DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Mrs. ----
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

I never shall forget thee - 'tis a word
Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
On whom thy wond'rous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e'er have heard
Thy voice's deep impassioned melody,
Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
I never shall forget thee: - in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear? - oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless
With such a dower of grace and loveliness;
Over the dangerous waves 'twill surely steer
The richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,
And guide it safely to the port at last.
Such is my prayer; 'tis warm as ever fell
From off my lips: accept it, and farewell!
And though in this strange world where first I met thee;
We meet no more - I never shall forget thee.
The Mystic Friends
by Richard Le Gallienne

I nothing did all yesterday
But listen to the singing rain
On roof and weeping window-pane,
And, 'whiles I'd watch the flying spray
And smoking breakers in the bay:
Nothing but this did I all day - 
Save turn anon to trim the fire
With a new log, and mark it roar
And flame with yellow tongues for more
To feed its mystical desire.
No other comrades save these three,
The fire, the rain, and the wild sea,
All day from morn till night had I - 
Yea! and the wind, with fitful cry,
Like a hound whining at the door.
Yet seemed it, as to sleep I turned,
Pausing a little while to pray,
That not mis-spent had been the day;
That I had somehow wisdom learned
From those wild waters in the bay,
And from the fire as it burned;
And that the rain, in some strange way,
Had words of high import to say;
And that the wind, with fitful cry,
Did some immortal message try,
Striving to make some meaning clear
Important for my soul to hear.
But what the meaning of the rain,
And what the wisdom of the fire,
And what the warning of the wind,
And what the sea would tell, in vain
My soul doth of itself enquire, - 
And yet a meaning too doth find:
For what am I that hears and sees
But a strange brother of all these
That blindly move, and wordless cry,
And I, mysteriously I,
Answer in blood and bone and breath
To what my gnomic kindred saith;
And, as in me they all have part,
Translate their message to my heart - 
And know, yet know not, what they say:
Know not, yet know, the fire's tongue
And the rain's elegiac song,
And the white language of the spray,
And all the wind meant yesterday - 
Yea! wiser he, when the day ends,
Who shared it with those four strange friends.
A Hardship.
by Edwin C. Ranck

I never saw a loaf of bread
Conspicuous in its purity,
But that I sadly shook my head
And left five-cents as surety.
A Wonderful Feat.
by Edwin C. Ranck

I never walk along the street
Because I haven't any feet;
Nor is this strange when I repeat
That I am but a garden beet.
Jenny Allen.
by Marietta Holley

I never shall hear your voice again,
Your voice so gentle and low
But the thought of you, Jenny Allen,
Will go with me where I go.
Your sweet voice drowns the Atlantic wave
And the rush of the Alpine snow.
You were very fair, Jenny Allen,
Fair as a woodland rose;
Your heart was pure as an angel's heart,
Too good for earth and its woes,
And I loved you, Jenny Allen,
With a sorrowful love, God knows.
You loved me, Jenny Allen,
My sorrow made me wise;
And I read your heart, 'twas an easy task,
For within your clear blue eyes,
Your pure and innocent thoughts shone out
Like stars from the summer skies.
He had riches and fame with his seventy years
When he won you for his wife;
You were but a child, and poor, and tired,
Tired of toil and strife;
And you only thought of rest, poor dove,
When you sold your beautiful life.
Alas, for the hour I entered in
Your halls of lordly mirth;
For I lost there, Jenny Allen,
All that gives life worth;
You taught your teacher, Jenny,
The saddest lesson of earth.
Ah, woe's the hour I ever stepped
Your mansion walls within;
For you loved me, Jenny Allen,
But you never dreamed 'twas sin;
Your heart was white as a lily's heart,
When it drinks the sunshine in.
God pity me, Jenny Allen,
That I ever loved you so,
I would have died to give you peace,
And I only gave you woe;
For your eyes looked like a wounded dove's,
When I told you I must go.
You were but a child, Jenny Allen,
But that hour made you wise;
A woman's grief and holy strength
Sprang up in your mournful eyes;
Ah, you were an angel, Jenny,
An angel in woman's guise.
But a pitiful, pitiful look, Jenny,
Your seraph features wore,
As I left you that dark autumn morn,
Left you forevermore;
And heaven seemed shut against me
As I blindly shut that door.
The years have rained on you golden gifts,
You dwell in a queenly show;
There are jewels of price in your silken hair,
And upon your neck of snow.
Do you ever think of me, Jenny,
And the dream of the long ago?
I have sat me down under foreign skies
Afire with an Orient glow;
I have seen the moon gild the desert sand,
And silver the Arctic snow,
But the thought of you Jenny Allen,
Goes with me where I go.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXIV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

