DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The September Gale
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing, - 
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder, - 
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p'taters;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter, - 
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, - 
I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches, - 
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, - 
"My breeches! Oh my breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!
Apocalypse.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I'm wife; I've finished that,
That other state;
I'm Czar, I'm woman now:
It's safer so.
How odd the girl's life looks
Behind this soft eclipse!
I think that earth seems so
To those in heaven now.
This being comfort, then
That other kind was pain;
But why compare?
I'm wife! stop there!
Little-Girl-Two-Little-Girls
by James Whitcomb Riley

I'm twins, I guess, 'cause my Ma say
I'm two little girls. An' one o' me
Is Good little girl; an' th'other 'n' she
Is Bad little girl as she can be!
An' Ma say so, 'most ever' day.
An' she's the funniest Ma! 'Cause when
My Doll won't mind, an' I ist cry,
W'y, nen my Ma she sob an' sigh,
An' say, "Dear Good little girl, good-bye! - 
Bad little girl's comed here again!"
Last time 'at Ma act' thataway,
I cried all to myse'f awhile
Out on the steps, an' nen I smile,
An' git my Doll all fix' in style,
An' go in where Ma's at, an' say:
"Morning to you, Mommy dear!
Where's that Bad little girl wuz here?
Bad little girl's goned clean away,
An' Good little girl's comed back to stay."
Twenty-Two.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

I'm twenty-two - I'm twenty-two - 
They gaily give me joy,
As if I should be glad to hear
That I was less a boy.
They do not know how carelessly
Their words have given pain,
To one whose heart would leap to be
A happy boy again.
I had a light and careless heart
When this brief year began,
And then I pray'd that I might be
A grave and perfect man.
The world was like a blessed dream
Of joyous coming years - 
I did not know its manliness
Was but to wake in tears.
A change has on my spirit come,
I am forever sad;
The light has all departed now
My early feelings had;
I used to love the morning grey,
The twilight's quiet deep,
But now like shadows on the sea,
Upon my thoughts they creep.
And love was like a holy star,
When this brief year was young,
And my whole worship of the sky
On one sweet ray was flung;
But worldly things have come between,
And shut it from my sight,
And though the star shines purely yet,
I mourn its hidden light.
And fame! I bent to it the knee,
And bow'd to it my brow,
And it is like a coal upon
My living spirit now - 
But when I pray'd for burning fire
To touch the soul I bow'd,
I did not know the lightning flash
Would come in such a cloud.
Ye give me joy! Is it because
Another year has fled? - 
That I am farther from my youth,
And nearer to the dead?
Is it because my cares have come? - 
My happy boyhood o'er? - 
Because the visions I have lov'd
Will visit me no more?
Oh, tell me not that ye are glad!
I cannot smile it back;
I've found no flower, and seen no light
On manhood's weary track.
My love is deep - ambition deep - 
And heart and mind will on - 
But love is fainting by the way,
And fame consumes ere won.
A Bushman's Song
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

I'm traveling down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand,
I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.
So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out,
With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog.
We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.
This old black horse I'm riding, if you'll notice what's his brand,
He wears the crooked R, you see, none better in the land.
He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried,
For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pound a side.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out,
But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog,
He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.
I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy:
"We shear non-union here," says he. "I call it scab," says I.
I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go,
There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.
So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,
And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.
I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm;
He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm:
The landlord owns the country-side, man, woman, dog, and cat,
They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out,
Was I to touch my hat to him?, was I his bloomin' dog?
So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.
But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go
Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;
Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down,
And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.
So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
We've got to make a shift to the stations further out:
The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a log,
And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.
Cells
by Rudyard Kipling

I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick,
I've a mouth like an old potato, and I'm more than a little sick,
But I've had my fun o' the Corp'ral's Guard: I've made the cinders fly,
And I'm here in the Clink for a thundering drink and blacking the Corporal's eye.
With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
And a beautiful view of the yard,
O it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard!"
Mad drunk and resisting the Guard,
'Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard."
I started o' canteen porter, I finished o' canteen beer,
But a dose o' gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.
'Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt,
But I fell away with the Corp'ral's stock and the best of the Corp'ral's shirt.
I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,
And Lord knows where, and I don't care, my belt and my tunic goed;
They'll stop my pay, they'll cut away the stripes I used to wear,
But I left my mark on the Corp'ral's face, and I think he'll keep it there!
My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard,
It ain't that I mind the Ord'ly room, it's that that cuts so hard.
I'll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
But as soon as I'm in with a mate and gin, I know I'll do it again!
With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
And a beautiful view of the yard,
Yes, it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard!"
Mad drunk and resisting the Guard,
'Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
For "drunk and resisting the Guard."
Spleen
by Charles Baudelaire

