DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
October.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

I would not ask thee back, fair May,
With all your bright-eyed flowers;
Nor would I welcome April days
With all their laughing showers;
For each bright season of the year
Can claim its own sweet pleasures;
And we must take them as they come--
These gladly-given treasures.
There's music in the rain that falls
In bright October weather;
And we must learn to love them both--
The sun and rain together.
A mist is 'round the mountain-tops
Of gold-encircled splendor;
A dreamy spell is in the air
Of beauty sad and tender.
The winter hath not wooed her yet,
This fair October maiden;
And she is free to wander still
With fruits and flowers laden.
She shakes the dew-drops from her hair
In one swift, golden shower;
And all the woods are filled with light
That gilds each autumn flower.
But soon the frost-king's icy breath
Will chill her laughing beauty;
And she will waken in the dusk
Unto a sterner duty.
Ah! life is full of days like these,
Of days too bright to perish;
Yet death, like winter, claims too oft
The things we most would cherish.
I Would I Were A Child
by George MacDonald

I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow thee with running feet, or rather
Be led through dark and wild!
How I would hold thy hand,
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting!
Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting,
My heart would but expand.
If an ill thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
And soon forget my fear.
O soul, O soul, rejoice!
Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning
With saviour eyes and voice.
Who spake the words? Didst Thou?
They are too good, even for such a giver:
Such water drinking once, I should feel ever
As I had drunk but now.
Yet sure the Word said so,
Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father!
Telling the tale of him who once did gather
His goods to him, and go!
Ah, thou dost lead me, God!
But it is dark and starless, the way dreary;
Almost I sleep, I am so very weary
Upon this rough hill-road.
Almost! Nay, I do sleep;
There is no darkness save in this my dreaming;
Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming;
Thy hand my hand doth keep.
With sighs my soul doth teem;
I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping;
Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping;
Wake me from this my dream.
How long shall heavy night
Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow
Say in my heart that never any morrow
Will bring the friendly light?
Lord, art thou in the room?
Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain!
A child's heart would say Father, were it certain
That it would not presume.
But if this dreary sleep
May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper
To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper--
For evil dreams too deep.
Father! I dare at length;
My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming:
Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming
Thy tenderness, my strength.
Disillusion
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

I wrote the burning words to you
That meant so much to me.
I sent them speeding straight to you,
To you across the sea;
I waited with sure reckoning
For your reply to me.
I waited, and the counted day
Fruitlessly came and went;
I made excuse for the delay,
Pitiable confident.
I knew to-morrow's light must bring
The words you must have sent.
And still I stand on that dim verge
And look across the sea;
The waves have changed into a dirge
Their volubility.
And in my disillusioned heart
Is a little grave for me.
But still with shaded eyes I gaze
As mournfully I sing,
And one by one the trailing days,
As they no message bring,
Fall with their slow monotony
As beads fall from a string.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXVI. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

I would if I cou'd,
If I cou'dn't, how cou'd I?
I cou'dn't, without I cou'd, cou'd I?
Cou'd you, without you cou'd, cou'd ye?
Cou'd ye, cou'd ye?
Cou'd you, without you cou'd, cou'd ye?
Lord George
by Frederic William Moorman

These verses were written soon after the Old Age Pensions Bill came into operation.
I'd walk frae here to Skipton,
Ten mile o' clarty(1) lanes,
If I might see him face to face
An' thank him for his pains.
He's ta'en me out o' t' Bastile,(2)
He's gi'en me life that's free:
Five shill'n a week for fuglin'(3) Death
Is what Lord George gives me.
He gives me leet an' firin',
An' flour to bak i' t' yoon.(4)
I've tea to mesh for ivery meal
An' sup all t' afternoon.
I've nowt to do but thank him,
An' mak' a cross wi' t' pen;
Five shillin' a week for nobbut that!
Gow! he's the jewel o' men.
I niver mell on pol'tics,
But I do love a lord;
He spends his savin's like a king,
Wheer other fowks 'll hoard.
I know a vast o' widdies
That's seen their seventieth year;
Lord George, he addles brass for all,
Though lots on 't goes for beer.
If my owd man were livin',
He'd say as I spak true;
He couldn't thole them yallow Rads,
But awlus voted blue.
An' parson's wife, shoo telled me
That we'll sooin go to t' poll;
I hope shoo's reight; I'll vote for George,
Wi' all my heart an' soul.
I don't know wheer he springs frae,
Happen it's down Leeds way;
But ivery neet an' mornin'
For his lang life I pray.
He's ta'en me out o' t' Bastile,
He's gi'en me life that's free:
Five shill'n a week for fuglin' Death
Is what Lord George gives me.
I'd Mourn The Hopes.
by Thomas Moore

