DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Bagatelle
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

CORYDON
A PASTORAL
SCENE: A roadside in Arcady
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.
PILGRIM.
I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Though she that passed had lips like pinks.
SHEPHERD.
Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew and sun.
PILGRIM.
A poet!
SHEPHERD.
Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed--you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?
PILGRIM.
Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches.
SHEPHERD.
Light or dark?
PILGRIM.
Quite dark.
SHEPHERD.
Then 'twas not she.
PILGRIM.
The peach's side
That's next the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a sombre mist.
SHEPHERD.
No, that is not the maid I seek.
HER hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.
And yet--brown locks are far from bad.
PILGRIM.
Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow-tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand--in sooth I lack for words--
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds.
Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"--
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And then her eye--my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire--
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
SHEPHERD, THOUGHTFULLY.
Good sir, which way did THIS one go?
. . . . . . . .
PILGRIM, SOLUS.
So, he is off! The silly youth
Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.
He loves--thus lads at first are blind--
No woman, only Womankind.
I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass,
No maid at all did this way pass!
Did yo Ivver!
by John Hartley

"Gooid gracious!" cried Susy, one fine summer's morn,
"Here's a bonny to do! aw declare!
Aw wor nivver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born!
Aw neer saw sich a seet at a fair.
Here, Sally! come luk! There's a maase made its nest
Reight i'th' craan o' mi new Sundy bonnet!
Haivver its fun its way into this chist,
That caps me! Aw'm fast what to mak on it!
It's cut! Sithee thear! It's run reight under th' bed!
An luk here! What's these little things stirrin?
If they arn't some young uns 'at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred,
May aw be as deead as a herrin!
But what does ta say? 'Aw mun draand 'em?' nooan soa!
Just luk ha they're seekin ther mother;
Shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa;
For awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother.
But its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear;
For mi old en's net fit to be seen in;
An this new en, awm thinkin, 'll luk rayther queer
After sich a rum lot as that's been in.
But shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say;
Yo mun keep a sharp eye or shoo'll chait us;
Ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! An pray
What mun become o' these poor helpless crayturs?
A'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet,
'At's a roof o' ther own to cawer under,
For if we'd to seek ony nook we could get,
Whativver'd come on us aw wonder?
We should nooan on us like to be turned aght o' door,
Wi' a lot o' young bairns to take care on;
An altho' awm baght bonnet, an think misen poor,
What little aw have yo'st have't share on.
That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,
Shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me;
All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an warm
An a gooid two-o'-three shillin its lost me.
Aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk,
They'll be aristocratical varmin;
But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk,
An na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin.
Bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! If we try
Awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em,
But as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly!
Nivver mind if aw dooant! harum scarum!"
Nonsense.
by Thomas Moore

Good reader! if you e'er have seen,
When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids, with their tresses green,
Dancing upon the western billow:
If you have seen, at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit's vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore,
If you have seen, through mist of eve,
The fairy train their ringlets weave,
Glancing along the spangled green:--
If you have seen all this, and more,
God bless me, what a deal you've seen!
Goosey, goosey, gander,
by Helen Beatrix Potter

Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither will you wander?
Upstairs and downstairs,
And in my lady's chamber!
The Mad Maid's Song
by Robert Herrick

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah!    woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.
I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him;
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.
A Sweet Pastoral
by Nicholas Breton

Good Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.
Sweet Love, begone awhile,
Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.
See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.
The bushes and the trees
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.
The blackbird and the thrush,
That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest, are now at hush,
And not a note they sing.
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour;
And Phyllida the fair hath lost
The comfort of her favour.
Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest;
And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.
An Elegy On That Glory Of Her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize
by Oliver Goldsmith

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam BLAIZE,
Who never wanted a good word 
'From those who spoke her praise'.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor, 
'Who left a pledge behind'.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous winning,
And never follow'd wicked ways, 
'Unless when she was sinning'.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew, 
'But when she shut her eyes'.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her, 
'When she has walk'd before'.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead, 
'Her last disorder mortal'.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelve-month more, 
'She had not died to-day'.
Rejected.
by John Hartley

Gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame,
Tho' mi loss is hard to bide!
For it wod ha' been a shame,
Had tha ivver been the bride
Of a workin chap like me;
One 'ats nowt but love to gie.
Hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine.
Surely ne'er wor made to press
Hands so lily-white as thine;
Nor should arms like thease caress
One so slender, fair, an' pure,
'Twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure.
But thease tears aw cannot stay, - 
Drops o' sorrow fallin fast,
Hopes once held aw've put away
As a dream, an think its past;
But mi poor heart loves thi still,
An' wol life is mine it will.
When aw'm seated, lone and sad,
Wi mi scanty, hard won meal,
One thowt still shall mak me glad,
Thankful that alone aw feel
What it is to tew an' strive
Just to keep a soul alive.
Th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form,
An' wild winds rush madly raand,
But it whistles to the storm,
In the barren home it's faand;
Natur fits it to be poor,
An 'twor vain to strive for moor.
If it for a lily sighed,
An' a lily chonced to grow,
When it found the fair one died,
Powerless to brave the blow
Of the first rude gust o' wind,
Which had left its wreck behind.
Then 'twod own 'twor better fate
Niver to ha' held the prize;
Whins an' lilies connot mate,
Sich is not ther destinies;
Then 'twor wrang for one like me,
One soa poor, to sigh for thee.
Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame,
Tho' mi loss it's hard to bide,
For it wod ha' been a shame
Had tha iver been mi bride;
Content aw'll wear mi lonely lot,
Tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not.
Robin Redbreast
by William Allingham

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away,
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
In Harbour
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
Goodnight and goodbye to the life whose signs denote us
As mourners clothed with regret for the life gone by;
To the waters of gloom whence winds of the dayspring float us
Goodnight and goodbye.
A time is for mourning, a season for grief to sigh;
But were we not fools and blind, by day to devote us
As thralls to the darkness, unseen of the sundawn's eye?
We have drunken of Lethe at length, we have eaten of lotus;
What hurts it us here that sorrows are born and die?
We have said to the dream that caressed and the dread that smote us
Goodnight and goodbye.
II.
Outside of the port ye are moored in, lying
Close from the wind and at ease from the tide,
What sounds come swelling, what notes fall dying
Outside?
They will not cease, they will not abide:
Voices of presage in darkness crying
Pass and return and relapse aside.
Ye see not, but hear ye not wild wings flying
To the future that wakes from the past that died?
Is grief still sleeping, is joy not sighing
Outside?
A Greeting
by William Henry Davies

Good morning, Life, and all
Things glad and beautiful.
My pockets nothing hold,
But he that owns the gold,
The Sun, is my great friend, 
His spending has no end.
Hail to the morning sky,
Which bright clouds measure high;
Hail to you birds whose throats
Would number leaves by notes;
Hail to you shady bowers,
And you green fields of flowers.
Hail to you women fair,
That make a show so rare
In cloth as white as milk, 
Be't calico or silk:
Good morning, Life, and all
Things glad and beautiful.
Goosey, Goosey Gander
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Goosey, Goosey Gander.
Goosey, Goosey Gander,
Where shall I wander?
Upstairs, downstairs,
And in my lady's chamber.
There I met an old man
That would not say his prayers:
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him downstairs.
Nursery Rhyme. XIII. Historical
by Unknown

Good Queen Bess was a glorious dame,
When bonny King Jemmy from Scotland came;
We'll pepper their bodies,
Their peaceable noddies,
And give them a crack of the crown!
Sonnet XXXV.
by Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa

Good. I have done. My heart weighs. I am sad.
The outer day, void statue of lit blue,
Is altogether outward, other, glad
At mere being not-I (so my aches construe).
I, that have failed in everything, bewail
Nothing this hour but that I have bewailed,
For in the general fate what is't to fail?
Why, fate being past for Fate, 'tis but to have failed.
Whatever hap-or stop, what matters it,
Sith to the mattering our will bringeth nought?
With the higher trifling let us world our wit,
Conscious that, if we do't, that was the lot
The regular stars bound us to, when they stood
Godfathers to our birth and to our blood.
At a Dog's Grave
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I
Good night, we say, when comes the time to win
The daily death divine that shuts up sight,
Sleep, that assures for all who dwell therein
Good night.
The shadow shed round those we love shines bright
As love's own face, when death, sleep's gentler twin,
From them divides us even as night from light.
Shall friends born lower in life, though pure of sin,
Though clothed with love and faith to usward plight,
Perish and pass unbidden of us, their kin,
Good night?
II
To die a dog's death once was held for shame.
Not all men so beloved and mourned shall lie
As many of these, whose time untimely came
To die.
His years were full: his years were joyous: why
Must love be sorrow, when his gracious name
Recalls his lovely life of limb and eye?
If aught of blameless life on earth may claim
Life higher than death, though death's dark wave rise high,
Such life as this among us never came
To die.
III
White violets, there by hands more sweet than they
Planted, shall sweeten April's flowerful air
About a grave that shows to night and day
White violets there.
A child's light hands, whose touch makes flowers more fair,
Keep fair as these for many a March and May
The light of days that are because they were.
It shall not like a blossom pass away;
It broods and brightens with the days that bear
Fresh fruits of love, but leave, as love might pray,
White violets there.
To The Lark.
by Robert Herrick

