DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Pastoral Sung To The King: Montano, Silvio, And Mirtillo, Shepherds.
by Robert Herrick

Mon. Bad are the times. Sil. And worse than they are we.
Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit and ill the tree:
The feast of shepherds fail. Sil. None crowns the cup
Of wassail now or sets the quintell up;
And he who us'd to lead the country-round,
Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes grief-drown'd.
Ambo. Let's cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping-ripe.
Mir. Ah! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay.
Dear Amaryllis! Mon. Hark! Sil. Mark! Mir. This earth grew sweet
Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet.
Ambo. Poor pitied youth! Mir. And here the breath of kine
And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.
This flock of wool and this rich lock of hair,
This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
Sil. Words sweet as love itself. Montano, hark!
Mir. This way she came, and this way too she went;
How each thing smells divinely redolent!
Like to a field of beans when newly blown,
Or like a meadow being lately mown.
Mon. A sweet-sad passion -    -
Mir. In dewy mornings when she came this way
Sweet bents would bow to give my love the day;
And when at night she folded had her sheep,
Daisies would shut, and, closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (ay me!) since she went hence to dwell,
The voices' daughter ne'er spake syllable.
But she is gone. Sil. Mirtillo, tell us whither.
Mir. Where she and I shall never meet together.
Mon. Forfend it Pan, and, Pales, do thou please
To give an end. Mir. To what? Sil. Such griefs as these.
Mir. Never, O never! Still I may endure
The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
Mon. Love for thy sake will bring her to these hills
And dales again. Mir. No, I will languish still;
And all the while my part shall be to weep,
And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep:
And in the rind of every comely tree
I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
Mon. Set with the sun thy woes. Sil. The day grows old,
And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
Chor. The shades grow great, but greater grows our sorrow;
But let's go steep
Our eyes in sleep,
And meet to weep
To-morrow.
Sonnet CLXXXVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole.
NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.
P.     Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone,
Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,
Where does my life, where does my death delay?
Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?
L. Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,
And sad from her dear company to stay,
Which jealousy and envy keep away
O'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan.
P. Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?
L. No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;
As erst in us, this now in her appears.
As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw
Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,
And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.
MACGREGOR.
Sonnet CXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?
DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.
P.     What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
H. Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.
P. What profit, with those eyes if she at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
H. From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
P. What's he to us, she sees it and is still.
H. Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
P. Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
MACGREGOR.
P.     What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
H. Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
P. But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
H. Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
P. No balm to me, since she will not condole.
H. When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves,
In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
P. Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives
Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.
WOLLASTON.
The Sacrifice, By Way Of Discourse Betwixt Himself And Julia.
by Robert Herrick

