DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Telling The Bees
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blooms, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed,
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before,
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go.
Then I said to myself, 'My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day;
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.'
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:
'Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!'
The Beast
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for sportsmen when at table:
There was a boar, like that Atalanta hunted,
Who gorged and snored and, unmolested, grunted,
His fat way through the world as such able.
Huge-jowled and paunched and porcine-limbed and marrowed,
King of his kind, deep in his lair he squatted,
And round him fames of many maidens rotted
Where Licence whelped and Lust her monsters farrowed.
There came a damsel, like the one in Spenser,
A Britomart, as sorcerous as Circe,
Who pierced him with a tract, her spear, and ended
The beast's career. Made him a man; a censor
Of public morals; arbiter of mercy;
And led him by the nose and called him splendid.
The Dawn After The Dance
by Thomas Hardy

Here is your parents' dwelling with its curtained windows telling
Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here;
Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal
Matrimonial commonplace and household life's mechanic gear.
I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly
As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now,
So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing,
But will clasp you just as always - just the olden love avow.
Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together,
And this long night's dance this year's end eve now finishes the spell;
Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning
Of a cord we have spun to breaking - too intemperately, too well.
Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear,
When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and heard;
Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first thing
That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word!
That which makes man's love the lighter and the woman's burn no brighter
Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year . . .
And there stands your father's dwelling with its blind bleak windows telling
That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere.
WEYMOUTH, 1869.
Treasure
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for infants and old nurses:
There was a man who gathered rags; and peddled:
Who lived alone: with no one ever meddled:
And this old man was very fond of verses.
His house, a ruin, so the tale rehearses;
A hovel over-run of rats and vermin;
Not fit for beast to live in. (Like a sermon
Embodying misery and hell and curses.)
There, one grey dawn of rain and windy weather,
They found him dead; starved; o'er a written paper;
Beside a dim and half-expiring taper:
It was a play, the poor fool'd put together,
Of gnomes and fairies, for his own sad pleasure:
And folks destroyed it, saying, "We seek for treasure."
An Incident
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for men and women teachers:
There was a girl who'd ceased to be a maiden;
Who walked by night with heart like Lilith's laden;
A child of sin anathemaed of preachers.
She had been lovely once; but dye and scarlet,
On hair and face, had ravaged all her beauty;
Only her eyes still did her girl-soul duty,
Showing the hell that hounded her poor harlot!
One day a fisherman from out the river
Fished her pale body, (like a branch of willlow,
Or golden weed) self-murdered, drowned and broken:
The sight of it had made a strong man shiver;
And on her poor breast, as upon a pillow,
A picture smiled, a baby's, like some token
Death And The Fool
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for any man or woman:
A fool sought Death; and braved him with his bauble
Among the graves. At last he heard a hobble,
And something passed him, monstrous, super-human.
And by a tomb, that reared a broken column,
He heard it stop. And then Gargantuan laughter
Shattered the hush. Deep silence followed after,
Filled with the stir of bones, cadaverous, solemn.
Then said the fool:"Come! show thyself, old prancer!
I'll have a bout with thee. I, too, can clatter
My wand and motley. Come now! Death and Folly,
See who's the better man." There was no answer;
Only his bauble broke; a serious matter
To the poor fool who died of melancholy.
Service
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for proper men and virgins:
There was a woman once who had a daughter,
A fair-faced wench, as stable as is water,
And frailer than the first spring flower that burgeons.
She did not need to work, but then her mother
Thought it more suitable, and circumspectly
Put her with gentlefolks, where, indirectly,
She rose in service as has many another.
The house she served in soon became divided:
The wife and husband parted, with some scandal:
But she remained and, in the end, was married.
What happened then? You'll say, "The girl decided
She loved another. "Nay; not so. The vandal
Wrecked no more homes but lived a life unvaried.
The Goose
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for spinsters at their sewing:
There was a goose, a little gosling surely,
Who went her goose-girl way and looked demurely
As every goose should when 'tis wise and knowing.
Proper was she as every gosling should be,
And innocent as Margarete or Gretchen,
And did her duty in the house and kitchen,
And like a goose was happy as she could be.
Smug was she with a sleek and dove-like dimple,
Great gooseberry eyes and cheeks out of the dairy:
A goose, aye, just a goose, a little dumb thing.
One day the goose was gone. The tale is simple.
She had eloped. 'Twas nothing ordinary.
A married man with children. That was something.
Cruel Frederick
by Heinrich Hoffmann

