DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Bird-Songs.
by George MacDonald

I will sing a song,
Said the owl.
You sing a song, sing-song
Ugly fowl!
What will you sing about,
Night in and day out?
All about the night,
When the gray
With her cloak smothers bright,
Hard, sharp day.
Oh, the moon! the cool dew!
And the shadows!--tu-whoo!
I will sing a song,
Said the nightingale.
Sing a song, long, long,
Little Neverfail!
What will you sing about,
Day in or day out?
All about the light
Gone away,
Down, away, and out of sight:
Wake up, day!
For the master is not dead,
Only gone to bed.
I will sing a song,
Said the lark.
Sing, sing, Throat-strong,
Little Kill-the-dark!
What will you sing about,
Day in and night out?
I can only call!
I can't think!
Let me up, that's all!
I see a chink!
I've been thirsting all night
For the glorious light!
Bert Kessler
by Edgar Lee Masters

I winged my bird,
Though he flew toward the setting sun;
But just as the shot rang out, he soared
Up and up through the splinters of golden light,
Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled,
With some of the down of him floating near,
And fell like a plummet into the grass.
I tramped about, parting the tangles,
Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump,
And the quail lying close to the rotten roots.
I reached my hand, but saw no brier,
But something pricked and stung and numbed it.
And then, in a second, I spied the rattler - 
The shutters wide in his yellow eyes,
The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him,
A circle of filth, the color of ashes,
Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves.
I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled
And started to crawl beneath the stump,
When I fell limp in the grass.
An Hymn To Love.
by Robert Herrick

I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay
On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I,
Now blubb'ring, cry,
It, ah! too late repents me,
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll be
In fetters free:
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for pain,
I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine,
And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee:
Which done; no more
I'll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.
One Day
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I will tell you when they met:
In the limpid days of Spring;
Elder boughs were budding yet,
Oaken boughs looked wintry still,
But primrose and veined violet
In the mossful turf were set,
While meeting birds made haste to sing
And build with right good will.
I will tell you when they parted:
When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown,
Then they parted heavy-hearted;
The full rejoicing sun looked down
As grand as in the days before;
Only they had lost a crown;
Only to them those days of yore
Could come back nevermore.
When shall they meet? I cannot tell,
Indeed, when they shall meet again,
Except some day in Paradise:
For this they wait, one waits in pain.
Beyond the sea of death love lies
For ever, yesterday, to-day;
Angels shall ask them, 'Is it well?'
And they shall answer, 'Yea.'
The Valley
by Richard Le Gallienne

I will walk down to the valley
And lay my head in her breast,
Where are two white doves,
The Queen of Love's,
In a silken nest;
And, all the afternoon,
They croon and croon
The one word "Rest!"
And a little stream
That runs thereby
Sings "Dream!"
Over and over
It sings - 
"O lover,
Dream!"
I Wish I Was By That Dim Lake.
by Thomas Moore

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.
The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet even when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,
Like willows, downward towards the tomb.
As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmoved by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.
Tease
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

I will give you all my keys,
You shall be my ch'telaine,
You shall enter as you please,
As you please shall go again.
When I hear you jingling through
All the chambers of my soul,
How I sit and laugh at you
In your vain housekeeping r'le.
Jealous of the smallest cover,
Angry at the simplest door;
Well, you anxious, inquisitive lover,
Are you pleased with what's in store?
You have fingered all my treasures,
Have you not, most curiously,
Handled all my tools and measures
And masculine machinery?
Over every single beauty
You have had your little rapture;
You have slain, as was your duty,
Every sin-mouse you could capture.
Still you are not satisfied,
Still you tremble faint reproach;
Challenge me I keep aside
Secrets that you may not broach.
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
Maybe there _are_ secret places,
Altars barbarous below,
Elsewhere halls of high disgraces.
Maybe yes, and maybe no,
You may have it as you please,
Since I choose to keep you so,
Suppliant on your curious knees.
Flowers.
by Thomas Hood

I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; - 
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead; - 
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me - 
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betroth'd to the bee; - 
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
On Himself.
by Robert Herrick