Herr. Come and let's in solemn wise
Both address to sacrifice:
Old religion first commands
That we wash our hearts, and hands.
Is the beast exempt from stain,
Altar clean, no fire profane?
Are the garlands, is the nard
Ready here?
Jul.    All well prepar'd,
With the wine that must be shed,
'Twixt the horns, upon the head
Of the holy beast we bring
For our trespass-offering.
Herr. All is well; now next to these
Put we on pure surplices;
And with chaplets crown'd, we'll roast
With perfumes the holocaust:
And, while we the gods invoke,
Read acceptance by the smoke.
Before And After
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Before I lost my love, he said to me:
'Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.'
But I, perverse as any girl will be
Who has too many lovers, wore not blue.
He said, 'I love to see my lady's hair
Coiled low like Clytie's -with no wanton curl.'
But I, like any silly, wilful girl,
Said, 'Donald likes it high,' and wore it there.
He said, 'I wish, love, when you sing to me,
You would sing sweet, sad things -they suit your voice.'
I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee -
Saying, 'This song, or that, is Harold's choice.'
But now I wear no colour -none but blue.
Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.
He does not know it, but I strive to do
Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.
I sing no songs but those he loved the best.
(Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain
Is but the echo of the voice of pain,
That sings so mournfully within my breast.)
I would not wear a ribbon or a curl
For Donald, if he died from my neglect -
Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl
Learns true love's worth, but -when her life is wrecked.
Sir Hugh In The Grime's Downfall
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text given here is comparatively a late one, from the Roxburghe collection (iii. 456). An earlier broadside, in the same and other collections, gives a longer but curiously corrupted version, exhibiting such perversions as 'Screw' for 'Scroop,' and 'Garlard' for 'Carlisle.'
The Story in its full form relates that Sir Hugh in the Grime (Hughie Graeme or Graham) stole a mare from the Bishop of Carlisle, by way of retaliation for the Bishop's seduction of his wife. He was pursued by Lord Scroop, taken, and conveyed to Carlisle and hanged.
Scott suggested that Hugh Graham may have been one of four hundred Borderers accused to the Bishop of Carlisle of various murders and thefts about 1548.
SIR HUGH IN THE GRIME'S DOWNFALL
1.
Good Lord John is a hunting gone,
Over the hills and dales so far,
For to take Sir Hugh in the Grime,
For stealing of the bishop's mare.
He derry derry down
2.
Hugh in the Grime was taken then
And carried to Carlisle town;
The merry women came out amain,
Saying, 'The name of Grime shall never go down.'
3.
O then a jury of women was brought,
Of the best that could be found;
Eleven of them spoke all at once,
Saying 'The name of Grime shall never go down.'
4.
And then a jury of men was brought,
More the pity for to be!
Eleven of them spoke all at once,
Saying 'Hugh in the Grime, you are guilty.'
5.
Hugh in the Grime was cast to be hang'd,
Many of his friends did for him lack;
For fifteen foot in the prisin he did jump,
With his hands tyed fast behind his back.
6.
Then bespoke our good Lady Ward,
As she set on the bench so high;
'A peck of white pennys I'll give to my lord,
If he'll grant Hugh Grime to me.
7.
'And if it be not full enough,
I'll stroke it up with my silver fan;
And if it be not full enough,
I'll heap it up with my own hand.'
8.
'Hold your tongue now, Lady Ward,
And of your talkitive let it be!
There is never a Grime came in this court
That at thy bidding shall saved be.'
9.
Then bespoke our good Lady Moor,
As she sat on the bench so high;
'A yoke of fat oxen I'll give to my lord,
If he'll grant Hugh Grime to me.'
10.
'Hold your tongue now, good Lady Moor,
And of your talkitive let it be!
There is never a Grime came to this court
That at thy bidding saved shall be.'
11.
Sir Hugh in the Grime look'd out of the door,
With his hand out of the bar;
There he spy'd his father dear,
Tearing of his golden hair.
12.
'Hold your tongue, good father dear,
And of your weeping let it be!
For if they bereave me of my life,
They cannot bereave me of the heavens so high.'
13.
Sir Hugh in the Grime look'd out at the door;
Oh, what a sorry heart had he!
There he spy'd his mother dear,
Weeping and wailing 'Oh, woe is me!'
14.
'Hold your tongue now, mother dear,
And of your weeping let it be!
For if they bereave me of my life,
They cannot bereave me of heaven's fee.
15.
'I'll leave my sword to Johnny Armstrong,
That is made of mettal so fine,
That when he comes to the border-side
He may think of Hugh in the Grime.'
A Warm Day In Winter
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

"Sunshine on de medders,
Greenness on de way;
Dat 's de blessed reason
I sing all de day."
Look hyeah! Whut you axin'?
Whut meks me so merry?
'Spect to see me sighin'
W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary?
'Long de stake an' rider
Seen a robin set;
W'y hit 'mence a-thawin',
Groun' is monst'ous wet.
Den you stan' dah wond'rin',
Lookin' skeert an' stary;
I's a right to caper
W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary.
Missis gone a-drivin',
Mastah gone to shoot;
Ev'ry da'ky lazin'
In de sun to boot.
Qua'tah 's moughty pleasant,
Hangin' 'roun' my Mary;
Cou'tin' boun' to prospah
W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary.
Cidah look so pu'ty
Po'in' f'om de jug--
Don' you see it's happy?
Hyeah it laffin'--glug?
Now's de time fu' people
Fu' to try an' bury
All dey grief an' sorrer,
W'en hit's wa'm in Febawary.
The Words Of Socrates.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A house was built by Socrates
That failed the public taste to please.
Some blamed the inside; some, the out; and all
Agreed that the apartments were too small.
Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece!
'I ask,' said he, 'no greater bliss
Than real friends to fill e'en this.'
And reason had good Socrates
To think his house too large for these.
A crowd to be your friends will claim,
Till some unhandsome test you bring.
There's nothing plentier than the name;
There's nothing rarer than the thing.
An Alphabet of Celebrities
by Oliver Herford