Good speed, for I this day
Betimes my matins say:
Because I do
Begin to woo,
Sweet-singing lark,
Be thou the clerk,
And know thy when
To say, Amen.
And if I prove
Bless'd in my love,
Then thou shalt be
High-priest to me,
At my return,
To incense burn;
And so to solemnise
Love's and my sacrifice.
Good Night! Which Put The Candle Out?
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Good night! which put the candle out?
A jealous zephyr, not a doubt.
Ah! friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The angels labored diligent;
Extinguished, now, for you!
It might have been the lighthouse spark
Some sailor, rowing in the dark,
Had importuned to see!
It might have been the waning lamp
That lit the drummer from the camp
To purer reveille!
Nursery Rhyme. DXC. Natural History.
by Unknown

Goosey, goosey, gander,
Where shall I wander?
Up stairs, down stairs,
And in my lady's chamber;
There I met an old man
That would not say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg,
And threw him down stairs.
The Broken Lute
by Theodosia Garrison

Good-bye, my song--I, who found words for sorrow,
Offer my joy to-day a useless lute.
In the deep night I sang me of the morrow;
The sun is on my face and I am mute.
Good-bye, my song, in you was all my yearning,
The prayer for this poor heart I wore so long.
Now love heaps roses where the wounds were burning;
What need have I for song?
Long since I sang of all one loves and misses;
How may I sing to-day who know no wrong?
My lips are all for laughter and for kisses.
Good-bye, my song.
When To Sell Grain And Farm Produce.
by James McIntyre

Grain it should be sold in the fall
Even if the price it should be small,
For if you keep it till the spring
Sometimes a less price it doth bring.
For grain with whole world doth compete,
You cannot raise the price of wheat,
Then at once you should embark it
On its way to world's market.
We hope our views you don't despise,
For grain doth shrink in weight and size,
If you sell wheat you can get gold,
Retain it, damp may make it mould.
Remember too that of your wheat
The rats of it will fondly eat,
Sell it and money then invest,
And you can get good interest.
The same remarks apply to cheese,
It shrinks and frosts make it to freeze,
Then careful man you have to hire
At great expense to keep up fire.
If you your produce quick do move,
The business soon it will improve,
And then mankind will you bless
For alleviating their distress.
And it pays best to sell each pig,
Plump and young, not old, fat and big,
Young and tender now's the vogue
Either in cattle or in hog.
Opportunity
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Granny's gone a-visitin',
Seen huh git huh shawl
W'en I was a-hidin' down
Hime de gyahden wall.
Seen huh put her bonnet on,
Seen huh tie de strings,
An' I'se gone to dreamin' now
'Bout dem cakes an' t'ings.
On de she'f behime de do'--
Mussy, what a feas'!
Soon ez she gits out o' sight,
I kin eat in peace.
I bin watchin' fu' a week
Des fu' dis hyeah chance.
Mussy, w'en I gits in daih,
I'll des sholy dance.
Lemon pie an' gingah-cake,
Let me set an' t'ink--
Vinegah an' sugah, too,
Dat'll mek a drink;
Ef dey's one t'ing dat I loves
Mos' pu'ticlahly,
It is eatin' sweet t'ings an'
A-drinkin' Sangaree.
Lawdy, won' po' granny raih
W'en she see de she'f;
W'en I t'ink erbout huh face,
I's mos' 'shamed myse'f.
Well, she gone, an 'hyeah I is,
Back behime de do'--
Look hyeah! gran' 's done 'spected me,
Dain't no sweets no mo'.
Evah sweet is hid erway,
Job des done up brown;
Pusson t'ink dat someun t'ought
Dey was t'eves erroun';
Dat des breaks my heart in two,
Oh how bad I feel!
Des to t'ink my own gramma
B'lieved dat I 'u'd steal!
Youth And The Pilgrim
by Sara Teasdale

