DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Beautiful Child On Her Birthday, With A Wreath Of Flowers.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Whilst others give thee wond'rous toys,
Or jewels rich and rare,
I bring but flowers - more meet are they
For one so young and fair.
'Tis not because that snowy brow
Might with the lily vie,
Or violet match the starry glance
Of that dark, lustrous eye;
Nor yet because a brighter blush
E'en rose leaf never wore,
But 'tis that in their leaves lies hid
A rare and mystic lore.
And with its aid I now shall form
A wreath of flow'rets wild - 
Graceful, and full of meaning sweet,
To deck thy brow, fair child!
The primrose, first, the emblem fit
Of budding, early youth;
The daisy in whose leaves we read
Pure innocence and truth.
The rosebud, sign of youthful charms,
We well may give to thee,
And with it join the sweet frail leaves
Of the shrinking sensitive tree.
And, tribute to thy modesty,
The violet emblem meet, - 
Itself concealing, yet on all
Shedding its perfume sweet.
And for thy kind and gentle heart
We bring the jessamine,
To twine with ivy, ever green - 
True friendship's sacred sign.
Thy wreath is formed - of blossoms bright
I've twined each link, and, yet,
Another flower I still must add,
The fragrant mignonnette,
Which says "However great the charms
That to thy lot may fall
Thy qualities of heart and mind
By far surpass them all."
Aye, be it thus, and ever may
This lovely wreath, as now - 
Emblem of every precious gift - 
Be fit to deck thy brow.
But, last and dearest, 'mid the buds
Of that bright varied lot
Must ever be, my gentle child,
The sweet forget-me-not!
The Candour Of Julia's Teeth.
by Robert Herrick

White as Zenobia's teeth, the which the girls
Of Rome did wear for their most precious pearls.
Sonnet XLIX. On The Use Of New And Old Words In Poetry.
by Anna Seward

While with false pride, and narrow jealousy,
Numbers reject each new expression, won,
Perchance, from language richer than our own,
O! with glad welcome may the POET see
Extension's golden vantage! the decree
Each way exclusive, scorn, and re-enthrone
The obsolete, if strength, or grace of tone
Or imagery await it, with a free,
And liberal daring! - For the Critic Train,
Whose eyes severe our verbal stores review,
Let the firm Bard require that they explain
Their cause of censure; then in balance true
Weigh it; but smile at the objections vain
Of sickly Spirits, hating for they do[1]!
1: The particle for is used in the same sense with because, by Shakespear, and Beaumont and Fletcher.
"But she, and I, were Creatures innocent,
Lov'd for we did."     BEA. and FLE. TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
" - - Nor must you think
I will your serious and great business scant
For she is with me."     OTHELLO.
"They're jealous for they're jealous."     OTHELLO.
A Summer Day
by Madison Julius Cawein

White clouds, like thistledown at fault,
That drift through heaven's azure vault.
The sun beams down; the weedy ground
Vibrates with many an insect sound.
Blackberry-lilies in the noon
Lean to the creek with eyes a-swoon,
Where, in a shallow, silver gleams
Of minnows and a heron dreams
An old road, clouding pale the heat
Behind a slow hoof's muffled beat:
And there, hill-gazing at the skies,
A pond, within whose languor lies
A twinkle, like an eye that smiles
In thought; that with a dream beguiles
The day: a. dream of clouds that drift,
And arms the willow trees uplift,
Protectingly, as if to hide
The wildbird on its nest that cried.
Now mists that mass thesunset-dyes
Build an Arabia in the skies,
Through which the sun in pomp retires,
Torched to his room with saffron fires;
And 'thwart his palace door is laid
A crescent sign, a moony blade,
Then glittering in a cloud is sheathed;
And, dripping crimson, fire-wreathed,
A magic scimetar of flame
Is slowly drawn before the same.
The door of Day is closed; its bar
Put up, one bright and golden star;
While, crowding all the corridors
Of Dusk, the shadows, blackamoors
Of darkness, glide; and zephyrs sweep
Mist-gowns of musk through halls of Sleep
Dim odalisques of Night, who wait
Upon their lord who lies in state.
Snow
by Archibald Lampman

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fills
Apace, and all about
The fences dwindle, and the hills
Are blotted slowly out;
The naked trees loom spectrally
Into the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervals
Some farmer's sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or call
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far a-field;
Then all is silent, and the snow
Falls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the gray
Folds closer earth and sky;
The world seems shrouded far away;
Its noises sleep, and I,
As secret as yon buried stream,
Plod dumbly on, and dream.
On Michael Angelo's Famous Piece Of The Crucifixion;
by Edward Young

Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More    Naturally.(44)
Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies,
Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies:
The daring artist, cruelly serene,
Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien;
He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies:
He studies torment, dives in mortal woe,
To rouse up every pang repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face.
Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught,
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts in horror lost.
44 Though the report was propagated without the least truth, it may be sufficient ground to justify a poetical fancy's enlarging on it.
Australian Bards And Bush Reviewers
by Henry Lawson

While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part,
You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.
If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks;
If you picture `mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view,
You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.
If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns'.
But if you should find that bushmen, spite of all the poets say,
Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they,
You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.
A Night In June
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk
That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade
The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
And night a witching spell at whose command
One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep
The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.
II.
There where they part, the porch's steps are strewn
With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine
Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune
Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;
And now a meteor draws a lilac line
Across the welkin, as if God would sign
The perfect poem of this night of June.
The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,
Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass
Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;
And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,
The dewdrop trembles on the peony,
As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.
Nel Mezzo Del Cammin
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Whisper it not that late in years
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter,
Life be freed of tremor and tears,
Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter.
Ah! but the dream that all endears,
The dream we sell for your pottage of truth--
Give us again the passion of youth,
Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.
Sonnets: Idea XXXIII To Imagination
by Michael Drayton

Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight,
My woful heart imprisoned in my breast,
Wisheth to be transform'd to my sight,
That it like those by looking might be blest.
But whilst mine eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Finding their objects over-soon depart,
These now the other's happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they had been my heart,
That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the other's use to have.
But finding nature their request denies,
This to each other mutually they crave;
That since the one cannot the other be,
That eyes could think of that my heart could see.
To Fortune
by Matthew Prior

Whilst I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune hast thou tried
By taking from my state to quell my pride:
Insulting girl, thy present rage abate,
And wouldst thou have my humbled, make me great.
Seaward
by Paul Cameron Brown

Whirl of patterned images,
deep seascape painting
hovering,
rustle, chokecherry
grown in
dark pigmented
stunted cove - animal
growl of pilotless sea,
metallic twinkle of sun
bright, stealing
bitter white
all bird life
rockward;
traces skimming
the intrusion
of pebbly shore,
autumnal night.
Joys Of Youth, How Fleeting! (Portuguese Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids,
To whom the night-stars guide us;
Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades,
With those we love beside us,
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Tears starting,
At parting;
Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!
Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!
Wanderings far away from home,
With life all new before us;
Greetings warm, when home we come,
From hearts whose prayers watched o'er us.
Tears starting,
At parting;
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some!
To some, how bright and fleeting!
To Mrs. Montagu.
by Helen Maria Williams

While, bending at thy honour'd shrine, the Muse
Pours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain,
Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse,
Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain.
O might a transient spark of genius fire
The fond effusions of her fearful youth;
Then should thy virtues live upon her lyre,
And give to harmony the charm of truth.
Vain wish! they ask not the imperfect lay,
The weak applause her trembling accents breathe;
With whose pure radiance glory blends her ray,
Whom fame has circled with her fairest wreathe.
Thou, who while seen with graceful step to tread
Grandeur's enchanted round, can'st meekly pause
To rend the veil obscurity had spread
Where his lone sigh deserted Genius draws;
To lead his drooping spirit to thy fane,
Where attic joy the social circle warms;
Where science loves to pour her hallow'd strain,
Where wit, and wisdom, blend their sep'rate charms.
And lure to cherish intellectual powers,
To bid the vig'rous tides of genius roll,
Unfold, in fair expansion, fancy's flowers,
And wake the latent energies of soul;
Far other homage claims than flatt'ry brings
The little triumphs of the proud to grace:
For deeds like these a purer incense springs,
Warm from the swelling heart its source we trace!
Yet not to foster the rich gifts of mind
Alone can all thy lib'ral cares employ;
Not to the few those gifts adorn, confin'd,
They spread an ampler sphere of genuine joy.
While pleasure's lucid star illumes thy bower,
Thy pity views the distant storm that bends
Where want unshelter'd wastes the ling'ring hour; - 
And meets the blessing that to heav'n ascends!
For this, while fame thro' each successive age
On her exulting lip thy name shall breathe;
While woman, pointing to thy finish'd page,
Claims from imperious man the critic wreathe;
Truth on her spotless record shall enroll
Each moral beauty to her spirit dear;
Paint in bright characters each grace of soul - 
While admiration pours a gen'rous tear.
Amour 33
by Michael Drayton

