DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Back From a Two-years' Sentence
by James Whitcomb Riley

Back from a two-years' sentence!
And though it had been ten,
You think, I were scarred no deeper
In the eyes of my fellow-men.
"My fellow-men?" Sounds like a satire,
You think - and I so allow,
Here in my home since childhood,
Yet more than a stranger now!
Pardon! Not wholly a stranger,
For I have a wife and child:
That woman has wept for two long years,
And yet last night she smiled!
Smiled, as I leapt from the platform
Of the midnight train, and then -
All that I knew was that smile of hers,
And our babe in my arms again!
Back from a two-years' sentence -
But I've thought the whole thing through,
A hint of it came when the bars swung back
And I looked straight up in the blue
Of the blessed skies with my hat off!
O-ho! I've a wife and child:
That woman has wept for two long years,
And yet last night she smiled!
Banagher Rhue
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

Banagher Rhue of Donegal,
(Holy Mary, how slow the dawn!)
This is the hour of your loss or gain:
Is go d-tigheadh do, mh'irn'n slan! {21}
Banagher Rhue, but the hour was ill
(O Mary Mother, how high the price!)
When you swore you'd game with Death himself;
Aye, and win with the devil's dice.
Banagher Rhue, you must play with Death,
(Mary, watch with him till the light!)
Through the dark hours, for the words you said,
All this strange and noisy night.
Banagher Rhue, you are pale and cold;
(How the demons laugh through the air!)
The anguish beads on your frowning brow;
Mary set on your lips a prayer!
Banagher Rhue, you have won the toss:
(Mother, pray for his soul's release!)
Shuffle and deal ere the black cock crows,
That your spirit may find its peace.
Banagher Rhue, you have played a king;
(How strange a light on your fingers fall!)
A voice, 'I was cold, and he sheltered me . . . '
The trick is gained, but your chance is small.
Banagher Rhue, now an ace is yours;
(Mother Mary, the night is long!)
'I was a sin that he hurried aside . . .'
O for the dawn and the blackbird's song!
Banagher Rhue, now a ten of suit;
(Mother Mary, what hot winds blow!)
'Nine little lives hath he saved in his path . . . '
And the black cock that does not crow.
Banagher Rhue, you have played a knave;
(O what strange gates on their hinges groan!)
'I was a friend who had wrought him ill;
When I had fallen he cast no stone . . . '
Banagher Rhue, now a queen has won!
(The black cock crows with the flash of dawn.)
And she is the woman who prays for you:
"Is go d-tigheadh do, mh'irn'n slan!'
A Hymn To Bacchus
by Robert Herrick

Bacchus, let me drink no more!
Wild are seas that want a shore!
When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up for to please
Thee, that great cup, Hercules.
Urge no more; and there shall be
Daffadils giv'n up to thee.
Barbara Frietchie
by William F. Kirk

Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,
Her age it ban tree score and ten.
She living in Frederick, Maryland, - 
It ban yust a dinky von night stand.
But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,
And folks ban talking about her yet.
Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,
Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.
Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,
Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;
For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,
And some of dem calling the yen'ral "pal."
Yackson, he see dem on both sides
Shooting dis bunk to save deir hides.
Den op in vindow he see big flag,
And tenk at first he must have a yag.
No: sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.
So Stonevall stand on his horse's back,
Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,
And into the gutter flag skol fall.
Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,
And say, "Ay skol fule dese geezers yet."
She run to her bureau double haste,
And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,
Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,
And say: "Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.
Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,
Ef it ant qvite holy enough for yu,
And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,
But spare yure country's flag!" she said.
Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,
And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.
He say: "Dis lady skol standing pat.
She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.
Who taking a shot at yon gray hair
Skol get gude ticket for Golden Stair!"
All day long in Frederick town
Soldiers ban marching op and down.
And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,
Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.
And Stonevall Yackson say, "Vat yu tenk!"
And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
Barada
by Nizar Qabbani