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
That smile turns them all to light.
'Tis not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!
And tho' the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me
Along the path I've yet to roam:--
The mind that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted.
And looks round in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds.
The Limitations Of Youth
by Eugene Field

I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss
Way out into the big an' boundless west;
I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across,
An' I'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest!
With my pistols at my side,
I would roam the prarers wide,
An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride--
If I darst; but I darsen't!
I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there,
An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,
An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw!
I'd chase the pizen snakes
An' the 'pottimus that makes
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes--
If I darst; but I darsen't!
I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,
With a big black flag aflyin' overhead;
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew
An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red!
With my cutlass in my hand
On the quarterdeck I'd stand
And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band--
If I darst; but I darsen't!
And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me!
I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too!
I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,
An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through!
You bet! I'd run away
From my lessons to my play,
An' I'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day--
If I darst; but I darsen't!
Tavern
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I'll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May set them down and rest.
There shall be plates a-plenty,
And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
Who happen up the hill.
There sound will sleep the traveller,
And dream his journey's end,
But I will rouse at midnight
The falling fire to tend.
Aye, 'tis a curious fancy--
But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
A long time ago.
Song - Murdering Beauty
by Thomas Carew

I'll gaze no more on her bewitching face,
Since ruin harbours there in every place;
For my enchanted soul alike she drowns
With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns.
I'll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
Which, pleased or anger'd, still are murderers:
For if she dart, like lightning, through the air
Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair:
If she behold me with a pleasing eye,
I surfeit with excess of joy, and die.
The Passing Of Gundagai
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

"I'll introduce a friend!" he said,
"And if you've got a vacant pen
You'd better take him in the shed
And start him shearing straight ahead;
He's one of these here quiet men.
"He never strikes, that ain't his game;
No matter what the others try
He goes on shearing just the same.
I never rightly knew his name,
We always call him 'Gundagai!'"
Our flashest shearer then had gone
To train a racehorse for a race;
And, while his sporting fit was on
He couldn't be relied upon,
So Gundagai shore in his place.
Alas for man's veracity!
For reputations false and true!
This Gundagai turned out to be
For strife and all-round villainy
The very worst I ever knew!
He started racing Jack Devine,
And grumbled when I made him stop.
The pace he showed was extra fine,
But all those pure-bred ewes of mine
Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.
He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,
From roof to rafter, floor to shelf:
As for my mongrel ewes, he said,
I ought to get a razor-blade
And shave the blooming things myself.
On Sundays he controlled a "school",
And played "two-up" the livelong day;
And many a young confiding fool
He shore of his financial wool;
And when he lost he would not pay.
He organised a shearers' race,
And "touched" me to provide the prize.
His pack-horse showed surprising pace
And won hands down, he was The Ace,
A well-known racehorse in disguise.
Next day the bruiser of the shed
Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
With large contusions on his head,
He smiled a sickly smile, and said
He's "had a cut at Gundagai!"
But, just as we were getting full
Of Gundagai and all his ways,
A telegram for "Henry Bull"
Arrived. Said he, "That's me, all wool!
Let's see what this here message says."
He opened it; his face grew white,
He dropped the shears and turned away
It ran, "Your wife took bad last night;
Come home at once, no time to write,
We fear she may not last the day."
He got his cheque, I didn't care
To dock him for my mangled ewes;
His store account, we called it square,
Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,
Confronted by such dreadful news.
The shearers raised a little purse
To help a mate, as shearers will.
"To pay the doctor and the nurse.
And, if there should be something worse,
To pay the undertaker's bill."
They wrung his hand in sympathy,
He rode away without a word,
His head hung down in misery . . .
A wandering hawker passing by
Was told of what had just occurred.
"Well! that's a curious thing," he siad,
"I've known that feller all his life,
He's had the loan of this here shed!
I know his wife ain't nearly dead,
Because he hasn't got a wife!"
*             *             *             *
You should have heard the whipcord crack
As angry shearers galloped by;
In vain they tried to fetch him back,
A little dust along the track
Was all they saw of "Gundagai".
Zeal Required In Love.
by Robert Herrick