I will no longer kiss,
I can no longer stay;
The way of all flesh is
That I must go this day.
Since longer I can't live,
My frolic youths, adieu;
My lamp to you I'll give,
And all my troubles too.
The New Plaything
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

I wonder what your thought will be
And what you'll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy's got for you, sir.
I wonder if you'll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted
(You've often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that's old and busted.)
I wonder if you'll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.
Amusements
by Unknown

I wish that my room had a floor;
I don't so much care for a door;
But this crawling around
Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore.
Lay Of The Lover's Friend, The
by William Edmondstoune Aytoun

|Air| "The days we went a-gipsying."
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way,
"Why you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
I really wish he'd do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
Excursion
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

I wonder, can the night go by;
Can this shot arrow of travel fly
Shaft-golden with light, sheer into the sky
Of a dawned to-morrow,
Without ever sleep delivering us
From each other, or loosing the dolorous
Unfruitful sorrow!
What is it then that you can see
That at the window endlessly
You watch the red sparks whirl and flee
And the night look through?
Your presence peering lonelily there
Oppresses me so, I can hardly bear
To share the train with you.
You hurt my heart-beats' privacy;
I wish I could put you away from me;
I suffocate in this intimacy,
For all that I love you;
How I have longed for this night in the train,
Yet now every fibre of me cries in pain
To God to remove you.
But surely my soul's best dream is still
That one night pouring down shall swill
Us away in an utter sleep, until
We are one, smooth-rounded.
Yet closely bitten in to me
Is this armour of stiff reluctancy
That keeps me impounded.
So, dear love, when another night
Pours on us, lift your fingers white
And strip me naked, touch me light,
Light, light all over.
For I ache most earnestly for your touch,
Yet I cannot move, however much
I would be your lover.
Night after night with a blemish of day
Unblown and unblossomed has withered away;
Come another night, come a new night, say
Will you pluck me apart?
Will you open the amorous, aching bud
Of my body, and loose the burning flood
That would leap to you from my heart?
To ----
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

I would I might be with thee, when the year
Begins to wane, and that thou walk'st alone
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:
I would my soul might reason then with thine,
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,
Which every falling leaf and fading flower,
Whisper unto us with a voice divine;
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour,
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,
And the high mystery of that after birth,
That comes to us, as well as to the earth.
The Ploughboy.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

I wonder what he is thinking
In the ploughing field all day.
He watches the heads of his oxen,
And never looks this way.
And the furrows grow longer and longer,
Around the base of the hill,
And the valley is bright with the sunset,
Yet he ploughs and whistles still.
I am tired of counting the ridges,
Where the oxen come and go,
And of thinking of all the blossoms
That are trampled down below.
I wonder if ever he guesses
That under the ragged brim
Of his torn straw hat I am peeping
To steal a look at him.
The spire of the church and the windows
Are all ablaze in the sun.
He has left the plough in the furrow,
His summer day's work is done.
And I hear him carolling softly
A sweet and simple lay,
That we often have sung together,
While he turns the oxen away.
The buttercups in the pasture
Twinkle and gleam like stars.
He has gathered a golden handful,
A leaning over the bars.
He has shaken the curls from his forehead,
And is looking up this way,--
O where is my sun-bonnet, mother?
He was thinking of me all day,--
And I'm going down to the meadow,
For I know he is waiting there,
To wreathe the sunshiny blossoms
In the curls of my yellow hair.
The World
by Fredegond Shove

I wish this world and its green hills were mine,
But it is not; the wandering shepherd star
Is not more distant, gazing from afar
On the unreap'd pastures of the sea,
Than I am from the world, the world from me.
At night the stars on milky way that shine
Seem things one might possess, but this round green
Is for the cows that rest, these and the sheep:
To them the slopes and pastures offer sleep;
My sleep I draw from the far fields of blue,
Whence cold winds come and go among the few
Bright stars we see and many more unseen.
Birds sing on earth all day among the flowers,
Taking no thought of any other thing
But their own hearts, for out of them they sing:
Their songs are kindred to the blossom heads,
Faint as the petals which the blackthorn sheds,
And like the earth - not alien songs as ours.
To them this greenness and this island peace
Are life and death and happiness in one;
Nor are they separate from the white sun,
Or those warm winds which nightly wash the deep
Or starlight in the valleys, or new sleep;
And from these things they ask for no release.
But we can never call this world our own,
Because we long for it, and yet we know
That should the great winds call us, we should go;
Should they come calling out across the cold,
We should rise up and leave the sheltered fold
And follow the great road to the unknown,
We should pass by the barns and haystacks brown,
Should leave the wild pool and the nightingale;
Across the ocean we should set a sail
And, coming to the world's pale brim, should fly
Out to the very middle of the sky,
On past the moon; nor should we once look down.
The Dancing Elf*
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