I neuer dranke of Aganippe well,
Nor euer did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorne with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poore Layman I, for sacred rites vnfit.
Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,
But, God wot, wot not what they meane by it;
And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,
I am no pick-purse of anothers wit.
How falles it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speake; and what I speake doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Ghesse we the cause? What, is it this? Fie, no.
Or so? Much lesse. How then? Sure thus it is,
My lips are sweet, inspir'd with Stellas kisse.
Sonnet XXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Io sentia dentr' al cor gi' venir meno.
HE DESIRES AGAIN TO GAZE ON THE EYES Of LAURA.
I now perceived that from within me fled
Those spirits to which you their being lend;
And since by nature's dictates to defend
Themselves from death all animals are made,
The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay'd,
And sent him on his way without a friend;
There whither day and night my course he'd bend,
Though still from thence by me reluctant led.
And me ashamed and slow along he drew
To see your eyes their matchless influence shower,
Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.
Yet for myself this once I'll live; such power
Has o'er this wayward life one look from you:--
Then die, unless Desire prevails again.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Because the powers that take their life from you
Already had I felt within decay,
And because Nature, death to shield or slay,
Arms every animal with instinct true,
To my long-curb'd desire the rein I threw,
And turn'd it in the old forgotten way,
Where fondly it invites me night and day,
Though 'gainst its will, another I pursue.
And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow,
To see those eyes with love's own lustre rife
Which I am watchful never to offend:
Thus may I live perchance awhile below;
One glance of yours such power has o'er my life
Which sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.
MACGREGOR.
Obviam
by Thomas Edward Brown

I needs must meet him, for he hath beset
All roads that men do travel, hill and plain;
Nor aught that breathes shall pass
Unchallenged of his debt.
But what and if, when I shall whet
My front to meet him, then, as in a glass,
Darkly, I shall behold that he is twain,
Earthward a mask of jet,
Heavenward a coronet
Sun-flushed with roseate gleams, In any case
It hardly can be called a mortal pain
To meet whom met I ne'er shall meet again.
Our Beck
by Frederic William Moorman

I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck."
Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way;
But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
Thou'll travel far for cleaner, ony day.
Clear watter! Why, when t' sun is up i' t' sky,
I've seen yon flickerin' shadows o' lile trout
Glidin' ower t' shingly boddom. Step thou nigh,
An' gloor at t' minnows dartin' in an' out.
Our beck flows straight frae slacks o' moorland peat,
An' gethers sweetness out o' t' ling an' gorse;
At first its voice sounds weantly(1) saft an' leet,
But graws i' strength wi' lowpin ower yon force.
Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks--
Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn;
Dippers, that under t' watter play sike pranks,
An' lang-nebbed curlews, swaimish(2) as a fawn.
Soomtimes I've seen young otters leave their holes,
An' laik like kitlins ower the silver dew;
An' I've watched squirrels climmin' up the boles
O' beech trees, lowpin' leet frae beugh to beugh.
Fowers! Why, thou'd fill thy skep,(3) lass, in an hour,
Wi' gowlands, paigles, blobs,(4) an' sike-like things;
We've daffydills to deck a bridal bower,
Pansies, wheer lady-cows(5) can dry their wings.
Young childer often bathe, when t'weather's fine,
Up yonder, wheer t' owd miller's bigged his weir;
I like to see their lish,(6) nakt bodies shine,
An' watch 'em dive i' t' watter widoot fear.
Ay, yon's our brig, bent like an archer's bow,
It's t' meetin' place o' folk frae near an' far;
Young 'uns coom theer wi' lasses laughin' low,
Owd 'uns to talk o' politics an' t' war.
It's daft when chaps that sit i' Parliament
Weant tak advice frae lads that talk farm-twang;
If t' coontry goes to t' dogs, it's 'cause they've sent
Ower mony city folk to mend what's wrang.
They've taen our day-tale men(7) to feight for t' land,
Then tell us we mun keep our staggarths(8) full.
What's lasses, gauvies,(9) greybeards stark(10) i' t' hand,
To strip wer kye, an' ploo, an' tew wi' t' shool?(11)
But theer, I'll nurse my threapin' while it rains,
An' while my rheumatiz is bad to bide;
I mun step heamwards now, through t' yatts(12) an' lanes,
Wheer t' owd lass waits for me by t' fireside.
I Never Loved You More
by Bertolt Brecht

