DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song
by John Clare

I peeled bits of straws and I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do,
And I switched at the flies as I sat all alone
Till my flesh, blood, and marrow was turned to dry bone.
My illness was love, though I knew not the smart,
But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart.
Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude
And fled to the silence of sweet solitude.
Where the flower in green darkness buds, blossoms, and fades,
Unseen of all shepherds and flower-loving maids--
The hermit bees find them but once and away.
There I'll bury alive and in silence decay.
I looked on the eyes of fair woman too long,
Till silence and shame stole the use of my tongue:
When I tried to speak to her I'd nothing to say,
So I turned myself round and she wandered away.
When she got too far off, why, I'd something to tell,
So I sent sighs behind her and walked to my cell.
Willow switches I broke and peeled bits of straws,
Ever lonely in crowds, in Nature's own laws--
My ball room the pasture, my music the bees,
My drink was the fountain, my church the tall trees.
Who ever would love or be tied to a wife
When it makes a man mad all the days of his life?
Henrik Ibsen
by Oliver Herford

I once drew Ibsen, looking bored
Across a deep Norwegian Fjord,
And very nearly every one
Mistook him for the midnight sun.
Milton
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England's Maeonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong,
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.
The Dying Soldier To The Nightingale.
by A. H. Laidlaw

I plead with tears to thee,
Sweet warbler of the shade,
Breathe not such strains to me,
The sweetest ever made.
Who bade thee slight my woes?
Who taught to pierce my heart?
Leave me to death's repose,
Depart, sweet bird, depart.
Still come, with every strain,
Warm dreams of woeless days;
Still beam, on life's past plain,
Love's long lost golden rays,
That gleam on forms gone by,
On friends I called my own,
Who calmly rest, while I,
Wild wandering, weep alone.
But if thou still must sing,
Sing of my endless woes,
Of Life, a poisoned spring,
Of Love, a scattered rose;
Wail-warble those who weep,
Wild-warble but the brave;
To the wearied, sing of sleep,
And sing, to me, the grave.
Songs On The Voices Of Birds. Sand Martins.
by Jean Ingelow

I passed an inland-cliff precipitate;
From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll;
In each a mother-martin sat elate,
And of the news delivered her small soul.
Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay,
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell:
"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?"
"Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well."
And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made
Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns,
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed; - 
And visions of the sky as of a cup
Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand,
And quivering air-waves trembling up and up,
And blank stone faces marvellously bland.
"When should the young be fledged and with them hie
Where costly day drops down in crimson light?
(Fortunate countries of the firefly
Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night,
"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.)
When should they pass again by that red land,
Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand?
"When should they dip their breasts again and play
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air,
Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day,
Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair?
"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight,
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms,
And so betake them to a south sea-bight,
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms
"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there
Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find
A frigate standing in to make more fair
The loneliness unaltered of mankind.
"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall,
And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand,
While northern talk would ring, and there withal
The martins would desire the cool north land.
"And all would be as it had been before;
Again at eve there would be news to tell;
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er,
Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'"
An Old Bouquet
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I opened a long closed drawer to-day,
And among the souvenirs stored away
Were the faded leaves of an old bouquet.
Those faded leaves were as white as snow,
With a background of green, to make them show,
When you gave them to me long years ago.
They carried me back in a flash of light
To a perfumed, perfect summer night,
And a rider who came on a steed of white.
I can see it all -how you rode down
Like a knight of old, from the dusty town,
With a passionate glow in your eyes of brown.
Again I stand by the garden gate,
While the golden sun slips low, and wait
And watch your coming, my love, my fate.
Young and handsome and debonair
You leap to my side in the garden there,
And I take your flowers, and call them fair.
Out of the west the glory dies,
As we stand under the sunset skies,
With love in our hearts, and love in our eyes.
Love too tender and love too great
To die with death, or to yield to fate;
But your restless steed tells the hour is late.
You mount him again and you ride away
Into the west that is growing gray.
Oh! turn the key on that dear bouquet.
It is dry and faded and I am old:
And the hand that gave it is green with mould,
And the winter of life is cold -so cold.
Bacchanalian
by Victor James Daley