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight,
My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast,
Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,
To looke on her by whom mine eyes are blest;
But whilst mine eyes thus greedily doe gaze,
Behold! their obiects ouer-soone depart,
And treading in this neuer-ending maze,
Wish now to be trans-formd into my hart:
My hart, surcharg'd with thoughts, sighes in abundance raise,
My eyes, made dim with lookes, poure down a flood of tears;
And whilst my hart and eye enuy each others praise,
My dying lookes and thoughts are peiz'd in equall feares:
And thus, whilst sighes and teares together doe contende,
Each one of these doth ayde vnto the other lende.
The Sonnets LXXIX - Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid
by William Shakespeare

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.
Songs Set To Music: 28. Nelly.
by Matthew Prior

Whilst others proclaim
This nymph or that swain,
Dearest Nelly the lovely I'll sing:
She shall grace every verse,
I'll her beauties rehearse,
Which lovers can't think an ill thing.
Her eyes shine as bright
As stars in the night;
Her complexion's divinely fair;
Her lips red as a cherry,
Would a hermit make merry,
And black as a coal is her hair.
Her breath, like a rose,
Its sweets does disclose,
Whenever you ravish a kiss
Like ivory inchas'd,
Her teeth are well placed;
And exquisite beauty she is.
Her plump breasts are white,
Delighting the sight,
There Cupid discovers her charms;
Oh! spare then the rest,
And think of the best;
'Tis heaven to die in her arms.
She's blooming as May,
Brisk, lively, and gay,
The Graces all round about her;
She's prudent and witty,
Sings wondrously pretty,
And there is no living without her.
To Cloe
by Matthew Prior

Whilst I am scorch'd with hot desire,
In vain cold Friendship you return,
Your drops of pity on my fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame suppress'd,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast,
The rest in mine shall ever last.
Telling The Bees
by Frederic William Moorman

On many Yorkshire farms it was perhaps still is the custom to tell the bees when a death had taken place in the family. The hive had to be put into mourning, and when the arval, or funeral feast, was held, after the return from the grave, small portions of everything eaten or drunk had to be given to the bees in a saucer. Failure to do this meant either the death or departure of the bees.
Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon,(1) an' fine havver-bread.
But toom'(2) is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Look, conny(3) bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine(4) reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay;
Or, mebbe, you'l leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Sitha! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal(5) an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone;
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Lilith's Lover
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
White art thou, O Lilith! as the foam that glimmers and quivers,
Glitters and clingingly silvers and snows from the balm
Of the beautiful breasts of the nymphs of the seas and rivers
That crystal and pearl by clusters of tropical palm,
Forests of tenebrous palm.
Once didst thou beckon and smile, O Lilith! as givers
Of heavenly gifts smile: and, lo! my heart no longer was calm.
II.
Cruel art thou, O Lilith! as spirits that battle
In tempest and night, in ultimate realms of the Earth;
Immaterial hosts, that shimmer and shout and rattle
Elemental armour and drive, with madness and mirth,
Down from the mountains, into the sea, like cattle,
Gaunt and glacial cattle,
Congealed thunder, the icebergs, gigantic of girth.
III.
Subtle art thou, O Lilith! as the sylphids that cover
Dawn with their forms of rose, and breeze it with breasts and cheeks;
Breasts that are blossoms, and cheeks
Pearls in the morning's creeks:
And wily art thou as the daemons of beauty that hover,
Raven of hair, in sunset, trailing its gold with streaks:
And what man, Lilith, beholding, would not yield himself thy lover?
Beautiful one, thy lover?
Die as I died, Lilith! for the love that no tongue speaks?...
IV.
Before us, behold, the long white thunder of ocean:
Around us the forest, a whispering world of trees:
Above us the glory and glitter, golden and silvery motion
Of infinite stars, O Lilith! and, arrowing out of these,
Down in my soul from these,
A sense of ancient despair, destruction, devotion,
Medusa of beauty, that slays; that is part of man's destinies.
V.
O kisses, again would I die! O kisses that slew me!
O beautiful body of sin, O sin that was mine!
O splendour and whiteness of wickedness! passion that drew me,
Golden of hair that drew me,
Draw me again with thine eyes, their azure divine!
Slay me again with caresses! and let it pierce through me,
All the poignant desire that made me eternally thine.
VI.
And the larv', the lamias, that cling to, encumber
And, bat-like, feed at the Ethiop breasts of Night,
Swarms, like bubbles that rise from the shadowy pools of night
Owl-eyed, hag-haired, her minions, awoke from their slumber,
And peering and whispering came, O Lilith the white!...
But thou, with thy beautiful hair, from their hideous number,
The night of their myriad number,
Covered me, dead at thy feet, and hid me from sight.
Sonet 43
by Michael Drayton

Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee,
Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face,
Where in the Map of all my misery,
Is modeld out the world of my disgrace,
Whilst in despight of tyrannizing times,
Medea like I make thee young againe,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rimes,
And murther'st vertue with thy coy disdaine;
And though in youth, my youth vntimely perrish,
To keepe thee from obliuion and the graue,
Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherrish,
Where I entomb'd, my better part shall saue;
And though this earthly body fade and die
My name shall mount vpon eternitie.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Prophecy Of Judgment. No. 1. The Reign Of Antichrist.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Mentre l'acquila invola.
While yet the eagle preys, and growls the bear;
While roars the lion; while the crow defies
The lamb who raised our race above the skies;
While yet the dove laments to the deaf air;
While, mixed with goodly wheat, darnel and tare
Within the field of human nature rise;--
Let that ungodly sect, profanely wise,
That scorns our hope, feed, fatten, and beware!
Soon comes the day when those grim giants fell,
Famed through the world, dyed deep with sanguine hue,
Whom with feigned flatteries you applaud, shall be
Swept from the earth, and sunk in horrid Hell,
Girt round with flames, to weep and wail with you,
In doleful dungeons everlastingly.
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXX. Songs.
by Unknown

Whistle, daughter, whistle, whistle daughter dear;
I cannot whistle, mammy, I cannot whistle clear.
Whistle, daughter, whistle, whistle for a pound;
I cannot whistle, mammy, I cannot make a sound.
Translations. - Legend. (From Goethe.)
by George MacDonald

AFTER THE MANNER OF HANS SACHS.
While yet unknown, and very low,
Our Lord on earth went to and fro;
And some of his scholars his word so good
Very strangely misunderstood--
He much preferred to hold his court
In streets and places of resort,
Because under the heaven's face
Words better and freer flow apace;
There he gave them the highest lore
Out of his holy mouth in store;
Wondrously, by parable and example,
Made every market-place a temple.
So faring, in his heart content,
Once with them to a town he went--
Saw something blinking on the way,
And there a broken horse-shoe lay!
He said thereon St. Peter to,
"Prithee now, pick up that shoe."
St. Peter was not in fitting mood:
He had been dreaming all the road
Some stuff about ruling of the world,
Round which so many brains are twirled--
For in the head it seems so easy!
And with it his thoughts were often busy;
Therefore the finding was much too mean;
Crown and sceptre it should have been!
He was not one his back to bow
After half an iron-shoe!
Therefore aside his head he bended,
And that he had not heard pretended.
In his forbearance the Lord did stoop
And lift himself the horse-shoe up;
Then for the present he did wait.
But when they reach the city-gate,
He goes up to a blacksmith's door,
Receives three pence the horse-shoe for;
And as they through the market fare,
Seeing for sale fine cherries there,
He buys of them so few or so many
As they will give for a three-penny;
Which he, thereon, after his way,
Up in his sleeve did quietly lay.
Now, from the other gate, they trod
Through fields and meads a housless road;
The path of trees was desolate,
The sun shone out, the heat was great;
So that one in a region such
For a drink of water had given much.
The Lord goes ever before them all,
And as by chance lets a cherry fall:
In a trice St. Peter was after it there
As if a golden apple it were!
Sweet to his palate was the berry.
Then by and by, another cherry
Down on the ground the Master sends,
For which St. Peter as quickly bends.
So, many a time, the Lord doth let
Him bend his back a cherry to get.
A long time thus He let him glean;
Then said the Lord, with look serene:
"If at the right time thou hadst bent,
Thou hadst found it more convenient!
Of little things who little doth make
For lesser things must trouble take."
Tony.
by Clara Doty Bates

Whisk!--away in the sun
His little flying feet
Scamper as softly fleet
As ever the rabbits run.
He is gone like a flash, and then
In a breath is back again.
The silky flosses shine
Down to his very toes:
Tipped with white is his nose:
And his ears are fleeces fine,
Blowing a shadow-grace
Breeze-like about his face.
Quick to a whistled call
Hearkens his ready ear,
Scarcely waiting to hear;
Silk locks, white feet, all
Rush, like a furry elf
Tumbling over himself.
How does he sleep? He winks
Twice with his mischief eyes;
Dozes a bit; then lies
Down with a sigh; then thinks
Over some roguish play,
And is up and away!