Barada, oh father of all rivers
Oh, horse that races the days
Be, in our sad history, a prophet
Who receives inspiration from his lord
Millions acknowledge you as an Arab
Prince... so pray as an imam
Oh eyes of the gazelle in the desert of Sham
Look down. This is the age of lavender
They have detained you in the pavilions for a long time
We have woven tents from tears
God has witnessed that we have broken no promise
Or secured protection for those we love
A Rhyme
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Babe, if rhyme be none
For that sweet small word
Babe, the sweetest one
Ever heard,
Right it is and meet
Rhyme should keep not true
Time with such a sweet
Thing as you.
Meet it is that rhyme
Should not gain such grace:
What is April's prime
To your face?
What to yours is May's
Rosiest smile? what sound
Like your laughter sways
All hearts round?
None can tell in metre
Fit for ears on earth
What sweet star grew sweeter
At your birth.
Wisdom doubts what may be:
Hope, with smile sublime,
Trusts: but neither, baby,
Knows the rhyme.
Wisdom lies down lonely;
Hope keeps watch from far;
None but one seer only
Sees the star.
Love alone, with yearning
Heart for astrolabe,
Takes the star's height, burning
O'er the babe.
Bannocks O' Barley.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "The Killogie."
I.
Bannocks o' bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley;
Here's to the Highlandman's
Bannocks o' barley.
Wha in a brulzie
Will first cry a parley?
Never the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley.
II.
Bannocks o' bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley;
Here's to the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley.
Wha in his wae-days
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley?
Cradle Songs
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

(To a tune of Blake's)
I.
Baby, baby bright,
Sleep can steal from sight
Little of your light:
Soft as fire in dew,
Still the life in you
Lights your slumber through.
Four white eyelids keep
Fast the seal of sleep
Deep as love is deep:
Yet, though closed it lies,
Love behind them spies
Heaven in two blue eyes.
II.
Baby, baby dear,
Earth and heaven are near
Now, for heaven is here.
Heaven is every place
Where your flower-sweet face
Fills our eyes with grace.
Till your own eyes deign
Earth a glance again,
Earth and heaven are twain.
Now your sleep is done,
Shine, and show the sun
Earth and heaven are one.
III.
Baby, baby sweet,
Love's own lips are meet
Scarce to kiss your feet.
Hardly love's own ear,
When your laugh crows clear,
Quite deserves to hear.
Hardly love's own wile,
Though it please awhile,
Quite deserves your smile.
Baby full of grace,
Bless us yet a space:
Sleep will come apace.
IV.
Baby, baby true,
Man, whate'er he do,
May deceive not you.
Smiles whose love is guile,
Worn a flattering while,
Win from you no smile.
One, the smile alone
Out of love's heart grown,
Ever wins your own.
Man, a dunce uncouth,
Errs in age and youth:
Babies know the truth.
V.
Baby, baby fair,
Love is fain to dare
Bless your haughtiest air.
Baby blithe and bland,
Reach but forth a hand
None may dare withstand;
Love, though wellnigh cowed,
Yet would praise aloud
Pride so sweetly proud.
No! the fitting word
Even from breeze or bird
Never yet was heard.
VI.
Baby, baby kind,
Though no word we find,
Bear us yet in mind.
Half a little hour,
Baby bright in bower,
Keep this thought aflower
Love it is, I see,
Here with heart and knee
Bows and worships me.
What can baby do,
Then, for love so true?
Let it worship you.
VII.
Baby, baby wise,
Love's divine surmise
Lights your constant eyes.
Day and night and day
One mute word would they,
As the soul saith, say.
Trouble comes and goes;
Wonder ebbs and flows;
Love remains and glows.
As the fledgeling dove
Feels the breast above,
So your heart feels love.
Ballad For The Cambridge Election.
by Thomas Moore

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should give way to the other."
--Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn.
Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,
No one e'er the fact denied;--
Which is "weakest" of the two,
Cambridge can alone decide.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is,
Bankes, as much afraid as he;
Never yet did two old ladies
On this point so well agree.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.
Each a different mode pursues,
Each the same conclusion reaches;
Bankes is foolish in Reviews,
Goulbourn foolish in his speeches.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Each a different foe doth damn,
When his own affairs have gone ill;
Bankes he damneth Buckingham,
Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell.
Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,
Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.
Once we know a horse's neigh
Fixt the election to a throne,
So whichever first shall bray
Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own.
Choose him, choose him by his bray,
Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.
June, 1826.
Baby Mine.
by Kate Greenaway