I pity him who has not swung
The Thyrsus in the air,
And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,
"With vine-leaves in his hair;
And heard the Maenads sing,
And the mad cymbals ring.
I pity those who have to walk
In sober ways and sad,
And keep a guard upon their talk
Lest men should think them mad.
Or careless speech should show
The felon thought below.
When in my goblet, blithe and gay,
The beaded bubbles wink,
For all poor souls like this I pray
That they may learn to drink,
And, like a rose in rain,
Open shut heart and brain.
Who does not drink he does not know,
And he will never find,
What merry fellows live below
The surface of his mind:
These other men to me
Are right good company.
If beings of Mythology
Could live at my commands
Briareus I'd choose to be,
Who had a hundred hands:
And every hand of mine
Would hold a pint of wine
And of those beakers ninety-nine
With white wine and with red
Should brim for dear old friends of mine,
The living and the dead.
By Pluto there would be
A noble revelry!
Then let us unto Bacchus sing
Evoe! up and down-
For Bacchus is the wisest king
Who ever wore a crown:
His vine leaves hide from view
More wit than Plato knew.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXIII.
by Thomas Moore

I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre,
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!
Valediction.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I once was fond of fools,
And bid them come each day;
Then each one brought his tools
The carpenter to play;
The roof to strip first choosing,
Another to supply,
The wood as trestles using,
To move it by-and-by,
While here and there they ran,
And knock'd against each other;
To fret I soon began,
My anger could not smother,
So cried, "Get out, ye fools!"
At this they were offended
Then each one took his tools,
And so our friendship ended.
Since that, I've wiser been,
And sit beside my door;
When one of them is seen,
I cry, "Appear no more!"
"Hence, stupid knave!" I bellow:
At this he's angry too:
"You impudent old fellow!
And pray, sir, who are you?
Along the streets we riot,
And revel at the fair;
But yet we're pretty quiet,
And folks revile us ne'er.
Don't call us names, then, please!" 
At length I meet with ease,
For now they leave my door 
'Tis better than before!
A Parable.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I Picked a rustic nosegay lately,
And bore it homewards, musing greatly;
When, heated by my hand, I found
The heads all drooping tow'rd the ground.
I plac'd them in a well-cool'd glass,
And what a wonder came to pass
The heads soon raised themselves once more.
The stalks were blooming as before,
And all were in as good a case
As when they left their native place.
*     *     *     *
So felt I, when I wond'ring heard
My song to foreign tongues transferr'd.
The Dark-Eyed Gentleman
by Thomas Hardy

I
I pitched my day's leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,
To tie up my garter and jog on again,
When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,
In a way that made all o' me colour rose-red,
"What do I see -
O pretty knee!"
And he came and he tied up my garter for me.
II
'Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind:
Ah, 'tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! -
Of the dear stranger's home, of his name, I knew nought,
But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought.
Then bitterly
Sobbed I that he
Should ever have tied up my garter for me!
III
Yet now I've beside me a fine lissom lad,
And my slip's nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;
My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,
He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;
No sorrow brings he,
And thankful I be
That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!
Long Ago
by Eugene Field

I once knew all the birds that came
And nested in our orchard trees;
For every flower I had a name--
My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;
I knew where thrived in yonder glen
What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe--
Oh, I was very learned then;
But that was very long ago!
I knew the spot upon the hill
Where checkerberries could be found,
I knew the rushes near the mill
Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
I knew the wood,--the very tree
Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
And all the woods and crows knew me--
But that was very long ago.
And pining for the joys of youth,
I tread the old familiar spot
Only to learn this solemn truth:
I have forgotten, am forgot.
Yet here's this youngster at my knee
Knows all the things I used to know;
To think I once was wise as he--
But that was very long ago.
I know it's folly to complain
Of whatsoe'er the Fates decree;
Yet were not wishes all in vain,
I tell you what my wish should be:
I'd wish to be a boy again,
Back with the friends I used to know;
For I was, oh! so happy then--
But that was very long ago!
The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo Again.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo
Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
That Peter was his name.
Remember how that holy man
Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;
And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,
To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride
And manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For "Peter" on the scroll of Fame
(For Peter was that Bishop's name,
As I've already told).
He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)
Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
To bless the Negro's home.
And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear -
They learnt to say, "I do not care,"
Though they, of course, were well aware
How folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors, whom he did not know,
Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!"
(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist's pen
To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.
Would use such awful terms.
And so, when Bishop Peter came
(That was the kindly Bishop's name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell a bangle rare -
A feather here a feather there
The South Pacific Negroes wear
Their native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to disgraceful oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes -
They bent them to his will.
The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;
In Peter's left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found
In fair condition still).
The Bishop's eyes with water fill,
Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,
And said, "Good Rum-ti-Foo!
Half-way I'll meet you, I declare:
I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo!'" {1}
And to conciliate his See
He married Piccadillillee,
The youngest of his twenty-three,
Tall neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don
Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on
The one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe
(His wife, of course, went with him too)
To some adjacent island flew,
To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo
A little Peter'll be on view;
And that (if people tell me true)
Is like to happen soon.
Service
by Madison Julius Cawein

