DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Canadian Sports And Games And Plays.
by James McIntyre

Burns sang of joys of Hallowe'en
But in Canada is often seen
By far more jolly times than these
At logging raising, paring bees,
For here the youth is not afraid
To trip it with a pretty maid,
For this at night is his reward
For working at the bee so hard,
And oft times till the break of day
At forfeits they will merry play,
For he doth win e'en though he miss,
If from sweet lass he gets a kiss,
But in its place doth justly prize
His tea and cakes and pumpkin pies.
When winter comes it brings no gloom
But makes fresh pleasures spring and bloom,
For when the youth longs for a bride
He gives his girl a grand sleigh ride,
Which to them both doth pleasures bring
While merry sleigh bells cheery ring,
And with the fair maid of his choice
He graceful skates with her on ice,
Charming mode of locomotion
Gliding o'er a polished ocean,
Such joys they soon do love evolve,
And they on union do resolve,
He is happy with his chosen,
For warm love gets never frozen.
And young folks oft they do take pride,
How swift they down the hill can glide,
And they bravely dare the frost king
So they may enjoy the coasting,
Each striving for to lead the van
In the swift shooting toboggan.
And on the ice men love to hurl
The polished blocks to skilful curl,
And curlers all do proudly claim
Their's is a manly healthy game,
And in Canadians you trace
A generous, hardy and brave race.
And brilliant as a fairy hall
Is scenes on ice at carnival,
Before the gale in an ice boat
It swiftly o'er the ice doth float,
The sensation is you fly
Like lightning shooting through the sky.
In summer time the youth do toss
The baseball and do play lacrosse,
And tradition doth for it claim
That 'tis an ancient Indian game,
And if a foe invade we can,
Drive them back with clubs Canadian.
A Home-Made Fairy Tale
by James Whitcomb Riley

Bud, come here to your uncle a spell,
And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell -
For it's a secret and shore-'nuf true,
And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you!
But out in the garden, under the shade
Of the apple-trees, where we romped and played
Till the moon was up, and you thought I'd gone
Fast asleep, That was all put on!
For I was a-watchin' something queer
Goin' on there in the grass, my dear!
'Way down deep in it, there I see
A little dude-Fairy who winked at me,
And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low
And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to!
I kept still - watchin' him closer - and
I noticed a little guitar in his hand,
Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee - and laid
His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade,
And then climbed up on the shell of a snail -
Carefully dusting his swallowtail -
And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread,
This little guitar, you remember. I said!
And there he trinkled and trilled a tune,
"My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!"
Till presently, out of the clover-top
He seemed to be singing to, came k'pop!
The purtiest, daintiest Fairy face
In all this world, or any place!
Then the little ser'nader waved his hand,
As much as to say, "We'll excuse you!" and
I heard, as I squinted my eyelids to,
A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew!
Reply To The Toast Of Scottish Poets.
by James McIntyre

Burns sang so sweet behind the plow,
Daisies we'll wreath around his brow,
Musing on thee what visions throng,
Of floods you poured of Scottish song.
Scott he did write romancing rhymes
Of chivalry of ancient times;
For tender feeling none can cope
With Campbell the sweet Bard of hope.
Eye with sympathetic tear in
Will shed it for Exile of Erin,
And Tannahill while at his loom
Wove flowers of song will ever bloom.
Hogg, Ettrick Shepherd, did gain fame
By singing when the kye comes hame,
With good time coming Bard McKay
Still merrily doth cheer the way.
Bunches Of Grapes
by Walter De La Mare