Baby mine, over the trees;
Baby mine, over the flowers;
Baby mine, over the sunshine;
Baby mine, over the showers.
Baby mine, over the land;
Baby mine, over the water.
Oh, when had a mother before
Such a sweet such a sweet, little daughter!
Hay-Meaken. Nunchen Time
by William Barnes

A.
Back here, but now, the jobber John
Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on,
I thought as I come down the hill,
An' he'rd your zongs a-ring'n sh'ill,
Who woudden like to come, an' fling
A pe'ir o' prongs where you did zing?"
J.
Aye, aye, he woudden vind it pla',
To work all day a-me'k'n hay,
Or pitch'n o't, to e'rms a-spread
By lwoaders, yards above his head,
'T'ud me'ke en wipe his dripp'n brow.
A.
Or else a-re'k'n a'ter plow.
J.
Or work'n, wi' his nimble pick,
A-stiffled wi' the hay, at rick.
A.
Our Company would suit en best,
When we do te'ke our bit o' rest,
At nunch, a-gather'd here below
The she'de the'se wide-bough'd woak do drow,
Where hiss'n froth mid rise, an' float
In horns o' e'le, to wet his droat.
J.
Aye, if his swell'n han' could drag
A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.
'T'ud me'ke the busy little chap
Look rather glum, to zee his lap
Wi' all his meal ov woone dry crowst,
An' vinny cheese so dry as dowst.
A.
Well, I dont grumble at my food,
'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good.
J.
Whose re'ke is that a-ly'n there?
Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear.
A.
Oh! I mus' get the man to me'ke
A tooth or two vor thik wold re'ke,
'Tis le'bor lost to strike a stroke
Wi' him, wi' ha'f his teeth a-broke.
J.
I should ha' thought your han' too fine
To break your re'ke, if I broke mine.
A.
The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum
O' two teeth here, an' here were zome
That broke off when I re'k'd a patch
O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match:
An' here's a gap where woone or two
Wer broke by Simon's clumsy shoe,
An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke,
Vor better luck, another broke.
In what a veag have you a-swung
Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung.
J.
When I an' Simon had a het
O' pook'n, yonder, vor a bet,
The prongs o'n gi'd a tump a poke,
An' then I vound the stem o'n broke,
But they do me'ke the stems o' picks
O' stuff so brittle as a kicks.
A.
There's poor wold Je'ne, wi' wrinkled skin,
A-tell'n, wi' her peak'd chin,
Zome te'le ov her young days, poor soul.
Do me'ke the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll.
What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near.
I do like the'se wold te'les. Let's hear.
In Memory of Walter Savage Landor
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Back to the flower-town, side by side,
The bright months bring,
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride,
Freedom and spring.
The sweet land laughs from sea to sea,
Filled full of sun;
All things come back to her, being free;
All things but one.
In many a tender wheaten plot
Flowers that were dead
Live, and old suns revive; but not
That holier head.
By this white wandering waste of sea,
Far north, I hear
One face shall never turn to me
As once this year:
Shall never smile and turn and rest
On mine as there,
Nor one most sacred hand be prest
Upon my hair.
I came as one whose thoughts half linger,
Half run before;
The youngest to the oldest singer
That England bore.
I found him whom I shall not find
Till all grief end,
In holiest age our mightiest mind,
Father and friend.
But thou, if anything endure,
If hope there be,
O spirit that man's life left pure,
Man's death set free,
Not with disdain of days that were
Look earthward now;
Let dreams revive the reverend hair,
The imperial brow;
Come back in sleep, for in the life
Where thou art not
We find none like thee. Time and strife
And the world's lot
Move thee no more; but love at least
And reverent heart
May move thee, royal and released,
Soul, as thou art.
And thou, his Florence, to thy trust
Receive and keep,
Keep safe his dedicated dust,
His sacred sleep.
So shall thy lovers, come from far,
Mix with thy name
As morning-star with evening-star
His faultless fame.
Alexander Crummell--Dead
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Back to the breast of thy mother,
Child of the earth!
E'en her caress can not smother
What thou hast done.
Follow the trail of the westering sun
Over the earth.
Thy light and his were as one--
Sun, in thy worth.
Unto a nation whose sky was as night,
Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light:
And the dawn came,
In it thy fame
Flashed up in a flame.
Back to the breast of thy mother--
To rest.
Long hast thou striven;
Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven;
Go now, pure shriven.
Who shall come after thee, out of the clay--
Learned one and leader to show us the way?
Who shall rise up when the world gives the test?
Think thou no more of this--
Rest!
Lydia Humphrey
by Edgar Lee Masters

