DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
How Is It?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You who are loudly crying out for peace,
You who are wanting love to vanquish hate,
How is it in the four walls of your home
The while you wait?
Do those who form your household welcome your approach in the morning
As the earth welcomes the presence of dawn,
Or do they dread your coming lest you censure and complain?
Do you begin the day with praise to God for each blessing you possess, and do you speak frequent words of commendation to those about you?
Do those you claim to love often hear you talking in love's language,
Or is your softest tone and your sweetest speech saved for the sometime guest,
While the harsh voice and the sharp retort are used with those you love the best?
You who are praying for the Christ's return
And for the coming of the Promised Day,
How is it in the four walls of your home
The while you pray?
Are you trying to make your home a reflection of what you believe heaven will be?
Unless you are you will never find heaven anywhere;
The foundations of our heavenly mansions must first be built on earth.
Unless you are striving to put in use some of the angelic virtues here and now,
No angelhood will be accorded you hereafter.
Unless you are illustrating your desire for peace by a peaceful, love-ruled home,
You have no right to clamour for a cessation of hostilities among nations;
Nations are only chains of individuals.
When each individual expresses nothing but love and peace in his daily life, there will be no more war.
You who are loudly crying out for peace,
You who are wanting love to vanquish hate,
How is it in the four walls of your home
The while you wait?
To Flight-Lieutenant Robinson, V.C.
by R. C. Lehmann

You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel,
How was it with you when the hurried word
Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal
A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred,
And all your being leapt to meet the call
Which bade you strike nor spare
Where poised in air
Murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall.
Alone upon your fearful task you flew,
Where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing,
Alone and upward, lost to mortal view,
Winding about the assassin craft a ring
Of fateful motion, till at last you sped
Through the far tracts of gloom
The bolt of doom,
Shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead.
For this we thank you, and we bid you know
That henceforth in the air, by day or night,
A myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go,
Rise as companions of your soaring flight;
And well we know that when there comes the need
A host of men like you,
As staunch, as true,
Will rush to prove the daring of the island breed.
You Will Hear Thunder
by Anna Akhmatova

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
Cynicus To W. Shakespeare
by James Kenneth Stephen

You wrote a line too much, my sage,
Of seers the first, and first of sayers;
For only half the world's a stage,
And only all the women players.
You Wrong Me, Kate.
by Wilfred S. Skeats

You wrong me, Kate, you wrong me
In harbouring the thought
That he who loves so fondly
Would injure thee in aught.
The pang that I must feel, Kate,
When dark suspicion lurks
Within thy breast, is real, Kate,
And mischievously works.
The tone with doubt inflected,
The calm, reproachful look,
The name of one suspected
In light arraignment spoke;
These, these enforce the heart-ache,
And instigate the strife,
And these, in chiefest part, take
The joy from out my life.
For bright within my soul, dear,
On Love's unsullied throne,
With absolute control, dear,
Thou reignest Queen alone.
With reverence I chose thee,
With pride I placed thee there;
And none did e'er oppose thee,
And none shall ever dare.
All womankind shall merit
A just regard from me,
And all the sex inherit
A claim to courtesy;
But none has ever claimed me
Her vassal, slave or thrall,
For Kate, my heart has named thee
The sceptred Queen of all.
Then trust me, Kate, oh! trust me,
In absence, far or near,
And judge me not unjustly,
But hold my promise dear.
Will not my word content thee?
I cannot give thee more:
Oh Kate, my Kate, repent thee,
And love me as before!
To His Book
by Eugene Field

You vain, self-conscious little book,
Companion of my happy days,
How eagerly you seem to look
For wider fields to spread your lays;
My desk and locks cannot contain you,
Nor blush of modesty restrain you.
Well, then, begone, fool that thou art!
But do not come to me and cry,
When critics strike you to the heart:
"Oh, wretched little book am I!"
You know I tried to educate you
To shun the fate that must await you.
In youth you may encounter friends
(Pray this prediction be not wrong),
But wait until old age descends
And thumbs have smeared your gentlest song;
Then will the moths connive to eat you
And rural libraries secrete you.
However, should a friend some word
Of my obscure career request,
Tell him how deeply I was stirred
To spread my wings beyond the nest;
Take from my years, which are before you,
To boom my merits, I implore you.
Tell him that I am short and fat,
Quick in my temper, soon appeased,
With locks of gray,--but what of that?
Loving the sun, with nature pleased.
I'm more than four and forty, hark you,--
But ready for a night off, mark you!
Summer Song Of The Swallow.
by Marietta Holley