Gray pilgrim, you have journeyed far,
I pray you tell to me
Is there a land where Love is not,
By shore of any sea?
For I am weary of the god,
And I would flee from him
Tho' I must take a ship and go
Beyond the ocean's rim.
"I know a port where Love is not,
The ship is in your hand,
Then plunge your sword within your breast
And you will reach the land."
Intellect
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gravely it broods apart on joy,
And, truth to tell, amused by pain.
Michael Angelo In Reply To The Passage Upon His Staute Of Sleeping Night
by William Wordsworth

'Night Speaks'
Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast;
More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,
On me can Time no happier state bestow
Than to be left unconscious of the woe.
Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.
Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to be
Of marble; for while shameless wrong and woe
Prevail, 'tis best to neither hear nor see.
Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, speak low.
Come, gentle Sleep, Death's image tho' thou art,
Come share my couch, nor speedily depart;
How sweet thus living without life to lie,
Thus without death how sweet it is to die.
Rilloby-Rill
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Grasshoppers four a-fiddling went,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
They earned but little towards their rent
But all day long with their elbows bent
They fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rilloby,
Fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rill.
Grasshoppers soon on Fairies came,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
Fairies asked with a manner of blame,
"Where do you come from, what is your name?
What do you want with your Rilloby-rilloby,
What do you want with your Rilloby-rill?"
"Madam, you see before you stand,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
The Old Original Favourite Grand
Grasshopper's Green Herbarian Band,
And the tune we play is Rilloby-rilloby,
Madam, the tune is Rilloby-rill."
Fairies hadn't a word to say,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
Fairies seldom are sweet by day,
But the Grasshoppers merrily fiddled away,
O but they played with a willoby-rilloby,
O but they played with a willoby-will!
Fairies slumber and sulk at noon,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
But at last the kind old motherly moon
Brought them dew in a silver spoon,
And they turned to ask for Rilloby-rilloby,
One more round of Rilloby-rill.
Ah! but nobody now replied,
Heigh-ho! never be still!
When day went down the music died,
Grasshoppers four lay side by side,
And there was an end of their Rilloby-rilloby,
There was an end of their Rilloby-rill.
Abbey Assaroe
by William Allingham

Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, 
It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; 
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. 
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, 
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; 
The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, 
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe. 
It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue; 
It hears the voice of Erna's fall, Atlantic breakers too; 
High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars 
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; 
And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, 
Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; 
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; 
But gray at every season is Abbey Assaroe. 
There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge; 
He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge; 
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight 
The Abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; 
Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, 
Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph; 
For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, 
This man was of the blood of them who founded Assaroe. 
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; 
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy Abbot's prayers; 
With chanting always in the house which they had builded high 
To God and to Saint Bernard, where at last they came to die. 
At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race 
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place. 
The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow 
Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Assaroe.
Written In A Lady's Pocket-Book.
by Robert Burns

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.
Nursery Rhyme. DXII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Gray goose and gander,
Waft your wings together,
And carry the good king's daughter
Over the one strand river.
The Columbine
by Michael Earls

Gray lonely rocks about thee stand,
Ignored of sun and dew,
Yet is thy breath upon the land,
To thy vocation true.
So come they character to me
That works in sunless ways,
And I shall learn to give with thee
Dark hills a constant praise.
Not Of Works.
by William Cowper

Grace, triumphant in the throne,
Scorns a rival, reigns alone;
Come and bow beneath her sway,
Cast your idol works away.
Works of man, when made his plea,
Never shall accepted be;
Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!)
Are the best he can perform.
Self, the god his soul adores,
Influences all his powers;
Jesus is a slighted name,
Self-advancement all his aim;
But when God the Judge shall come,
To pronounce the final doom,
Then for rocks and hills to hide
All his works and all his pride!
Still the boasting heart replies,
What! the worthy and the wise,
Friends to temperance and peace,
Have not these a righteousness?
Banish every vain pretence,
Built on human excellence;
Perish every thing in man,
But the grace that never can.