Back and forth, back and forth, to and from the church,
With my Bible under my arm
'Till I was gray and old;
Unwedded, alone in the world,
Finding brothers and sisters in the congregation,
And children in the church.
I know they laughed and thought me queer.
I knew of the eagle souls that flew high in the sunlight,
Above the spire of the church, and laughed at the church,
Disdaining me, not seeing me.
But if the high air was sweet to them, sweet was the church to me.
It was the vision, vision, vision of the poets
Democratized!
Baa, Baa, Black Sheep
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.
Baa, baa, Black Sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full:
One for my Master,
And one for my Dame,
And one for the little boy
That lives in the lane!
The Dear Folks in Devon
by Fay Inchfawn

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- mas, and to-night
I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly berries bright.
The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon, how they'll talk and think of me.
Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas morn, and if there's one
As comes across from Canada straight from their absent son,
My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my Dad'll likely say:
"Don't seem like Christmas time no more, with our dear lad away."
I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef, and Brother Jimmy's wife
Will say her never tasted such, no, not in all her life.
And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt in your mouth, 'tis true,
But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as mothers always do!
Ah me! If I could just have wings, and in the dimsey light
Go stealing up the cobbled path this lonesome Christmas night,
Lift up the latch with gentle hand -- My! What a shout there'd be!
From those dear folks down in Devon! What a welcomin' for me!
St. Mary's
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Back to where the roses rest
Round a shrine of holy name,
(Yes -- they knew me when I came)
More of peace and less of fame
Suit my restless heart the best.
Back to where long quiets brood,
Where the calm is never stirred
By the harshness of a word,
But instead the singing bird
Sweetens all my solitude.
With the birds and with the flowers
Songs and silences unite,
From the morning unto night;
And somehow a clearer light
Shines along the quiet hours.
God comes closer to me here --
Back of ev'ry rose leaf there
He is hiding -- and the air
Thrills with calls to holy prayer;
Earth grows far, and heaven near.
Every single flower is fraught
With the very sweetest dreams,
Under clouds or under gleams
Changeful ever -- yet meseems
On each leaf I read God's thought.
Still, at times, as place of death,
Not a sound to vex the ear,
Yet withal it is not drear;
Better for the heart to hear,
Far from men -- God's gentle breath.
Where men clash, God always clings:
When the human passes by,
Like a cloud from summer sky,
God so gently draweth nigh,
And the brightest blessings brings.
List! e'en now a wild bird sings,
And the roses seem to hear
Every note that thrills my ear,
Rising to the heavens clear,
And my soul soars on its wings
Up into the silent skies
Where the sunbeams veil the star,
Up -- beyond the clouds afar,
Where no discords ever mar,
Where rests peace that never dies.
So I live within the calm,
And the birds and roses know
That the days that come and go
Are as peaceful as the flow
Of a prayer beneath a psalm.
Hymn To Bacchus
by Robert Herrick

Bacchus, let me drink no more!
Wild are seas that want a shore!
When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up for to please
Thee, that great cup, Hercules.
Urge no more; and there shall be
Daffodils giv'n up to thee.
Moccasin
by Paul Cameron Brown

Backwoods cabin, opera house
from the pines awash with stars,
skullduggery in place over spruce hills
dredged to open revolt
against invading plough    - 
where greenest leaves
in a miser's hand part
rotting gold bags
all nugget strewn, step to step,
with water speaking magic
over the sound of countless woodland ducks.
Hocus-pacus, the
flies are sleeves over the world,
black granite pull-overs
slung thru the air
a twinkling of the eye invokes
funeral trees, deerskin in colour,
the rabbit in the hat behind
rich birchbark racing thru the dark.
Baa! Baa! Black Sheep
by Walter Crane

"Baa! Baa! Black sheep, have you any wool?"
"Yes, marry, have I, three bags full;
One for my master, and one for my dame,
But none for the little boy that lives down the lane!"
Nursery Rhyme. DCXIII. Relics.
by Unknown