I woke to daylight, and to find
A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined,
Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.
Dropped from thy head, sweet Spirit of the night,
Who cam'st, with footstep light,
Blown in by the soft breeze, as thistledown,
In through my open door.
Whence? From the woodland, from the fields of corn,
From flirting airily with the bright moon,
Playing throughout the hours that go too soon,
Ready to fly at the approach of morn,
Thou cam'st,
Bent on the curious quest
To see what mortal guest
Dwelt in the one-roomed cottage built to face the dawn.
Thou didst pause
Shy, timid, on the threshold, though there laughed
The mischief in thy roguish eyes, then soft,
Thou crosst the room on tiptoe to my bed,
One finger on thy lip,
Cautious to make no slip,
I saw the wreath of vine-leaves on thy head.
Then with a twirl
Thinking I slept,
And a joyous whirl,
Into a dance leapt
The careless spirit too long restrained;
The purest dancing,
Feet sometimes chancing
To touch the ground;
Then starting up with a fresh high bound,
To hang for a moment poised in the air,
And a glimpse of white teeth glancing
And a laughing face beneath tossing hair;
An orgy, a revel, a living joy,
Embodied in one slim woodland boy,
Dancing forward, backward, now here, now there,
Swaying to every impulse unconstrained.
Thou wert too pure for Bacchus, and too young for Pan.
What wert thou? In the daytime dost thou sleep
In a cave
Like a grave,
Till the moon calls thee, in the sleep of man,
To thy light revels through the sombre deep
Wood's shadows to a space among the trees,
Where the breeze
Makes music through the branches for thy dance,
And the large-eyed and silent deer stand round
Peeping through tree-trunks, and each forest sound
The trickling stream's
Murmur in its dreams,
The shepherd's pipe, far-echoing by chance,, 
Melt all for thee
To one soft harmony,
While for the lighting of thy mossy slope
The moon thy lover sheds an opal glow,
Pale silver-green, the colour of the leaves
Of olive-trees,
The limelight on the stage for Youth and Joy and Hope?
And at the first rose menace of the dawn
Must thou go,
Fly to thy cave, thou little pagan Faun?
The fount of joy was bubbling in thine eyes,
Dancing was in thy feet,
And on thy lips a laugh that never dies,
Unutterably sweet.
Dance on! for ever young, for ever fair,
Lightfooted as a frightened bounding deer,
Thy wreath of vine-leaves twisted in thy hair,
Through all the changing seasons of the year,
And tread, to Autumn's gorgeous hymn of praise,
And to the happy Spring's light lilt of pleasure,
And to the dirgeful chant of Winter's days,
And ever varying, ever suited measure;
And in the Summer, when the reeking earth
Swings a vast censer, as it is most meet,
Praise thou for lavish gifts, new hopes, new birth,
Praise with the dancing of thy tireless feet!
I woke to daylight, and to find
A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined,
Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.
Dedication
by Lola Ridge