Here is cruel Frederick, see!
A horrid wicked boy was he;
He caught the flies, poor little things,
And then tore off their tiny wings,
He killed the birds, and broke the chairs,
And threw the kitten down the stairs;
And oh! far worse than all beside,
He whipped his Mary, till she cried.
The trough was full, and faithful Tray
Came out to drink one sultry day;
He wagged his tail, and wet his lip,
When cruel Fred snatched up a whip,
And whipped poor Tray till he was sore,
And kicked and whipped him more and more:
At this, good Tray grew very red,
And growled, and bit him till he bled;
Then you should only have been by,
To see how Fred did scream and cry!
So Frederick had to go to bed:
His leg was very sore and red!
The Doctor came, and shook his head,
And made a very great to-do,
And gave him nasty physic too.
But good dog Tray is happy now;
He has no time to say "Bow-wow!"
He seats himself in Frederick's chair
And laughs to see the nice things there:
The soup he swallows, sup by sup--
And eats the pies and puddings up.
Verses On Games
by Rudyard Kipling

Here is a horse to tame
Here is a gun to handle
God knows you can enter the game
If you'll only pay for the same,
And the price of the game is a candle,
A single flickering candle!
JANUARY (Hunting)
Certes, it is a noble sport,
And men have quitted selle and swum for't.
But I am of the meeker sort
And I prefer Surtees in comfort.
Reach me my Handley Cross again,
My run, where never danger lurks, is
With Jorrocks and his deathless train,
Pigg, Binjimin, and Artexerxes.
FEBRUARY (Coursing)
Most men harry the world for fun,
Each man seeks it a different way,
But 'of all daft devils under the sun,
A greyhound's the daftest' says Jorrocks J.
MARCH (Racing)
The horse is ridden, the jockey rides,
The backers back, the owners own
But . . . there are lots of things beside,
And I should let this game alone.
APRIL (Rowing)
The Pope of Rome he could not win
From pleasant meats and pleasant sin
These who, replying not, submit
Unto the curses of the pit
Which that stern coach (oh, greater shame)
Flings forth by number not by name.
Can Triple Crown or Jesuit's oath
Do what one wrathful trainer doth?
MAY (Fishing)
Behold a parable. A fished for B
C took her bait; her heart being set on D.
Thank heaven who cooled your blood and cramped your wishes,
Men and not Gods torment you, little fishes!
JUNE (Cricket)
Thank God who made the British Isles
And taught me how to play,
I do not worship crocodiles,
Or bow the knee to clay!
Give me a willow wand and I
With hide and cork and twine
From century to century
Will gambol round my shrine!
JULY (Archery)
The child of the Nineties considers with laughter
The maid whom his sire in the Sixties ran after,
While careering himself in pursuit of a girl whom
The Twenties will dub a 'last century heirloom.'
AUGUST (Coaching)
The Pious Horse to church may trot,
A maid may work a man's salvation . . . .
Four horses and a girl are not,
However, roads to reformation.
SEPTEMBER (Shooting)
'Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men'
So greet we Christmas Day!
Oh, Christian, load your gun and then
Oh, Christian, out and slay.
OCTOBER (Golf)
Why Golf is art and art is Golf
We have not far to seek,
So much depends upon the lie,
So much upon the cleek.
NOVEMBER (Boxing)
Read here the moral roundly writ
For him who into battle goes,
Each soul that hitting hard or hit,
Endureth gross or ghostly foes.
Prince, blown by many overthrows
Half blind with shame, half choked with dirt
Man cannot tell, but Allah knows
How much the other side was hurt!
DECEMBER (Skating)
Over the ice she flies
Perfect and poised and fair.
Stars in my true-love's eyes
Teach me to do and dare.
Now will I fly as she flies,
Woe for the stars that misled.
Stars I beheld in her eyes,
Now do I see in my head!
Now we must come away.
That are you out of pocket ?
'Sorry to spoil your play
But somebody says we must pay
And the candle's down to the socket,
Its horrible tallowy socket
The Scarecrow
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for prelates and for parsons:
There was a scarecrow once, a thing of tatters
And sticks and straw, to whom men trusted matters
Of weighty moment murders, thefts and arsons.
None saw he was a scarecrow. Every worship
And honour his. Men set him in high places,
And ladies primped their bodies, tinged their faces,
And kneeled to him as slaves to some great Sirship.
One night a storm, none knew it, blew to pieces
Our jackstraw friend, and the sweet air of heaven
Knew him no more, and was no longer tainted.
Then learned doctors put him in their theses:
The State set up his statue: and thought, even
As thought the Church, perhaps he should be sainted.
The Toad
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale to tell to rich relations:
There was a toad, a Calibanic monster,
In whose squat head ambition had ensconced her
Most bloated jewel, dear to highest stations.
He was received, though mottled as a lichen
In coat and character, because the creature
Croaked as the devil prompted him, or nature,
And said the right thing both in hall and kitchen.
To each he sang according to their liking,
And purred his flattery in the ear of Leisure,
Cringing attendance on the proud and wealthy.
One day a crane, with features of a Viking,
Swallowed him whole and did it with great pleasure:
His system needed such; toads kept him healthy.
In Memory Of M. B.
by Anna Akhmatova