'Bunches of grapes,' says Timothy;
'Pomegranates pink,' says Elaine;
'A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
For me,' says Jane.
'Love-in-a-mist,' says Timothy;
'Primroses pale,' says Elaine;
'A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
For me,' says Jane.
'Chariots of gold,' says Timothy;
'Silvery wings,' says Elaine;
'A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay
For me,' says Jane.
Resolve.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Build on resolve, and not upon regret,
The structure of thy future. Do not grope
Among the shadows of old sins, but let
Thine own soul's light shine on the path of hope
And dissipate the darkness. Waste no tears
Upon the blotted record of lost years,
But turn the leaf and smile, oh, smile, to see
The fair white pages that remain for thee.
Prate not of thy repentance. But believe
The spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.
That which the upreaching spirit can achieve
The grand and all-creative forces know;
They will assist and strengthen as the light
Lifts up the acorn to the oak tree's height.
Thou hast but to resolve, and lo! God's whole
Great universe shall fortify thy soul.
Burden-Bearers
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Burden-bearers are we all,
Great and small.
Burden-sharers be ye all,
Great and small!
Where another shares the load,
Two draw nearer God.
Yet there are burdens we can share with none,
Save God;
And paths remote where we must walk alone,
With God;
For lonely burden and for path apart--
Thank God!
If these but serve to bring the burdened heart
To God.
Poem From Burma
by George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

'Brush your teeth up and down, brother,
Oh, brush them up and down!
All the folks in London Town
Brush their teeth right up and down.
Oh! How they shine!
Aren't they bloody fine?
Night and morning, my brother,
Oh brush them up and down!'
The Midden's Song
by Walter De La Mare

"Bubble, Bubble,
Swim to see
Oh, how beautiful
I be.
"Fishes, Fishes,
Finned and fine,
What's your gold
Compared with mine?
"Why, then, has
Wise Tishnar made
One so lovely,
Yet so sad?
"Lone am I,
And can but make
A little song,
For singing's sake."
Happy Death
by John Frederick Freeman

Bugle and battle-cry are still,
The long strife's over;
Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hill
The sad stars hover.
It is in vain, O stars! you look
On these forsaken:
Awhile with blows on blows they shook,
Or struck unshaken.
Needs now no pity of God or man ...
Tears for the living!
They have 'scaped the confines of life's plan
That holds us grieving.
The unperturbed soft moon, the stars,
The breeze that lingers,
Wake not to ineffectual wars
Their hearts and fingers.
Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome,
Alike contented,
Have marched now to the last far drum,
Praised, unlamented.
Bugle and battle-cry are still,
The long strife's over;
Oh, that with them I had fought my fill
And found like cover!
Buona Notte.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
'Buona notte, buona notte!' - Come mai
La notte sara buona senza te?
Non dirmi buona notte, - che tu sai,
La notte sa star buona da per se.
2.
Solinga, scura, cupa, senza speme,
La notte quando Lilla m'abbandona;
Pei cuori chi si batton insieme
Ogni notte, senza dirla, sara buona.
3.
Come male buona notte ci suona
Con sospiri e parole interrotte! -
Il modo di aver la notte buona
E mai non di dir la buona notte.
The Kitchen Chimney
by Robert Lee Frost

Builder, in building the little house,
In every way you may please yourself;
But please please me in the kitchen chimney:
Don't build me a chimney upon a shelf.
However far you must go for bricks,
Whatever they cost a-piece or a pound,
But me enough for a full-length chimney,
And build the chimney clear from the ground.
It's not that I'm greatly afraid of fire,
But I never heard of a house that throve
(And I know of one that didn't thrive)
Where the chimney started above the stove.
And I dread the ominous stain of tar
That there always is on the papered walls,
And the smell of fire drowned in rain
That there always is when the chimney's false.
A shelf's for a clock or vase or picture,
But I don't see why it should have to bear
A chimney that only would serve to remind me
Of castles I used to build in air.
Nursery Rhyme. LXII. Tales.
by Unknown