I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins
Flows ag'd blood; who rules a land of rains;
Who, young in years, is old in all distress;
Who flees good counsel to find weariness
Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred
Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird;
Whose weary face emotion moves no more
E'en when his people die before his door.
His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile
Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile;
The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good,
Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood
No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom
Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb.
The sage who takes his gold essays in vain
To purge away the old corrupted strain,
His baths of blood, that in the days of old
The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold,
Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains,
For green Lethean water fills his veins.
Keep A-Pluggin' Away
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I've a humble little motto
That is homely, though it 's true,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
It's a thing when I 've an object
That I always try to do,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
When you 've rising storms to quell,
When opposing waters swell,
It will never fail to tell,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
If the hills are high before
And the paths are hard to climb,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
And remember that successes
Come to him who bides his time,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
From the greatest to the least,
None are from the rule released.
Be thou toiler, poet, priest,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Delve away beneath the surface,
There is treasure farther down,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Let the rain come down in torrents,
Let the threat'ning heavens frown,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
When the clouds have rolled away,
There will come a brighter day
All your labor to repay,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
There 'll be lots of sneers to swallow,
There 'll be lots of pain to bear,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
If you 've got your eye on heaven,
Some bright day you 'll wake up there,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Perseverance still is king;
Time its sure reward will bring;
Work and wait unwearying,--
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Wishes
by Alan L. Strang

A BIRTHDAY WISH.
I'm wishing a happy birthday,
To you my dear sweet friend;
And may every day be a happy day
Is the wish I will always send.
A CHRISTMAS WISH.
A Merry Christmas Wish to you,
And may your heart be gay;
May Santa bring you many things,
This Merry Christmas day.
A NEW YEAR WISH
A happy happy, New Year,
We all are wishing you;
We hope no sorrow you shall know
This whole year through.
Song of the Sewing-Machine
by George Pope Morris

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!
Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;
And, unlike the drudges human,
Never weary night or day;
Never shedding tears of sorrow,
Never mourning friends untrue,
Never caring for the morrow,
Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster!
Merrily I glide along,
For no thankless, sordid master,
Ever seeks to do me wrong:
No extortioners oppress me,
No insulting words I dread--
I've no children to distress me
With unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature,
For endurance framed aright;
I'm not pale misfortune's creature,
Doomed life's battle here to fight:
Mine's a song of cheerful measure,
And no under-currents flow
To destroy the throb of pleasure
Which the poor so seldom know.
In the hall I hold my station,
With the wealthy ones of earth,
Who commend me to the nation
For economy and worth,
While unpaid the female labor,
In the attic-chamber lone,
Where the smile of friend or neighbor
Never for a moment shone.
My creation is a blessing
To the indigent secured,
Banishing the cares distressing
Which so many have endured:
Mine are sinews superhuman,
Ribs of oak and nerves of steel--
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman
Born to toil and not to feel.
J. Forbes-Robertson
by Oliver Herford

I'm told the Artist who aspires
To draw Forbes-Robertson requires
A Sargent's brush. Dear me! how sad!
I've lost the only one I had.
Reflections. Addressed To The Author Of The Article Of The Church In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review.
by Thomas Moore

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud
That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff;
For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed
That even too much of it's not quite enough.
Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;--
Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he
Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills,
Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.
I verily think 'twould be worth England's while
To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether
'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.
The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;
The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]
And now if King William would make them a present
To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it!
Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,
Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;
While colonels in black would afford some relief
From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.
Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)
The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!
How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin,
To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!
For in one point alone do the amply fed race
Of bishops to beggars similitude bear--
That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,
And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where.
But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,
Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;
And a good stanch Conservative's system is such
That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.
I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind;--
Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour:
And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.
The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before."
Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand
With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother;
And, covering with prisons and churches the land,
All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.
For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined
To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously,
Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined
(Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.
The Happy Little Cripple
by James Whitcomb Riley

I'm thist a little cripple boy, an' never goin' to grow
An' get a great big man at all! - 'cause Aunty told me so.
When I was thist a baby onc't, I falled out of the bed
An' got "The Curv'ture of the Spine" - 'at's what the Doctor said.
I never had no Mother nen - fer my Pa runned away
An' dassn't come back here no more - 'cause he was drunk one day
An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine!
An' nen my Ma she died - an' I got "Curv'ture of the Spine!"
I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet! -
Last birthday I weighed thirty-three! - An' I weigh thirty yet!
I'm awful little fer my size - I'm purt' nigh littler 'nan
Some babies is! - an' neighbers all calls me "The Little Man!"
An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: "I 'spect, first thing you know,
You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!"
An' nen I laughed - till I looked round an' Aunty was a-cryin' -
Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got "Curv'ture of the Spine."
I set - while Aunty's washin' - on my little long-leg stool,
An' watch the little boys an' girls a-skippin' by to school;
An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say:
"Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all today?"
An', nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through,
An' they all says: "Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you!"
An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine -
They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got "Curv'ture of the Spine!"
At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire,
An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it higher,
An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' locked the kitchen door,
An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor -
She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea,
An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg fer me;
An' sometimes - when I cough so hard - her elderberry wine
Don't go so bad fer little boys with "Curv'ture of the Spine!"
But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see,
I'm 'most afeard she'll be took down - an' 'at's what bothers me! -
'Cause ef my good old Aunty ever would git sick an' die,
I don't know what she'd do in heaven - till I come, by an' by: -
Fer she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know,
An' no one there like me, to nuss an' worry over so! -
'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong an' fine,
They's nary angel 'bout the place with "Curv'ture of the Spine!"
Sister Ann
by Edward Dyson