A's Albert Edward, well meaning but flighty,
Who invited King Arthur, the blameless and mighty,
To meet Alcibiades and Aphrodite.
B is for Bernhardt, who fails to awaken
Much feeling in Bismarck, Barabbas, and Bacon.
C is Columbus, who tries to explain
How to balance an egg--to the utter disdain
Of Confucius, Carlyle, Cleopatra, and Cain.
D's for Diogenes, Darwin, and Dante,
Who delight in the dance Of a Darling Bacchante.
E is for Edison, making believe
He's invented a clever contrivance for Eve,
Who complained that she never could laugh in her sleeve.
F is for Franklin, who fearfully shocks
The feelings of Fenelon, Faber, and Fox.
G is Godiva, whose great bareback feat
She kindly but firmly declines to repeat,
Though Gounod and Goldsmith implore and entreat.
H is for Handel, who pours out his soul
Through the bagpipes to Howells and Homer, who roll
On the floor in an ecstasy past all control.
I is for Ibsen, reciting a play
While Irving and Ingersoll hasten away.
J is for Johnson, who only says "Pish!"
To Jonah, who tells him his tale of a fish.
K is the Kaiser, who kindly repeats
Some original verses to Kipling and Keats.
L is Lafontaine, who finds he's unable
To interest Luther and Liszt in his fable,
While Loie continues to dance on the table.
M is Macduff, who's prevailed upon Milton
And Montaigne and Manon to each try a kilt on.
N is Napoleon, shrouded in gloom,
With Nero, Narcissus, and Nordau, to whom
He's explaining the manual of arms with a broom.
O is for Oliver, casting aspersion
On Omar, that awfully dissolute Persian,
Though secretly longing to join the diversion.
P is for Peter, who hollers "No! No!"
Through the keyhole to Paine, Paderewski, and Poe.
Q is the Queen, so noble and free--
For further particulars look under V.
R's Rubenstein, playing that old thing in F
To Rollo and Rembrandt, who wish they were deaf.
S is for Swinburne, who, seeking the true, the good, and the beautiful, visits the Zoo,
Where he chances on Sappho and Mr. Sardou,
And Socrates, all with the same end in view.
T is for Talleyrand toasting Miss Truth,
By the side of her well, in a glass of vermouth,
And presenting Mark Twain as the friend of his youth.
U is for Undine, pursuing Ulysses
And Umberto, who flee her damp, death-dealing kisses.
V is Victoria, noble and true--
For further particulars look under Q.
W's Wagner, who sang and played lots for Washington, Wesley, and good Doctor Watts.
His prurient plots pained Wesley and Watts,
But Washington said he "enjoyed them in spots."
X is Xantippe, who's having her say,
And frightening the army of Xerxes away.
Y is for Young, the great Mormon saint,
Who thinks little Yum Yum and Yvette so quaint,
He has to be instantly held in restraint.
Z is for Zola, presenting La Terre
To Zenobia the brave and Zuleika the fair,
Whose blushes they artfully conceal with their hair.
An Eclogue Or Pastoral Between Endymion Porter And Lycidas Herrick, Set And Sung.
by Robert Herrick

