sang the Summer long."
"Nae, dinna be sae saucy, lassie,
I may be kenned ye ill.
If love has taen the hold, lassie,
There's nae cure i' the pill."
"Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither;
He leuks at me and tauks to ither;
And twice we've bin at kirk thegither.
I'm 's well now as a' Summer long,
But somehew cauna sing a song.
He comes and talks to brither, mither,
But leuks his thoughts at me;
He always says gude neet to brither,
And looks gude neet to me."
"Lassie, ye seldom vexed yer mither;
Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither;
So be ye are to come thegither,
I'll be nae damp to yer new claes;
Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'"
Jockey comes o' Sabbath days,
His face is not a face o'er brassy;
Her mither sits to praise the claes;
Holds him her box; to win the lassie
He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny,
And helps his chair up nearer Jenny,
And vows he loves her muir than any.
She thinks her mither seldom wrong,
And "Loggan braes" is her daily song.
Bright Thoughts For A Dark Day
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Will the shadows be lifted to-morrow? - 
Will the sunshine come ever again? - 
Will the clouds, that are weeping in sorrow,
Their glorious beauty regain?
Will the forest stand forth in its greenness? - 
The meadows smile sweet as before? - 
And the sky, in its placid sereneness,
Bend lovingly o'er us once more?
Will the birds sing again as we heard them,
Ere the tempest their gentle notes hushed? - 
Will the breeze float again in its freedom,
Where lately its melody gushed?
Will the beautiful angel of sunset
Drape the heavens in crimson and gold,
As the day-king serenely retireth,
'Mid grandeur and glory untold?
Yea; the clouds will be lifted to-morrow,
From valley, and hill-top, and plain;
And sunshine, and gladness, and beauty
Will visit the landscape again; - 
The forest, the field, and the river
Will bask in the joy-giving ray;
And the angel of sunset, as ever,
Will smile o'er the farewell of day.
For the longest day hastes to its ending, - 
The darkest night speeds to the day; - 
O'er thickest clouds, ever, the sunbeam
Shines on with unfaltering ray; - 
Though thou walk amid shadows, thy Father
Makes His word and his promises thine;
And, whatever the storms that may gather,
At length thro' the gloom He will shine!
The Wandering Pilgrim
by Matthew Prior

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no,
Th' allowance is too scant.
The gracious knight full well does weet
Ten farthings ne'er will do
To keep a man each day in meat;
Some bread to meat is due.
A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale;
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.
Spare diet and spring-water clear
Physicians hold are good:
Who diets thus need never fear
A fever in the blood.
Gramercy, Sirs, ye're in the right;
Prescriptions all can sell,
But he that does not eat can't sh*
Or piss if good drink fail.
But pass, The Aesculapian crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.
Could Yorkshire tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel Dame,
To starve thou dost him drive.
In Will's old master's plenteous days
His memory e'er be bless'd,
What need of speaking in his praise?
His goodness stands confess'd.
At his famed gate stood Charity
In lovely sweet array;
Ceres and Hospitality
Dwelt there both night and day.
But to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be;
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is she.
There is but one, but one alone,
Can set the pilgrim free,
And make him cease to pine and moan
O Frankland, it is thee.
Oh! save him from a dreary way;
To Coxwould he must hie,
Bereft of thee he wends astray,
At Coxwould he must die.
Oh! let him in thy hall but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,
Duteous to what thou may'st command,
Thus William's wishes crown.