I'll do my best to win whene'er I woo:
That man loves not who is not zealous too.
Ernst Of Edelsheim.
by John Milton Hay

I'll tell the story, kissing
This white hand for my pains:
No sweeter heart, nor falser,
E'er filled such fine, blue veins.
I'll sing a song of true love,
My Lilith, dear! to you;
Contraria contrariis -
The rule is old and true.
The happiest of all lovers
Was Ernst of Edelsheim;
And why he was the happiest,
I'll tell you in my rhyme.
One summer night he wandered
Within a lonely glade,
And, couched in moss and moonlight,
He found a sleeping maid.
The stars of midnight sifted
Above her sands of gold;
She seemed a slumbering statue,
So fair and white and cold.
Fair and white and cold she lay
Beneath the starry skies;
Rosy was her waking
Beneath the Ritter's eyes.
He won her drowsy fancy,
He bore her to his towers,
And swift with love and laughter
Flew morning's purpled hours.
But when the thickening sunbeams
Had drunk the gleaming dew,
A misty cloud of sorrow
Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue.
She hung upon the Ritter's neck,
She wept with love and pain,
She showered her sweet, warm kisses
Like fragrant summer rain.
"I am no Christian soul," she sobbed,
As in his arms she lay;
"I'm half the day a woman,
A serpent half the day.
"And when from yonder bell-tower
Rings out the noonday chime,
Farewell! farewell for ever,
Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!"
"Ah! not farewell for ever!"
The Ritter wildly cried;
"I will be saved or lost with thee,
My lovely Wili-Bride!"
Loud from the lordly bell-tower
Rang out the noon of day,
And from the bower of roses
A serpent slid away.
But when the mid-watch moonlight
Was shimmering through the grove,
He clasped his bride thrice dowered
With beauty and with love.
The happiest of all lovers
Was Ernst of Edelsheim -
His true love was a serpent
Only half the time!
Romancin'
by James Whitcomb Riley

I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like and low!
You git my idy, do you? - LITTLE tads, you understand -
Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a MAN. -
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way!
I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate, -
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do! -
I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over me;
And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set
Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy' tel my eyes is wringin'-wet!
Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the PRESUNT, I kin see -
Kindo' like my sight wuz double-all the things that UST to be;
And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren
Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Now to Then!
The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June,
From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune;
And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the snag,
Seems ef they can't-od-rot 'em!-jest do nothin' else but brag!
They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,
And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day;
They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush,
And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!
They's music all around me! - And I go back, in a dream
Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep, - and in the stream
That list to split the medder whare the dandylions growed,
I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'! - And they's other fellers, too,
With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few
Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip - toein' bloom,
As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney home.
I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out,
With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"! -
I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,
And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam.
I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill,
And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl- in' still;
And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,
And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do.
W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane
I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;
And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "Money-musk"'
Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk.
And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm
Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they haint no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the old times, - I de-clare
I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it'" jest as soft as any prayer!
The Magna Charter
by Marriott Edgar