End.    Ah! Lycidas, come tell me why
Thy whilom merry oat
By thee doth so neglected lie,
And never purls a note?
I prithee speak. Lyc. I will. End. Say on.
Lyc.    'Tis thou, and only thou,
That art the cause, Endymion.
End.    For love's sake, tell me how.
Lyc.    In this regard: that thou do'st play
Upon another plain,
And for a rural roundelay
Strik'st now a courtly strain.
Thou leav'st our hills, our dales, our bowers,
Our finer fleeced sheep,
Unkind to us, to spend thine hours
Where shepherds should not keep.
I mean the court: Let Latmos be
My lov'd Endymion's court.
End.    But I the courtly state would see.
Lyc.    Then see it in report.
What has the court to do with swains,
Where Phyllis is not known?
Nor does it mind the rustic strains
Of us, or Corydon.
Break, if thou lov'st us, this delay.
End.    Dear Lycidas, e're long
I vow, by Pan, to come away
And pipe unto thy song.
Then Jessamine, with Florabell,
And dainty Amaryllis,
With handsome-handed Drosomell
Shall prank thy hook with lilies.
Lyc.    Then Tityrus, and Corydon,
And Thyrsis, they shall follow
With all the rest; while thou alone
Shalt lead like young Apollo.
And till thou com'st, thy Lycidas,
In every genial cup,
Shall write in spice: Endymion 'twas
That kept his piping up.
And, my most lucky swain, when I shall live to see
Endymion's moon to fill up full, remember me:
Meantime, let Lycidas have leave to pipe to thee.
Life
by Abram Joseph Ryan

A baby played with the surplice sleeve
Of a gentle priest; while in accents low,
The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe,"
And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow
In the name of the Father, and the Son,
And Holy Spirit -- Three in One.
Spotless as a lily's leaf,
Whiter than the Christmas snow;
Not a sign of sin or grief,
And the babe laughed, sweet and low.
A smile flitted over the baby's face:
Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing
Just passing then, and leaving a trace
Of its presence as it soared to sing?
A hymn when words and waters win
To grace and life a child of sin.
Not an outward sign or token,
That a child was saved from woe;
But the bonds of sin were broken,
And the babe laughed, sweet and low.
A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes,
And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast;
Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs,
Out of the future, or the past?
Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet,
And gall must mingle with the sweet.
Yea, upon the baby's laughter
Trickled tears:    'tis ever so --
Mothers dread the dark hereafter;
But the babe laughed sweet and low.
And the years like waves broke on the shore
Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life;
But her lone heart drifted away before
Her little boy knew an hour of strife;
Drifted away on a Summer's eve,
Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve
Her humble grave was gently made
Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow;
The wild birds sang where her heart was laid,
And her boy laughed sweet and low.
He drifted away from his mother's grave,
Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide,
Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave,
That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide.
Out from the shore and over the deep,
He sailed away and learned to weep.
Furrowed grew the face once fair,
Under storms of human woe;
Silvered grew the dark brown hair,
And he wailed so sad and low.
The years swept on as erst they swept,
Bright wavelets once, dark billows now;
Wherever he sailed he ever wept,
A cloud hung over the darkened brow --
Over the deep and into the dark,
But no one knew where sank his bark.
Wild roses watched his mother's tomb,
The world still laughed, 'tis ever so --
God only knows the baby's doom,
That laughed so sweet and low.
Wagtail And Baby
by Thomas Hardy

A baby watched a ford, whereto
A wagtail came for drinking;
A blaring bull went wading through,
The wagtail showed no shrinking.
A stallion splashed his way across,
The birdie nearly sinking;
He gave his plumes a twitch and toss,
And held his own unblinking.
Next saw the baby round the spot
A mongrel slowly slinking;
The wagtail gazed, but faltered not
In dip and sip and prinking.
A perfect gentleman then neared;
The wagtail, in a winking,
With terror rose and disappeared;
The baby fell a-thinking.
The Carpenter
by George MacDonald