You will journey many a weary day and long,
Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place,
As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm,
The labor of many happy and hopeful days;
But its low brown walls are laid and softly lined,
And oh, full happily now my rest I take,
And care not I when it lightly rocks in the wind,
For the branch above though it bends will never break;
And close by my side rings out the voice of my mate - my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright - and
Summer will last forever.
Now the stream that divides us from perfect bliss
Seems floating past so narrow - so narrow,
You could span its wave such a morn as this,
With a moment winged like a golden arrow,
And the sweet wind waves all the tasselled broom,
And over the hill does it loitering come,
Oh, the perfect light - oh, the perfect bloom,
And the silence is thrilled with the murmurous hum
Of the bees a-kissing the red-lipped clover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright - and
Summer will last forever.
When the West is a golden glow, and lower
The sun is sinking large and round,
Like a golden goblet spilling o'er,
Glittering drops that drip to the ground - 
Then I spread my lustrous wings and cleave the air
Sailing high with a motion calm and slow,
Far down the green earth lies like a picture fair,
Then with rapid wing I sink in the shining glow;
A-chasing the glinting, gleaming drops; oh, a diver
Am I in a clear and golden sea, and Summer will last forever.
The leaves with a pleasant rustling sound are stirred
Of a night, and the stars are calm and bright;
And I know, although I am only a little bird,
One large serious star is watching me all the night,
For when the dewy leaves are waved by the breeze,
I see it forever smiling down on me.
So I cover my head with my wing, and sleep in peace,
As blessed as ever a little bird can be;
And the silver moonlight falls over land and sea and river,
And the nights are cool, and the nights are still, and
Summer will last forever.
I think you would journey many and many a day,
Ere you so contented and blest a bird would see;
Not all the wealth of the world could lure my love away,
For my brown little nest is all the world to me;
And care not I if brighter bowers there are
Lying close to the sun - where tall palms pierce the sky;
Oh, you would journey a weary way and a far,
Ere you would behold a bird so blest as I;
And singing close to my side is my mate - my kin - my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright - and
Summer will last forever.
Song.
by Thomas Runciman

You who know what easeful arms
Silence winds about the dead,
Or what far-swept music charms
Hearts that were earth-wearied;
You who know - if aught be known
In that everlasting Hush
Where the life-born years are strewn,
Where the eyeless ages rush, - 
Tell me, is it conscious rest
Heals the whilom hurt of life?
Or is Nirvana undistressed
E'en by memory of strife?
To Carrey Clavel
by Thomas Hardy

You turn your back, you turn your back,
And never your face to me,
Alone you take your homeward track,
And scorn my company.
What will you do when Charley's seen
Dewbeating down this way?
- You'll turn your back as now, you mean?
Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!
You'll see none's looking; put your lip
Up like a tulip, so;
And he will coll you, bend, and sip:
Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!
You Will Forget Me.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You will forget me. The years are so tender,
They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;
The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
Will banish the last rosy colors away,
And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.
You will forget me. The one boon you covet
Now above all things will soon seem no prize;
And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it
True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting
To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting
The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.
You will forget me; will thank me for saying
The words which you think are so pointed with pain.
Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing
Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your life - I shall pass out forever,
And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.
Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never,
And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.
Slaughterhouse
by Paul Cameron Brown

You're the aggressor
and your passion exceeds mine
but we're in this slaughterhouse together
and it's near closing.
Vats of prickly ointment
destined to repattern animal skin
and tubs of steaming formaldehyde
rest casually with the more antiseptic
thrill of green sawdust.
Blood is a chameleon, here, changing colours
en route to sausage and Pram but
my hotdogs and donuts are
holding better to the cuttlefish
in this unnatural forest.
The stars are a jangle of planets
in a world where wood became noise;
each ceiling beam, incidentally,
is the wrenched out spine
of a Longhorn steer,
doorknobs pig knuckles
bound for Octoberfest fear.
Even the kindly attendant is an
ogre spying out porkers' throats;
will sit under a bridge
then capsize crates
of young chickens
knife ready at hand.
The squeal of this bovine camp
is recycled on 40 watt amps
through more than decibels of rage;
is a fishly contest designed
to trade off gruel
for fresher prospects.
One armed forklift drivers, for instance,
with realistic Captain Hook hands
jab instructions to
lifeless walls where
underlings the colour of grey slate
form a human paste.
Sound is the monetary exchange,
rabbit dung the troll's own currency - 
each scrawl of the pen
confirmed by the work order
upends living things bent over in pain.
First Love.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Vous 'tes singulier.")
[MARION DELORME, Act I., June, 1829, played 1831.]
MARION (smiling.) You're strange, and yet I love you thus.
DIDIER.    You love me?
Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.
You love me! - know you what it is to love
With love that is the life-blood in one's veins,
The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered,
Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing,
And purifying in its growth the soul.
A love that from the heart eats every passion
But its sole self; love without hope or limit,
Deep love that will outlast all happiness;
Speak, speak; is such the love you bear me?
MARION.     Truly.
DIDIER. Ha! but you do not know how I love you!
The day that first I saw you, the dark world
Grew shining, for your eyes lighted my gloom.
Since then, all things have changed; to me you are
Some brightest, unknown creature from the skies.
This irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled,
Seems almost fair and pleasant; for, alas!
Till I knew you wandering, alone, oppressed,
I wept and struggled, I had never loved.
FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER.
The Fair Rosamond
by Marriott Edgar