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,
would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.
Written In The Blank Leaf Of A Lady's Commonplace Book.
by Thomas Moore

Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!
The Owl
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for ladies with romances:
There was an owl; composer and musician,
Who looked as wise as if he had a mission,
And at all art cast supercilious glances.
People proclaimed him great because he said it;
And, like the great, he never played, nor printed
His compositions, 'though 'twas whispered, hinted
He'd written something but no one had read it.
Owl-eyed he posed at functions of position,
Hirsute, and eye-glassed, looking analytic,
Opening his mouth to worshipping female knowledge:
And then he married. A woman of ambition.
A singer, teacher, and a musical critic.
Just what he wanted. He became a college.
The Cabbage
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for any one who wishes:
There grew a cabbage once among the flowers,
A plain, broad cabbage a good wench, whose hours
Were kitchen-busy with plebeian dishes.
The rose and lily, toilless, without mottle,
Patricians born, despised her: "How unpleasant!"
They cried;"What odour! Worse than any peasant
Who soils God's air! Give us our smelling- bottle."
There came a gentleman who owned the garden,
Looking about him at both flower and edible,
Admiring here and there; a simple sinner,
Who sought some bud to be his heart's sweet warden:
But passed the flowers and took it seems incredible!
That cabbage! But a man must have his dinner.
The Ape
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for maidens and for mothers:
There was an ape, a very prince of monkeys,
Who capered in the world of fools and flunkies,
The envy of his set and of all others.
He was the handbook of all social manners:
The beau of beaux, and simian glass of fashion,
To whom all folly functioned, played at passion,
And matrimony waved beleaguering banners.
A girl of girls, one God had given graces
And beauty, more than oft He grants to human,
Captured the creature, and they were united.
And strange to say, she loved him. Saw no traces
Of ape in him. And, like a very woman,
Reformed her countenance, and was delighted.
Inlet And Shore.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Here is a world of changing glow,
Where moods roll swiftly far and wide;
Waves sadder than a funeral's pride,
Or bluer than the harebell's blow!
The sunlight makes the black hulls cast
A firefly radiance down the deep;
The inlet gleams, the long clouds sweep,
The sails flit up, the sails drop past.
The far sea-line is hushed and still;
The nearer sea has life and voice;
Each soul may take his fondest choice, - 
The silence, or the restless thrill.
O little children of the deep, - 
The single sails, the bright, full sails,
Gold in the sun, dark when it fails,
Now you are smiling, then you weep!
O blue of heaven, and bluer sea,
And green of wave, and gold of sky,
And white of sand that stretches by,
Toward east and west, away from me!
O shell-strewn shore, that silent hears
The legend of the mighty main,
And tells to none the lore again, - 
We catch one utterance only: "Years!"
A Song For The Hills.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Here is the freedom men die for,--die for but never know;
Here is the peace they pray for shrined in eternal snow;
Down on the plain the city moans with a human cry,
But here there is naught but silence,--peace, and the wide, wide sky.
Here are the dawn's first footfalls, and the twilight's last farewell,
The benediction of starlight, and the moon's sweet canticle;
Here is one spot as God made it, far from the plainsman's range,
Or the march of the cycling seasons with their everlasting change.
Down on the plain the city moans with a human cry,
And the man-gnomes delve and burrow for gold till they drop and die;
But here there is naught for conquest and the spoiler stands at bay,
For God still keeps one playground where He and His whirlwinds play.
Literature.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Here is a banquet-table of delights,
A sumptuous feast of true ambrosial food;
Here is a journey among goodly sights,
In choice society or solitude;
Here is a treasury of gems and gold -
Of purest gold and gems of brightest sheen;
Here is a landscape gloriously unroll'd,
Of heights sublime and pleasant vales between.
Here is the realm of Thought, diverse and wide,
To Genius and her sovereign sons assign'd;
The universal church, o'er which preside
The heaven-anointed hierarchy of mind
And spirit; the imperishable pride
And testament and promise of mankind.
Loveridge Chase
by Edgar Lee Masters