I passed a cottage 'twixt the town and wood,
And marked its garden, blossoming bright and bold,
And breathing many a scent. Awhile I stood
Near pink and marigold.
It seemed a place of prayer; of love and peace;
Where gray Content with children at his knees,
Like blessings manifold,
Rested among the trees.
An old man came into the garden-plot;
And 'mid the tansy and the scarlet sage
Found for himseft a dim and quiet spot
Wherein to turn a page:
For in his hand he bore a well-thumbed book,
Upon whose pages now and then he'd look;
And then, as if with age,
His hoary head he shook.
I said to him:"You have a lovely place.
How rich your garden blooms! How sweet its shade!
How good to sit here in the eve and face
Those hills of woods while fade.
The sunset's splendors like a bannered host
Before the glory of the Holy Ghost,
While Dusk, in light arrayed,
Takes up his starry post."
The old man smiled, and turned around to stare
Not at me but above my head, as if
He saw a form, a flying phantom there,
A flaming hippogriff:
Then said, "You find here what I keep in mind
Thoughts thoughts of beauty with which God is kind
To an old man grown stiff
And half-way deaf and blind.
"This garden, now, in every herb and flower,
Expresses what the Bible says in part.
Unto my soul: To serve God every hour,
In thought, or through some art,
With loveliness: as men did long ago,
Work at some beauty that shall gleam and glow
With worship of the heart,
Whose dream shall burn below.
"For men may serve God in their humblest works:
In gardens, say, like mine; wherein the Word
Walks with me, and in every rosebush lurks
"God's blessing like a bird."
And so he ceased. And, like the Seraphim,
The sunset clouds spread golden over him;
And in the trees I heard,
The wind, like some far hymn.
The School Where I Studied
by Yehuda Amichai

I passed by the school where I studied as a boy
and said in my heart: here I learned certain things
and didn't learn others. All my life I have loved in vain
the things I didn't learn. I am filled with knowledge,
I know all about the flowering of the tree of knowledge,
the shape of its leaves, the function of its root system, its pests and parasites.
I'm an expert on the botany of good and evil,
I'm still studying it, I'll go on studying till the day I die.
I stood near the school building and looked in. This is the room
where we sat and learned. The windows of a classroom always open
to the future, but in our innocence we thought it was only landscape
we were seeing from the window.
The schoolyard was narrow, paved with large stones.
I remember the brief tumult of the two of us
near the rickety steps, the tumult
that was the beginning of a first great love.
Now it outlives us, as if in a museum,
like everything else in Jerusalem.
I Passed By The House
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 40)
I passed by the house one summer day,
Morning sunshine upon it lay;
Toward the windows that blood-red burned
Flaming my soul was turned, was turned.
There spring had found me
And captive bound me
To lissome hands and soft lips enthralling,
To smiles now stained by the teardrops falling.
Till the view from my vision dies,
To it backward I send my eyes;
All that was becomes new and near,
The forgotten grows warm and dear;
Mem'ries wander,
While this I ponder,
And from the springtime all love's sweet dreaming
Forward and back in my soul is streaming.
Joyous that time and joyous now,
Sorrow that time and .sorrow now.
Sun on meadows bedewed appears,
Soul in mem'ries of smiles and tears.
When they waking
Their bounds are breaking,
When streams their ebbing with sinking power,
The soul bears poetry's bud and flower.
Life And Nature
by Archibald Lampman

I passed through the gates of the city,
The streets were strange and still,
Through the doors of the open churches
The organs were moaning shrill.
Through the doors and the great high windows
I heard the murmur of prayer,
And the sound of their solemn singing
Streamed out on the sunlit air;
A sound of some great burden
That lay on the world's dark breast,
Of the old, and the sick, and the lonely,
And the weary that cried for rest.
I strayed through the midst of the city
Like one distracted or mad.
"Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,
And the very word seemed sad.
I passed through the gates of the city,
And I heard the small birds sing,
I laid me down in the meadows
Afar from the bell-ringing.
In the depth and the bloom of the meadows
I lay on the earth's quiet breast,
The poplar fanned me with shadows,
And the veery sang me to rest.
Blue, blue was the heaven above me,
And the earth green at my feet;
"Oh, Life! Oh, Life!" I kept saying,
And the very word seemed sweet.
The Dear
by Thomas Hardy

I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where
A maiden one fain would guard
From every hazard and every care
Advanced on the roadside sward.
I wondered how succeeding suns
Would shape her wayfarings,
And wished some Power might take such ones
Under Its warding wings.
The busy breeze came up the hill
And smartened her cheek to red,
And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will
"Good-morning, my Dear!" I said.
She glanced from me to the far-off gray,
And, with proud severity,
"Good-morning to you - though I may say
I am not YOUR Dear," quoth she:
"For I am the Dear of one not here -
One far from his native land!" -
And she passed me by; and I did not try
To make her understand.
1901
Tory Pledges.
by Thomas Moore