I'm lyin' in a narrow bed,
'N' starin' at a wall.
Where all is white my plastered head
Is whitest of it all.
My life is jist a whitewashed blank,
With flamin' spurts of pain.
I dunno who I've got to thank,
I've p'raps been trod on by a tank,
Or caught out in the rain
When skies were peltin' fish-plates, bricks 'n' lengths of bullock-chain.
I'm lyin' here, a sulky swine,
'N' hatin' of the bloke
Who's in the doss right next to mine
With 'arf his girders broke.
He never done no 'arm t me,
'N' he's pertickler ill;
But I have got him snouted, see,
'N' all old earth beside but she
Come with the chemist's swill,
'N' puts a kind, soft 'and on mine, 'n' all my nark is still.
She ain't a beaut, she's thirty two,
She scales eleven stone;
But, 'struth, I didn't think it true
There was such women grown!
She's nurse 'n' sister, mum 'n' dad,
'N' all that straight 'n' fine
In every girl I ever had.
When Gabr'el comes, 'n' all the glad
Young saints are tipped the sign,
You'll see this donah take her place, first angel in the line!
She's sweet 'n' cool, her touch is dew,
Wet lilies on yer brow.
(Jist 'ark et me what never knew
Of lilies up to now).
She fits your case in 'arf a wink,
'N' knows how, why, 'n' where.
If you are five days gone in drink,
N' hoverin' on perdition's brink,
It is her brother there.
God how pain will take a man, and He has spoke with her!
I dunno if she ever sleeps
Ten minutes at a stretch.
A dozen times a night she creeps
To soothe a screamin' wretch
Who has a tiger-headed Hun
A-gnawin' at his chest.
'N' when the long, 'ard flght is won,
'N' he is still 'n' nearly done,
She smiles down on his rest,
'N' minds me of a mother with a baby at her breast.
The curly kid we cuddled when
There was no splendid row
(It seemed a little matter then,
But feels so wondrous now).
It's part of her. She's Joan iv Ark,
Flo Nightingale, all fair
'N' dinkum dames who've made their mark
If she comes tip-toe in the dark,
We blighters feel her there.
The whole pack perks up like a bird, 'n' sorter takes the air.
She chats you in a 'Ighland botch;
But if our Sis saw fit
To pitch Hindoo instead of Scotch
I'd get the hang of it,
Because her heart it is that talks
What now is plain to me.
At war where bloody murder stalks,
'N' Nick his hottest samples hawks.
I have been given to see
What simple human kindness is, what brotherhood may be.
William Howard Taft
by Oliver Herford

I'm sorry William Taft is out
Of Politics; without a doubt
Of all the Presidential crew
He was the easiest to do.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLIV. Games.
by Unknown

DROP-GLOVE.
[Children stand round in a circle, leaving a space between each. One walks round the outside, and carries a glove in her hand, saying:]
I've a glove in my hand,
Hittity Hot!
Another in my other hand,
Hotter than that!
So I sow beans, and so they come up,
Some in a mug, and some in a cup.
I sent a letter to my love,
I lost it, I lost it!
I found it, I found it!
It burns, it scalds.
[Repeating the last words very rapidly, till she drops the glove behind one of them, and whoever has the glove must overtake her, following her exactly in and out till she catches her. If the pursuer makes a mistake in the pursuit, she loses, and the game is over; otherwise she continues the game with the glove.]
I'm With You Once Again.
by George Pope Morris

I'm with you once again, my friends,
No more my footsteps roam;
Where it began my journey ends,
Amid the scenes of home.
No other clime has skies so blue,
Or streams so broad and clear,
And where are hearts so warm and true
As those that meet me here?
Since last with spirits, wild and free,
I pressed my native strand,
I've wandered many miles at sea,
And many miles on land.
I've seen fair realms of the earth
By rude commotion torn,
Which taught me how to prize the worth
Of that where I was born.
In other countries, when I heard
The language of my own,
How fondly each familiar word
Awoke an answering tone!
But when our woodland songs were sung
Upon a foreign mart,
The vows that faltered on the tongue
With rapture thrilled the heart!
My native land, I turn to you,
With blessing and with prayer,
Where man is brave and woman true,
And free as mountain air.
Long may our flag in triumph wave
Against the world combined,
And friends a welcome--foes a grave,
Within our borders find.