You've heard of King Henry II
And the story of how he got fond
Of one of his customer's daughters,
A lass called the "Fair Rosamond."
'Twere a lovely romance while it lasted,
The course of true love ran serene,
Till some nosey-parkering varlet
Started carrying tales to the Queen.
The Queen were at first incred-u-lous.
She said "What a tale to invent!"
The King would not stoop to such baseness
At any rate, not during Lent."
But one morning she picked up a doublet
As he'd dropped on his bedroom settee;
It had three golden hairs on the shoulder
And a strong smell of 'Soir de Paree."
She went to the King in a passion
And showed him this evidence clear,
And swore by her distaff and wimple
That she weren't having none of that theer.
She said "If I catch that young woman,
She'll leave no more hairs on your coat,
Her trying to pinch other folks' monarchs,
I'll give her a swim in the moat.
So he took Rosie off to the country,
To an old-fashioned manor of his,
With an "'ampton Court Maze "in the garden
As he kept for occasions like this.
But the Queen wasn't fooled for a moment,
She knew all about Henry's ways;
She slipped off herself the next morning
And secretly watched that there maze.
She were hiding in t 'macaracapa
When Rosie came out for the milk,
And she fixed to her dress as she passed her
The end of a bobbin of silk.
Poor Rosie went back not suspecting
The trail she were leaving behind,
And the Queen slowly followed her gloating
At what she expected to find.
The King he were toasting a muffin,
And Rosie were wetting the tea,
When in walked the Queen her face shining
With a look of malevolent glee.
She'd a basin of poison in one hand,
In the other, a glittering knife
The King kind of goggled a moment,
Then turned and said "Rose... meet the wife!"
The Queen shoved the basin at Rosie,
And held the knife out by its point
It were plain she had no' but two choices,
The soup or a cut off the joint.
The Fair Rosamond begged for mercy.
She said, "What you've heard is not true,
Our friendship were purely platonic."
A yarn which in them days was new.
The King told the same tale as Rosie
And if that's not the truth, Queen," he cried,
May I die on this spot where I'm standing!
As he said it he skipped to one side.
The Queen at the finish believed them,
But to save further messing around,
She packed Rosie off to a Convent
And had the maze burnt to the ground.
In Memory of My Brother
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray,
True as the truest that wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay)
Triumphant waved our flag one day --
He fell in the front before it.
Firm as the firmest, where duty led,
He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won -- but the field was red --
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed
On his country's hallowed altar.
On the trampled breast of the battle plain
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain,
(His mother dreams they will meet again)
The fairest form amid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled.
In the solemn shades of the wood that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there -- and the big tears crept
Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept.
(His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him.)
A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown,
A grave in the heart of his mother --
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone;
There is not a name, there is not a stone,
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn
But -- his memory lives in the other.
The Return Of Albert
by Marriott Edgar