I never loved you more, ma soeur
Than as I walked away from you that evening.
The forest swallowed me, the blue forest, ma soeur
The blue forest and above it pale stars in the west.
I did not laugh, not one little bit, ma soeur
As I playfully walked towards a dark fate '
While the faces behind me
Slowly paled in the evening of the blue forest.
Everything was grand that one night, ma soeur
Never thereafter and never before,
I admit it: I was left with nothing but the big birds
And their hungry cries in the dark evening sky.
Preaching
by Unknown

I never see my rector's eyes;
He hides their light divine;
For when he prays, he shuts his own,
And when he preaches, mine.
Southwark
by Paul Cameron Brown

I noticed a bust of Shakespeare, an effigy in stone with
latticing to mirror the ages. In the same cathedral a
notation commented John Harvard was baptized here.
Outside, rain fell on tombstones scarcely readable,
their letters frail imitations of what each man
considered important in life.
The church itself breathed renewal. We learn John
Gower, epic poet to the court of Richard II,
worshipped here. I thought of translucence, then muir
and gems the wise men brought the Infant Christ.
Prayer candles glowed and fell into a lap of pyre. The
crypt held Edmund, brother to the Bard.
A handsome altar betrayed sentiments Gray used in
his elegy to another courtyard. My thoughts
continued onto nearby Tower Bridge, steel and energy
dynamos before steps of the multitude released at five.
A sign read no alcohol was to be consumed on church grounds.
The very name of the place visited was poetic, half
twist of muscle, more pull of silent breath.
I Need Not Go
by Thomas Hardy

I need not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;
She will wait me there
Till I find it fair,
And have time to spare
From company.
When I've overgot
The world somewhat,
When things cost not
Such stress and strain,
Is soon enough
By cypress sough
To tell my Love
I am come again.
And if some day,
When none cries nay,
I still delay
To seek her side,
(Though ample measure
Of fitting leisure
Await my pleasure)
She will riot chide.
What - not upbraid me
That I delayed me,
Nor ask what stayed me
So long? Ah, no! -
New cares may claim me,
New loves inflame me,
She will not blame me,
But suffer it so.
Epigram. From The French.
by Thomas Moore

"I never gave a kiss (says Prue),
"To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;
She'll take one though, and thank you for it.
A Passing Glimpse
by Robert Lee Frost

To Ridgely Torrence
On Last Looking into His 'Hesperides'
I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.
I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.
I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;
Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt,
Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth,
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.
Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?
Heaven gives it glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.
Letter To S.S. From Mametz Wood
by Robert von Ranke Graves