I would be a torch unto your hand,
A lamp upon your forehead, Labor,
In the wild darkness before the Dawn
That I shall never see...
We shall advance together, my Beloved,
Awaiting the mighty ushering...
Together we shall make the last grand charge
And ride with gorgeous Death
With all her spangles on
And cymbals clashing...
And you shall rush on exultant as I fall - 
Scattering a brief fire about your feet...
Let it be so...
Better - while life is quick
And every pain immense and joy supreme,
And all I have and am
Flames upward to the dream...
Than like a taper forgotten in the dawn,
Burning out the wick.
The May Term.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:
Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.
OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over,
That its wearisome pleasures were o'er,
And I were reclining in clover
On the downs by a wave-beaten shore:
For fathers and mothers by dozens,
And sisters, a host without end,
Are bringing up numberless cousins,
Who have each a particular friend.
I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny - 
They are all very well in their way - 
But my heart is as hard as mahogany,
When I think of the ladies in May.
I shudder at each railway-whistle,
Like a very much victimized lamb;
For I know that the carriages bristle
With ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation
For reading I sported my door,
With surprise and no small indignation,
I picked up this note on the floor - 
'Dear E. we are coming to see you,
'So get us some lunch if you can;
'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu - 
'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'
Affectionate friend!    I'm disgusted
With proofs of affection like these,
I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,'
Tho' my nature is easy to please.
An Englishman's home is his castle,
So I think that my friend Mary Ann
Should respect, tho' she deem him her vassal,
The rooms of a reading young man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasant
The May Term up here must have been!
No chignons distracting were present,
And scarcely a bonnet was seen.
As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner
No ladies examined the crews,
Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner - 
'Look, how Mr. Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College,
There are ladies in Chapels and Halls;
No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledge
That brings them within our old walls;
For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning';
Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,'
And will bet even gloves on our winning
The Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.
There's nothing but music and dancing,
Bands playing on each College green;
And bright eyes are merrily glancing
Where nothing but books should be seen.
They tell of a grave Dean a fable,
That reproving an idle young man
He faltered, for on his own table
He detected in horror - a fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,
These Prussian-like Amazons rush,
Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,
With equal intensity gush.
Then making their due 'requisition,'
From 'the lions' awhile they refrain,
And repose in the perfect fruition
Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question - 
When, O when, shall this tyranny cease?
Shall the process of mental digestion
Ne'er find from the enemy peace?
Above all if my name you should guess, Sir,
Keep it quite to yourself, if you can;
For I dread, more than words can express, Sir,
My affectionate friend Mary Ann.
(1871).
May And Death
by Robert Browning

I.
I wish that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.
II.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps!
There must be many a pair of friends
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon-births and the long evening-ends.
III.
So, for their sake, be May still May!
Let their new time, as mine of old,
Do all it did for me: I bid
Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
IV.
Only, one little sight, one plant,
Woods have in May, that starts up green
Save a sole streak which, so to speak,
Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,
V.
That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small:
But I, whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.
John Horace Burleson
by Edgar Lee Masters

I won the prize essay at school
Here in the village,
And published a novel before I was twenty-five.
I went to the city for themes and to enrich my art;
There married the banker's daughter,
And later became president of the bank - 
Always looking forward to some leisure
To write an epic novel of the war.
Meanwhile friend of the great, and lover of letters,
And host to Matthew Arnold and to Emerson.
An after dinner speaker, writing essays
For local clubs. At last brought here - 
My boyhood home, you know - 
Not even a little tablet in Chicago
To keep my name alive.
How great it is to write the single line:
"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll!"
Wishes
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

I wish we could live as the flowers live,
To breathe and to bloom in the summer and sun;
To slumber and sway in the heart of the night,
And to die when our glory had done.
I wish we could love as the bees love,
To rest or to roam without sorrow or sigh;
With laughter, when, after the wooer had won,
Love flew with a whispered good-bye.
I wish we could die as the birds die,
To fly and to fall when our beauty was best:
No trammels of time on the years of our face;
And to leave but an empty nest.
Lines.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

"They will not frame their doings to turn unto their God.
Hosea, 5:4."
I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God!
'Tis from thee all my mercies proceed;
I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God!
For thy service is freedom indeed.
I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God!
But how feeble my best efforts are;
Ah! how needful for me is thy chastening rod,
And a proof of thy fatherly care.
I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God!
But my goodness extends not to thee;
And when on well doing I'm fully intent,
Alas! evil is present with me.
My Creator, Preserver, Redeemer and King,
I would tax all my powers to obey;
But to Him let me look for the help that I need,
Who is the life, the light, and the way.
Weston, Jan. 21, 1853.