[The following lines, slightly altered, occur in a little black-letter book by W. Wagner, printed about the year 1561; entitled, 'A very mery and pythie commedie, called, the longer thou livest, the more foole thou art.' See also a whole song, ending with these lines, in Ritson's 'North Country Chorister,' 8vo, Durham, 1802, p. 1.]
Bryan O'Lin, and his wife, and wife's mother,
They all went over a bridge together:
The bridge was broken, and they all fell in,
The deuce go with all! quoth Bryan O'Lin.
Battle Bunny
by Bret Harte (Francis)

(Malvern Hill, 1864)
'After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a corporal.'
- Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.
Bunny, lying in the grass,
Saw the shining column pass;
Saw the starry banner fly,
Saw the chargers fret and fume,
Saw the flapping hat and plume,
Saw them with his moist and shy
Most unspeculative eye,
Thinking only, in the dew,
That it was a fine review.
Till a flash, not all of steel,
Where the rolling caissons wheel,
Brought a rumble and a roar
Rolling down that velvet floor,
And like blows of autumn flail
Sharply threshed the iron hail.
Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears,
Raised his soft and pointed ears,
Mumbled his prehensile lip,
Quivered his pulsating hip,
As the sharp vindictive yell
Rose above the screaming shell;
Thought the world and all its men,
All the charging squadrons meant,
All were rabbit-hunters then,
All to capture him intent.
Bunny was not much to blame:
Wiser folk have thought the same,
Wiser folk who think they spy
Every ill begins with 'I.'
Wildly panting here and there,
Bunny sought the freer air,
Till he hopped below the hill,
And saw, lying close and still,
Men with muskets in their hands.
(Never Bunny understands
That hypocrisy of sleep,
In the vigils grim they keep,
As recumbent on that spot
They elude the level shot.)
One a grave and quiet man,
Thinking of his wife and child
Far beyond the Rapidan,
Where the Androscoggin smiled
Felt the little rabbit creep,
Nestling by his arm and side,
Wakened from strategic sleep,
To that soft appeal replied,
Drew him to his blackened breast,
And    But you have guessed the rest.
Softly o'er that chosen pair
Omnipresent Love and Care
Drew a mightier Hand and Arm,
Shielding them from every harm;
Right and left the bullets waved,
Saved the saviour for the saved.
Who believes that equal grace
God extends in every place,
Little difference he scans
'Twixt a rabbit's God and man's.
The Dinner-bell Rings.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Mrs. Merdle Describes the Sufferings of Dyspepsia and its Remedy.
But come, now, I hear by the sound of the ringing
That dinner is ready; and time none to spare
To finish our eating in time for the singing
At Niblo's; or at Burton's drop in for a stare.
To 'kill time' the object, whatever the source is,
And that is the reason we sit at the table
And call for our dinner in slow-coming courses,
To kill, while we eat, all the time we are able.
Though little, I told you, that's worthy your taste
You'll find on our table, pray don't think us mean--
Your welcome is ample--that's better than waste--
Oh! here comes the soup in a silver tureen--
'Tis mock turtle too--so good for digestion:
That kills me by inches, the wretched complaint
Dyspepsia--to cure which, I take by suggestion
Port-wine in the soup, when I feel slightly faint.
Central Park At Dusk
by Sara Teasdale

Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream,
While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.
There is no sign of leaf or bud,
A hush is over everything.
Silent as women wait for love,
The world is waiting for the spring.
Yarrow Unvisited
by William Wordsworth

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
'What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.'
Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we'er there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow!
'If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly, 
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
The Sonnets LXXIV - But be contented: when that fell arrest
by William Shakespeare

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered,.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
The Sonnets XCII - But do thy worst to steal thyself away
by William Shakespeare

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
The Humble-Bee
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,--
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
Upon Burr.
by Robert Herrick