Baby and I
Were baked in a pie,
The gravy was wonderful hot:
We had nothing to pay
To the baker that day,
And so we crept out of the pot.
Babette's Love
by William Schwenck Gilbert

BABETTE she was a fisher gal,
With jupon striped and cap in crimps.
She passed her days inside the Halle,
Or catching little nimble shrimps.
Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,
With no professional bouquet.
JACOT was, of the Customs bold,
An officer, at gay Boulogne,
He loved BABETTE his love he told,
And sighed, "Oh, soyez vous my own!"
But "Non!" said she, "JACOT, my pet,
Vous etes trop scraggy pour BABETTE.
"Of one alone I nightly dream,
An able mariner is he,
And gaily serves the Gen'ral Steam-
Boat Navigation Companee.
I'll marry him, if he but will
His name, I rather think, is BILL.
"I see him when he's not aware,
Upon our hospitable coast,
Reclining with an easy air
Upon the Port against a post,
A-thinking of, I'll dare to say,
His native Chelsea far away!"
"Oh, mon!" exclaimed the Customs bold,
"Mes yeux!" he said (which means "my eye")
"Oh, chere!" he also cried, I'm told,
"Par Jove," he added, with a sigh.
"Oh, mon! oh, chere! mes yeux! par Jove!
Je n'aime pas cet enticing cove!"
The Panther's captain stood hard by,
He was a man of morals strict
If e'er a sailor winked his eye,
Straightway he had that sailor licked,
Mast-headed all (such was his code)
Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.
He wept to think a tar of his
Should lean so gracefully on posts,
He sighed and sobbed to think of this,
On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.
"It's human natur', p'raps if so,
Oh, isn't human natur' low!"
He called his BILL, who pulled his curl,
He said, "My BILL, I understand
You've captivated some young gurl
On this here French and foreign land.
Her tender heart your beauties jog
They do, you know they do, you dog.
"You have a graceful way, I learn,
Of leaning airily on posts,
By which you've been and caused to burn
A tender flame on these here coasts.
A fisher gurl, I much regret,
Her age, sixteen her name, BABETTE.
"You'll marry her, you gentle tar
Your union I myself will bless,
And when you matrimonied are,
I will appoint her stewardess."
But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed,
And cleared his throat, and thus replied:
"Not so: unless you're fond of strife,
You'd better mind your own affairs,
I have an able-bodied wife
Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs;
If all this here to her I tell,
She'll larrup you and me as well.
"Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,
Is beauty such as VENUS owns
HER beauty is beneath her skin,
And lies in layers on her bones.
The other sailors of the crew
They always calls her 'Whopping Sue!'"
"Oho!" the Captain said, "I see!
And is she then so very strong?"
"She'd take your honour's scruff," said he
"And pitch you over to Bolong!"
"I pardon you," the Captain said,
"The fair BABETTE you needn't wed."
Perhaps the Customs had his will,
And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,
Perhaps the Captain and his BILL,
And WILLIAM'S little wife are dead;
Or p'raps they're all alive and well:
I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.
The Spirit Of Great Joan
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Back of each soldier who fights for France,
Ay, back of each woman and man
Who toils and prays through these long tense days,
Is the spirit of Great Joan.
For the love she gave, and the life she gave,
In the eyes of God sufficed
To crown her with light, and power, and might,
That made her second to Christ.
And so in that hour at the Marne she came,
To the seeing eyes of men;
And the blind of view still felt and knew
That her spirit had come again.
And she will come in each crucial hour
And joy shall follow despair,
For Joan sees her France on its knees
And she hears the voice of its prayer.
There is no hate in the heart of France,
But a mighty moral force
That takes its stand for her worshipped land,
And cannot be swerved from its course.
For this is the way with France to-day,
Her courage comes from faith,
And she bends her knee ere she straightens her arm;
In her forward rush toward death.
A jungle of beasts in the heart of the Hun - 
War to the world laid bare.
And war has revealed, that France concealed,
Only the lion's lair.
A lioness fighting to save her own,
She fights as a lioness can,
And strength to the end shall the Unseen send,
In the spirit of Great Joan.