You've 'eard 'ow young Albert Ramsbottom,
In the Zoo up at Blackpool one year,
With a stick and 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
Gave a lion a poke in the ear.
The name of the lion was Wallace,
The poke in the ear made 'im wild;
And before you could say 'Bob's your Uncle,'
'E'd up and 'e'd swallered the child.
'E were sorry the moment 'e'd done it,
With children 'e'd always been chums,
And besides, 'e'd no teeth in 'is noodle,
And 'e couldn't chew Albert on t'gums.
'E could feel the lad moving inside 'im,
As 'e lay on 'is bed of dried ferns,
And it might 'ave been little lad's birthday,
'E wished 'im such 'appy returns.
But Albert kept kicking and fighting,
Till Wallace arose feeling bad,
And felt it were time that 'e started to stage
A come-back for the lad.
So with 'is 'ead down in a corner,
On 'is front paws 'e started to walk,
And 'e coughed and 'e sneezed and 'e gargled,
Till Albert shot out like a cork.
Old Wallace felt better direc'ly,
And 'is figure once more became lean,
But the only difference with Albert
Was 'is face and 'is 'ands were quite clean.
Meanwhile Mister and Missus Ramsbottom
'Ad gone 'ome to tea feeling blue;
Ma says 'I feel down in the mouth like,'
Pa says "Aye! I bet Albert does too.'
Said Ma 'It just goes for to show yer
That the future is never revealed,
If I thought we was going to lose 'im
I'd 'ave not 'ad 'is boots soled and 'eeled.
'Let's look on the bright side,' said Father
'What can't be 'elped must be endured,
Every cloud 'as a silvery lining,
And we did 'ave young Albert insured.'
A knock at the door came that moment,
As Father these kind words did speak,
'Twas the man from t'Prudential,
E'd called for their 'tuppence per person per week.'
When Father saw who 'ad been knocking,
'E laughed and 'e kept laughing so,
That the young man said 'What's there to laugh at?'
Pa said 'You'll laugh an' all when you know.'
'Excuse 'im for laughing,' said Mother,
'But really things 'appen so strange,
Our Albert's been ate by a lion,
You've got to pay us for a change.'
Said the young feller from the Prudential,
'Now, come come, let's understand this,
You don't mean to say that you've lost 'im?'
Ma says 'Oh, no! we know where 'e is.'
When the young man 'ad 'eard all the details,
A bag from 'is pocket he drew,
And he paid them with interest and bonus,
The sum of nine pounds four and two.
Pa 'ad scarce got 'is 'and on the money,
When a face at the window they see,
And Mother says 'Eeh! look, it's Albert,'
And Father says 'Aye, it would be.'
Young Albert came in all excited,
and started 'is story to give,
And Pa says 'I'll never trust lions again,
Not as long as I live.'
The young feller from the Prudential
To pick up his money began,
And Father says 'Eeh! just a moment,
Don't be in a hurry, young man.'
Then giving young Albert a shilling,
He said 'Pop off back to the Zoo.
'Ere's your stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
Go and see what the Tigers can do!'
Young Jockey.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Young Jockey."
I.
Young Jockey was the blythest lad
In a' our town or here awa:
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'.
He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae genty sma',
And ay my heart came to my mou'
When ne'er a body heard or saw.
II.
My Jockey toils upon the plain,
Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw;
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain,
When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'.
An' ay the night comes round again,
When in his arms he takes me a',
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain,
As lang's he has a breath to draw.
Impromptu.
by Robert Burns

You're welcome, Willie Stewart,
You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.
Come bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.
My foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it,
May woman on him turn her back,
That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
To A Young Lady, Who Was Fond Of Fortune-Telling
by Matthew Prior

You, Madam, may, with safety go
Decrees of destiny to know;
For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as yours are only given
To chosen favourites of Heaven.
But such is my uncertain state
'Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your hert,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love for years to come,
No secrets else that mortals learn
My cares deserve, or life concern;
But this will so important be
I dread to search the dark decree;
For while the smallest hope remains
Faint joys are mingled with my pains.
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease;
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless wo,
No human force or art could bear
The torment of my wild despair.
This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters if, unbless'd in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire
Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great how wealthy I shall be?
Oh, what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy or undone,
It must proceed from you alone.
To General Dumourier. Parody On Robin Adair.
by Robert Burns

I.
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
How does Dampiere do?
Aye, and Bournonville, too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
II.
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.
III.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.
Algernon
by Hilaire Belloc

Who played with a Loaded Gun, and, on missing his Sister was reprimanded by his Father.
Young Algernon, the Doctor's Son,
Was playing with a Loaded Gun.
He pointed it towards his Sister,
Aimed very carefully, but
Missed her!
His Father, who was standing near,
The Loud Explosion chanced to Hear,
And reprimanded Algernon
For playing with a Loaded Gun.
The Wanton Chloe--A Pastoral
by John Clare

Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose,
And her love might be reckoned no less,
But her bosom so freely bestows
That all may a portion possess.
Her smiles would be cheering to see,
But so freely they're lavished abroad
That each silly swain, like to me,
Can boast what the wanton bestowed.
Her looks and her kisses so free
Are for all, like the rain and the sky;
As the blossom love is to the bee,
Each swain is as welcome as I.
And though I my folly can see,
Yet still must I love and adore,
Though I know the love whispered to me
Has been told to so many before.
'T is sad that a bosom so fair,
And soft lips so seemingly sweet,
Should study false ways, to ensnare,
And breathe in their kisses deceit.
But beauty's no guide to the best:
The rose, that out-blushes the morn,
While it tempts the glad eye to its breast,
Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn.
Yet still must I love, silly swain!
And put up with all her deceit,
And try to be jealous, in vain,
For I cannot help thinking her sweet.
I see other swains in her bower,
And I sigh, and excuse what I see,
While I say to myself, "Is the flower
Any worse when it's kissed by the bee?"
Arms And The Man
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Young Croesus went to pay his call
On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall:
And, though his wound was healed and mended,
He hoped he'd get his leave extended.
The waiting-room was dark and bare.
He eyed a neat-framed notice there
Above the fireplace hung to show
Disabled heroes where to go
For arms and legs; with scale of price,
And words of dignified advice
How officers could get them free.
Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee, - 
Two arms, two legs, though all were lost,
They'd be restored him free of cost.
Then a Girl-Guide looked in to say,
"Will Captain Croesus come this way?"