I never dreamed we'd meet that day
In our old haunts down Fricourt way,
Plotting such marvellous journeys there
For jolly old "Apr's-la-guerre."
Well, when it's over, first we'll meet
At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat
In Wales, a curious little shop
With two rooms and a roof on top,
A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet
That never needs a crowd to fill it.
But oh, the country round about!
The sort of view that makes you shout
For want of any better way
Of praising God: there's a blue bay
Shining in front, and on the right
Snowden and Hebog capped with white,
And lots of other jolly peaks
That you could wonder at for weeks,
With jag and spur and hump and cleft.
There's a grey castle on the left,
And back in the high Hinterland
You'll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand,
Who slew the savage Buffaloon
By the Nant-col one night in June,
And won his surname from the horn
Of this prodigious unicorn.
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower,
Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr,
Close there after a four years' chase
From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace,
The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay
And growled and fought and passed away.
You'll see where mountain conies grapple
With prayer and creed in their rock chapel
Which Ben and Claire once built for them;
They call it S'ar Bethlehem.
You'll see where in old Roman days,
Before Revivals changed our ways,
The Virgin 'scaped the Devil's grab,
Printing her foot on a stone slab
With five clear toe-marks; and you'll find
The fiendish thumbprint close behind.
You'll see where Math, Mathonwy's son,
Spoke with the wizard Gwydion
And bad him from South Wales set out
To steal that creature with the snout,
That new-discovered grunting beast
Divinely flavoured for the feast.
No traveller yet has hit upon
A wilder land than Meirion,
For desolate hills and tumbling stones,
Bogland and melody and old bones.
Fairies and ghosts are here galore,
And poetry most splendid, more
Than can be written with the pen
Or understood by common men.
In Gweithdy Bach we'll rest awhile,
We'll dress our wounds and learn to smile
With easier lips; we'll stretch our legs,
And live on bilberry tart and eggs,
And store up solar energy,
Basking in sunshine by the sea,
Until we feel a match once more
For anything but another war.
So then we'll kiss our families,
And sail across the seas
(The God of Song protecting us)
To the great hills of Caucasus.
Robert will learn the local bat
For billeting and things like that,
If Siegfried learns the piccolo
To charm the people as we go.
The jolly peasants clad in furs
Will greet the Welch-ski officers
With open arms, and ere we pass
Will make us vocal with Kavasse.
In old Bagdad we'll call a halt
At the S'shuns' ancestral vault;
We'll catch the Persian rose-flowers' scent,
And understand what Omar meant.
Bitlis and Mush will know our faces,
Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places.
Perhaps eventually we'll get
Among the Tartars of Thibet.
Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings,
And doing wild, tremendous things
In free adventure, quest and fight,
And God! what poetry we'll write!
To Isabel.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

I often thought to write to thee, what time
I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,
And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,
To some new strain sung for my country's sake.
'Twas a vain hope and yet its presence smiled
Upon my day dreams when I was a child,
And only faded when my heart grew cold,
For head and heart alike are getting old.
Had I been gifted, some bright lay would be,
With touching melody, poured forth for thee.
Now, what I think the best I wish for thee.
*             *             *
May you never be a stranger;
Ever living with your own,
With the same eyes beaming round you,
That on your childhood shone.
Friendship knitting true hearts to you,
From youth to kindly age;
And affection brightening, gladdening
Your pleasant heritage.
Yet not wishing to live always,
Or shrinking back afraid,
When you come--as come we all must
And pass over to the dead.
With a hope then firmly anchored,
Of a living faith possessed,
Passing from among your kindred
Into everlasting rest.
No, Thank You, John
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I never said I loved you, John:
Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
With always 'do' and 'pray'?
You know I never loved you, John;
No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
As shows an hour-old ghost?
I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
Who can't perform that task.
I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;
But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
Use your own common sense.
Let bygones be bygones:
Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer 'No' to fifty Johns
Than answer 'Yes' to you.
Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at to-day, forget the days before:
I'll wink at your untruth.
Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
And points not understood
In open treaty. Rise above
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,--
No, thank you, John.
Escape.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I never hear the word "escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation,
A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars, --
Only to fail again!
My S.S. Class.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