Burr is a smell-feast, and a man alone,
That, where meat is, will be a hanger on.
Buie Annajohn.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Buie Annajohn was the king's black mare,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!
Satin was her coat and silk was her hair,
Buie Annajohn,
The young king's own.
March with the white moon, march with the sun,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Buie Annajohn, when the dew lay hoar,
(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)
Down through the meadowlands went to war,--
Buie Annajohn,
The young king's own.
March by the river road, march by the dune,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Buie Annajohn had the heart of flame,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!
First of the hosts to the hostings came
Buie Annajohn,
The young king's own.
March till we march the red sun down,
March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Back from the battle at the close of day,
(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)
Came with the war cheers, came with a neigh,
Buie Annajohn,
The young king's own.
Oh, heavy was the sword that we laid on;
But half of the heave was Buie Annajohn,
Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!
To The Moon.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Bush and vale thou fill'st again
With thy misty ray,
And my spirit's heavy chain
Castest far away.
Thou dost o'er my fields extend
Thy sweet soothing eye,
Watching like a gentle friend,
O'er my destiny.
Vanish'd days of bliss and woe
Haunt me with their tone,
Joy and grief in turns I know,
As I stray alone.
Stream beloved, flow on! flow on!
Ne'er can I be gay!
Thus have sport and kisses gone,
Truth thus pass'd away.
Once I seem'd the lord to be
Of that prize so fair!
Now, to our deep sorrow, we
Can forget it ne'er.
Murmur, stream, the vale along,
Never cease thy sighs;
Murmur, whisper to my song
Answering melodies!
When thou in the winter's night
Overflow'st in wrath,
Or in spring-time sparklest bright,
As the buds shoot forth.
He who from the world retires,
Void of hate, is blest;
Who a friend's true love inspires,
Leaning on his breast!
That which heedless man ne'er knew,
Or ne'er thought aright,
Roams the bosom's labyrinth through,
Boldly into night.
Upon Buggins.
by Robert Herrick

Buggins is drunk all night, all day he sleeps;
This is the level-coil that Buggins keeps.
The Building.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

"Build me a house," said the Master,
"But not on the shifting sand,
Mid the wreck and roar of tempests,
A house that will firmly stand.
"I will bring thee windows of agates,
And gates of carbuncles bright,
And thy fairest courts and portals
Shall be filled with love and light.
"Thou shalt build with fadeless rubies,
All fashioned around the throne,
A house that shall last forever,
With Christ as the cornerstone.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XLIV.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Buds of roses, virgin flowers,
Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep.
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.
Even the Gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillets braids,
When with the blushing sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing.
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance,
Commingling soul with every glance!
The Bridge Of Cloud
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken
Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold!
Ah, no longer wizard Fancy
Builds her castles in the air,
Luring me by necromancy
Up the never-ending stair!
But, instead, she builds me bridges
Over many a dark ravine,
Where beneath the gusty ridges
Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar,
As I follow the receding
Footsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture,
Naught avails the cry of pain!
When I touch the flying vesture,
'T is the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and, leaning
O'er the parapets of cloud,
Watch the mist that intervening
Wraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascending
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear,
Murmur of bells and voices blending
With the rush of waters near.
Well I know what there lies hidden,
Every tower and town and farm,
And again the land forbidden
Reassumes its vanished charm.
Well I know the secret places,
And the nests in hedge and tree;
At what doors are friendly faces,
In what hearts are thoughts of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking,
Blown by wind and beaten by shower,
Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,
Down I toss this Alpine flower.
On a Train
by Michael Earls

But a fortnight later, by an autumn tree,
Aileen and her brother came my way,
And another, glad to tell the names of them and me,
And to hear how travellers can play.
Life is but a journey, say we evermore,
Passing lights the years have, like a train;
Three good friends will travel up to heaven's door,
With the world a merry window-pane.
Upon A Child. An Epitaph.
by Robert Herrick

But born, and like a short delight,
I glided by my parents' sight.
That done, the harder fates denied
My longer stay, and so I died.
If, pitying my sad parents' tears,
You'll spill a tear or two with theirs,
And with some flowers my grave bestrew,
Love and they'll thank you for't. Adieu.