0 Lord, at Joseph's humble bench
Thy hands did handle saw and plane;
Thy hammer nails did drive and clench,
Avoiding knot and humouring grain.
That thou didst seem, thou wast indeed,
In sport thy tools thou didst not use;
Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need,
The labourer's hire, too nice, refuse.
Lord, might I be but as a saw,
A plane, a chisel, in thy hand!--
No, Lord! I take it back in awe,
Such prayer for me is far too grand.
I pray, O Master, let me lie,
As on thy bench the favoured wood;
Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply,
And work me into something good.
No, no; ambition, holy-high,
Urges for more than both to pray:
Come in, O gracious Force, I cry--
O workman, share my shed of clay.
Then I, at bench, or desk, or oar,
With knife or needle, voice or pen,
As thou in Nazareth of yore,
Shall do the Father's will again.
Thus fashioning a workman rare,
O Master, this shall be thy fee:
Home to thy father thou shall bear
Another child made like to thee.
Nursery Rhyme. XXXIII. Literal
by Unknown

1, 2, 3, 4, 5!
I caught a hare alive;
6, 7, 8, 9, 10!
I let her go again.
A Song
by Virna Sheard

0 heart of mine - if I were but a swallow - 
A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free - 
On wings unwearied I would find and follow
Some path that led to thee!
Were I a rose out in the garden growing
My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze
For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing - 
Yet bring thee memories.
Written Under An Elegant Drawing Of A Dead Canary Bird,
by Thomas Gent

By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.
Death to the very life! not the closed eye,
Not those small paralytic limbs alone,
But every feather tells so mournfully
Thy fate, and that thy little life has flown.
Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet
Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand
Gazing intensely, and with mute regret,
Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.
Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more
Than by the silent admiration? no!
And now I try to praise I must deplore
How feeble is the verse that tells thee so;
But thou art gaining for thyself a fame
Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!
A Christmas Carol, Sung To The King In The Presence At White-Hall
by Robert Herrick

Chorus.
What sweeter music can we bring,
Than a Carol, for to sing
The Birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the Voice! Awake the String!
Heart, Ear, and Eye, and every thing
Awake! the while the active Finger
Runs division with the Singer.
[From the Flourish they came to the Song].
Voice 1:
Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honor to this Day,
That sees December turn'd to May.
Voice 2:
If we may ask the reason, say:
The why, and wherefore all things here
Seem like the Spring-time fo the year?
Voice 3:
Why does the chilling Winter's morn
Smile, like a field beset with corn?
Or smell, like to a mead new-shorn,
Thus, on the sudden?
Voice 4:
Come and see
The cause, why things thus fragrant be:
'Tis He is born, whose quick'ning Birth
Gives life and luster, public mirth,
To Heaven and the under-Earth.
Chorus:
We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who, with His Sun-shine, and His Showers,
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.
Voice 1:
The Darling of the World is come,
And fit it is, we find a room
To welcome Him.
Voice 2:
The nobler part
Of all the house here, is the Heart,
Chorus:
Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This Holly and this Ivy Wreath,
To do Him honor; who's our King,
And Lord of all this Reveling.
Recent Dialogue.
by Thomas Moore

A Bishop and a bold dragoon,
Both heroes in their way,
Did thus, of late, one afternoon,
Unto each other say:--
"Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar,
"As nobody denies
"That you a wise logician are,
"And I am--otherwise,
"'Tis fit that in this question, we
"Stick each to his own art--
"That yours should be the sophistry,
"And mine the fighting part.
"My creed, I need not tell you, is
"Like that of Wellington,
"To whom no harlot comes amiss,
"Save her of Babylon;
"And when we're at a loss for words,
"If laughing reasoners flout us,
"For lack of sense we'll draw our swords--
"The sole thing sharp about us."--
"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said,
"'Tis true for war thou art meant;
"And reasoning--bless that dandy head!
"Is not in thy department.
"So leave the argument to me--
"And, when my holy labor
"Hath lit the fires of bigotry,
"Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.
"From pulpit and from sentrybox,
"We'll make our joint attacks,
"I at the head of my Cassocks,
"And you, of your Cossacks.
"So here's your health, my brave huzzar,
"My exquisite old fighter--
"Success to bigotry and war,
"The musket and the mitre!"
Thus prayed the minister of heaven--
While York, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clerk had given
His nose the cue) "Amen."
Spring Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
Is Spring, Spring, Spring!
No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring
This song of Spring, Spring!
For life is life and love is love,
'Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling
Of Spring, Spring, Spring!