I now will endeavor, while fresh in my mind,
My Sabbath School Class to portray;
The theme's furnished for me, I've only to find
Colors to blend, their forms to display.
And first on the canvass we'll Adeline place,
With her full and expressive dark eye;
Decision of purpose is stamped on that face,
And good scholarship too we descry.
Next in order comes Alice, with bright sunny smile,
That does one's heart good to behold;
May the sorrows of life ne'er that young spirit blight,
Nor that heart be less cheerful when old.
But who's this that we see, with that mild pensive air,
And a look so expressively kind?
It is Ann, gentle Ann, before whom we pass by,
We will add - 't would be useless in any to try
Disposition more lovely to find.
The next is a bright noble face we espy,
'Tis a boy of ten years we shall find;
There's a spice of the rogue in that merry young eye,
With good sense and good nature combined.
It's young master Alpheus - we never have found
One more punctual at school hour than he;
He's now but a lad, yet who knows when a man,
But a Judge in our land he may be.
Next comes little Moggy, our dear little Moggy,
But before she is brought out to view,
We'll new colors select, add fresh tints to the whole,
And spread all on our pallet anew.
And now she appears in her own proper size,
Her cheeks colored by nature's warm glow;
With her full lustrous and speaking black eyes,
And rich ringlets that grace her young brow.
Walter's the last on the painting we see,
Little Walter, the youngest of all;
Look! he's repeating his lesson just now,
Mark the expression on that infant brow,
He's a wonder, for scholar so small.
But there's one in this grouping we look for in vain,
Whose image we often recall;
How mournfully sweet is the sound of thy name,
Dear Elbridge, the loved one of all.
Thou wert called in the freshness of morning away,
By him who all things doeth well;
The rest for brief periods are suffered to stay,
How long, we may none of us tell.
May the Holy Book studied in this Sabbath School,
Be more precious than silver or gold;
Be its doctrines received, and its precepts obeyed,
And rich treasures it still will unfold.
And when one by one we shall all pass away,
To me, oh! my Father, be given
The joy that no heart upon earth can conceive,
To meet all in the kingdom of Heaven.
Weston, Feb. 17, 1852.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

I' mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso.
HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.
I now excuse myself who wont to blame,
Nay, more, I prize and even hold me dear,
For this fair prison, this sweet-bitter shame,
Which I have borne conceal'd so many a year.
O envious Fates! that rare and golden frame
Rudely ye broke, where lightly twined and clear,
Yarn of my bonds, the threads of world-wide fame
Which lovely 'gainst his wont made Death appear.
For not a soul was ever in its days
Of joy, of liberty, of life so fond,
That would not change for her its natural ways,
Preferring thus to suffer and despond,
Than, fed by hope, to sing in others' praise,
Content to die, or live in such a bond.
MACGREGOR.
Theme With Variations
by Lewis Carroll

I never loved a dear Gazelle, 
Nor anything that cost me much:
High prices profit those who sell,
But why should I be fond of such?
To glad me with his soft black eye
My son comes trotting home from school;
He's had a fight but can't tell why, 
He always was a little fool!
But, when he came to know me well,
He kicked me out, her testy Sire:
And when I stained my hair, that Belle
Might note the change and this admire
And love me, it was sure to dye
A muddy green, or staring blue:
Whilst one might trace, with half an eye,
The still triumphant carrot through
Sophie Spoilall
by Heinrich Hoffmann

I never saw a girl or boy
So prone as Sophie to destroy
Whate'er she laid her hands upon,
Though tough as wood, or hard as stone;
With Sophie it was all the same,
No matter who the thing might claim,
No matter were it choice or rare,
For naught did the destroyer care.
Her playthings shared the common lot;
Though hers they were, she spared them not,
Her dolls she oft tore limb from limb,
To gratify a foolish whim.
"Fie!" said her mother, "don't you know,
That if you use your playthings so,
Kriss Kringle will in wrath refuse
To give you what you might abuse?
Remember, how in times gone by,
You've always found a rich supply
Of Christmas presents; but beware,
You'll find no more another year."
You'd think such words would surely tend
To make this child her ways amend.
But no; she still her course pursued,
Regardless of advice so good.
But when her mother sees 'tis plain
That all her arguments are vain,
Says she, "Since I have done my best,
I'll let experience do the rest."
Meantime the season of the year
For Christmas gifts was drawing near,
And Sophie doubted not that she
An ample store of them would see.
At length the happy hour was come.
The children, led into the room,
Behold, with wonder and surprise,
Three tables set before their eyes.
One is for Nelly, one for Ned,
And both with choicest treasures spread.