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin,
To labor still with zeal devout
To get the Outs, poor devils, in,
And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.
I pledge myself, tho' much bereft
Of ways and means of ruling ill,
To make the most of what are left,
And stick to all that's rotten still.
Tho' gone the days of place and pelf,
And drones no more take all the honey,
I pledge myself to cram myself
With all I can of public money.
To quarter on that social purse
My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers,
Nor, so we prosper, care a curse
How much 'tis at the expense of others.
I pledge myself, whenever Right
And Might on any point divide,
Not to ask which is black or white.
But take at once the strongest side.
For instance, in all Tithe discussions,
I'm for the Reverend encroachers:-
I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,--
Am for the Squires, against the Poachers.
Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor
I've not the slightest hesitation,--
The People must be starved, to insure
The Land its due remuneration.
I pledge myself to be no more
With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,--
I vote her grievances a bore,
So she may suffer and be damned.
Or if she kick, let it console us,
We still have plenty of red coats,
To cram the Church, that general bolus,
Down any given amount of throats.
I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,--
Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
Hang all the writers of "The Times;"
Break all their correspondents' bones,
All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"
From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,
To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.
Such are the Pledges I propose;
And tho' I can't now offer gold,
There's many a way of buying those
Who've but the taste for being sold.
So here's, with three times three hurrahs,
A toast of which you'll not complain,--
"Long life to jobbing; may the days
"Of Peculation shine again!"
The Hill Of San Sebastian
by William Henry Drummond

I ought to feel more satisfy an' happy dan I be,
For better husban' dan ma own, it 's very hard to fin'
An' plaintee woman if dey got such boy an' girl as me
Would never have no troub' at all, an' not'ing on deir min'
But w'ile dey're alway wit' me, an' dough I love dem all
I can't help t'inkin'    w'en I watch de chil'ren out at play
Of tam I'm jus' lak dat mese'f, an' den de tear will fall
For de hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!
It seem so pleasan' w'en I come off here ten year ago
An' hardes' work I 'm gettin' den, was never heavy load,
De roughes' place is smoot' enough, de quickes' gait is slow
For glad I am to foller w'ere Louis lead de road
But somet'ing 's comin' over me, I feel it more an' more
It 's alway pullin' on de heart, an' stronger ev'ry day,
An' O! I long to see again de reever an' de shore
W'ere de hill of St. Sebastien is lookin' on de bay!
I use to t'ink it 's fine t'ing once, to stan' upon de door
An' see de great beeg medder dere,    stretchin' far an' wide,
An' smell de pleasan' flower dat grow lak star on de prairie floor,
An' watch de spotted antelope was feedin' ev'ry side,
How did we gain it, man an' wife, dis lan' was no man 's lan'?
By rifle, an' harrow an' plow, shovel an' spade an' hoe
De blessin' of good God up above, an' work of our own strong han'
Till it stan' on de middle, our leetle nes', w'ere de wheat an' cornfiel' grow.
An' soon de chil'ren fill de house, wit' musique all day long,
De sam' ma moder use to sing on de cradle over me,
I'm almos' sorry it 's be my fault dey learn dem ole tam song
W'at good is it tak' me off lak dat back on ma own countree?
Till de reever once more I see again, an' lissen it 's current flow
An' dere's Hercule de ferry man cmoin' across de bay!
Wat' s use of foolin' me lak dat? for surely I mus' know
de hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!
W'en Louis ketch me dat summer night watchin' de sky above,
Seein' de mountain an' de lake, wit' small boat sailin' roun'
He kiss me an' say - "Toinette, I'm glad dis prairie lan' you love
For travel de far you can, ma belle, it 's fine 's on top de groun'!"
Jus' w'en I 'm lookin' dat beeg cloud too, standin' dere lak a wall!
Sam' as de hill I know so well, home on ma own countree.
Good job I was cryin' quiet den, an' Louis can't hear at all
But I kiss de poor feller an' laugh, an' never say not'ing me.
W'at can you do wit' man lak dat, an' w'y am I bodder so?
De firse t'ing he might fin' it out, den hees heart will feel it sore
An' if he say "Come home Toinette," I 'm sure I mus' answer "No",
For if I 'm seein' dat place again, I never return no more!
So let de heart break'I don't care, I won't say not'ing me,
I'll mak' dat promise on mese'f, an' kip it night an' day
But O! Mon Dieu!    how glad, how glad, an' happy I could be
If de hill of St. Sebastien was not so far away!