I'll tell of the Magna Charter
As were signed at the Barons' command,
On Runningmead Island in t'middle of t'Thames
By King John, as were known as Lackland.
Some say it were wrong of the Barons
Their will on the King so to thrust,
But you'll see if you look at both sides of the case
That they had to do something or bust.
For John, from the moment they crowned him
Started acting so cunning and sly,
Being King of course, he couldn't do wrong,
But, by gum, he'd a proper good try.
He squandered the ratepayer's money
All their cattle and corn he did take
'Til there wasn't a morsel of bread in the land,
And the folk had to manage with cake.
The way he behaved to young Arther
Went to show as his feelings were bad,
He tried to get Hubert to poke out his eyes,
Which is no way to treat a young lad.
It were all right his being a tyrant
To vassals and folk of that class,
But he tried on his tricks with the Barons 'an all,
And that's where he made a Faux Pass.
He started bombarding their castles,
And burning them over their heads
'Till there wasn't enough castles left to go round,
And they had to sleep six in a bed.
So they went to the King in a body
And their spokesman Fitzwalter by name,
He opened the 'ole in his helmet and said,
Concil-latory like, "What's the game"
The King starts to shilly and shally,
He sits and he haws and he hums,
'Till the Barons in rage started gnashing their teeth,
And them with no teeth gnashed their gums.
Said Fitz, though the 'ole in his 'elmet
"It was you as put us in this plight"
And the King having nothing to say to this 'ere,
Murmured "Leave your address and I'll write".
This angered the gallant Fitzwalter;
He stamped on the floor with his foot,
And were starting to give John a rare ticking off,
When the 'ole in his 'elmet fell shut.
"We'll get him a Magna Charter"
Said Fitz when his face he had freed,
Said the Barons "That's right and if ones not enough,
Get a couple and happen they'll breed".
So they set about making a charter,
When at finish they'd got it all drawn up,
It looked like a paper on cattle disease,
Or the entries for next years World Cup.
Next day, King John, unsuspecting,
And having the afternoon free,
To Runningmead Island had taken a boat,
And were having some shrimps for his tea.
He had just pulled the 'ead off a big 'un,
And were pinching its tail with his thumb,
When up came a barge load of Barons,
Who said, "We thought you'd be here, so we've come.
When they told him they'd brought Magna Charter,
The King seemed to go kind of limp,
But minding his manners he took off his hat,
And said, "Thanks very much, have a shrimp".
"You'd best sign at once," said Fitzwalter,
"If you don't I'll tell thee for a start,
The next coronation will happen quite soon,
And you won't be there to take part"
So they spread Charter out on t'tea table,
And John signed his name like a lamb,
His writing in places was sticky and thick
Through dipping his pen in the jam.
And it's through that there Magna Charter,
As were signed by the Barons of old,
That in England today we can do what we like,
Just so long as we do what we're told.
Sister's Cake
by Eugene Field

I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.
At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say:
"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!"
Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not--
For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot--
But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent,
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went!
No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand,
The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand;
The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew,
With every damper set just so to heat the oven through;
The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make
That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.
And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro;
The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow--
And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight--
And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite!
But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound
As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.
Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl!
Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl;
Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so,
And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough!
It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin--
But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in!
The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through,
That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do!
So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night,
Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might;
These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take
Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake!
And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane--
For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain.
I never had a sister--may be that is why today
I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay;
A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth,
But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth!
Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be!
I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me;
I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse--
I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse;
And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do:
I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too!
I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see--
Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me!
I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks,
When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks;
But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take
A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!
Song: Love in the Open Air.
by Edward Shanks

I'll love you in the open air
But stuffy rooms and blazing fires
And mirrors with familiar stare
Cloak and befoul my high desires.
The dearest day that I have known
Was in the fields, when driving rain
Was like a veil around us thrown,
A grey close veil without a stain.
The young oak-tree was stripped and bare
But naked twigs a shelter made,
Where curious cows came round to stare
And stood astonished and dismayed.
Let it be rain or summer sun,
Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers,
Love, once more give me, give me one
Of these enchanted lover's hours.
Bonnie Peggy Alison.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Braes o' Balquihidder."
Chorus.
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
I.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
II.
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
III.
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear, I'm thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!