Here is the secret of the death of Elenor,
From what I learn of her, from what I know
In living, knowing women, I am clear
About this Elenor Murray. Give me power
To get the letters, power to give a bond
To indemnify the company, for you know
Letters belong to him who writes the letters;
And if the company is given bond
It will surrender them, and then you'll know
What man she loved, this Gregory Wenner or
Some other man, and if some other man,
Whether he caused her death.
The coroner
And Loveridge Chase sat in the coroner's office
And talked the matter over. And the coroner,
Who knew this Loveridge Chase, was wondering
Why Loveridge Chase had taken up the work
Of secret service, followed it, and asked,
"How did you come to give your brains to this,
Who could do other things?" And Loveridge said:
"A woman made me, I went round the world
As jackie once, was brought into this world
By a mother good and wise, but took from her,
My father, someone, sense of chivalry
Too noble for this world, a pity too,
Abused too much by women. I came back,
Was hired in a bank; had I gone on
By this time had been up in banking circles,
But something happened. You can guess, I think
It was a woman, was my wife Leone.
It matters nothing here, except I knew
This Elenor Murray through my wife. These two
Were schoolmates, even chums. I'll get these letters
If you commission me. The fact is this:
I think this Elenor Murray and Leone
Were kindred spirits, and it does me good
Now that I'm living thus without a wife
To ferret out this matter of Elenor Murray,
Perhaps this way, or somewhere on the way,
Find news of my Leone; what life she lives,
And where she is. I'm curious still, you see."
Then Coroner Merival, who had not heard
Of Elenor Murray's letters in New York
Before this talk of Loveridge Chase, who heard
This story and analysis of Leone
Mixed in with other talk, and got a light
On Elenor Murray, said: "I know your work,
Know you as well, have confidence in you,
Make ready to go, and bring the letters back."
And on the day that Loveridge Chase departs
To get the letters in New York, Bernard,
A veteran of Belleau, married that day
To Amy Whidden, on a lofty dune
At Millers, Indiana, with his bride - 
Long quiet, tells her something of the war.
These soldiers cannot speak what they have lived.
But Elenor Murray helps him; for the talk
Of Elenor Murray runs the rounds, so many
Stations whence the talk is sent: - the men
Or women who had known her, came in touch
Somehow with her. These newly wedded two
Go out to see blue water, yellow sand,
And watch the white caps pat the sky, and hear
The intermittent whispers of the waves.
And here Bernard, the soldier, tells his bride
Of Elenor Murray and their days at Nice:
The Gold Fields.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me:
Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land,
Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand,
And men forsake their God to bow the knee
Again unto this world-old deity
Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth,
Whether they track the grim and icy North,
Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea.
About his throne they crawl and curse and weep;
The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold
Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep,
Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;--
And over all still burns God's warning scroll:
"What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"
The Criminal
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for all who wish to listen:
There was a thief who, in his cut-throat quarter,
Was hailed as chief; he had a way of barter,
Persuasion, masked, behind a weapon's glisten,
That made it cockrow with each good man's riches.
At last he joined the Brotherhood of Murder,
And rose in his profession; lived a herder
Of crime in some dark tavern of the ditches.
There was a war. He went. Became a gunner.
And slew, as soldiers should, his many a hundred,
In authorized and most professional manner.
Here he advanced again. Was starred a oner.
Was captained, pensioned, and nobody wondered;
And lived and died respectable as a tanner.
Thoughts At Sea.
by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Here is the boundless ocean, there the sky,
O'er-arching broad and blue 
Telling of God and heaven how deep, how high,
How glorious and true!
Upon the wave there is an anthem sweet,
Whispered in fear and love,
Sending a solemn tribute to the feet
Of Him who sits above.
God of the waters! Nature owns her King!
The Sea thy sceptre knows;
At thy command the tempest spreads its wing,
Or folds it to repose.
And when the whirlwind hath gone rushing by,
Obedient to thy will,
What reverence sits upon the wave and sky,
Humbled, subdued, and still!
Oh! let my soul, like this submissive sea,
With peace upon its breast,
By the deep influence of thy Spirit be
Holy and hushed to rest.
And as the gladdening sun lights up the morn,
Bidding the storm depart,
So may the Sun of Righteousness adorn,
With love, my shadowed heart.
The Nightingale Near The House
by Harold Edward Monro

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:
It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond
Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
Stares. And you sing, you sing.
That star-enchanted song falls through the air
From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,
Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;
And all the night you sing.
My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee
As all night long I listen, and my brain
Receives your song, then loses it again
In moonlight on the lawn.
Now is your voice a marble high and white,
Then like a mist on fields of paradise,
Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,
Then breaks, and it is dawn.