DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Lady And The Dame
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

So, thou hast the art, good dame, thou swearest,
To keep Time's perishing touch at bay
From the roseate splendour of the cheek so tender,
And the silver threads from the gold away.
And the tell-tale years that have hurried by us
Shall tip-toe back, and, with kind good-will,
They shall take the traces from off our faces,
If we will trust to thy magic skill.
Thou speakest fairly; but if I listen
And buy thy secret, and prove its truth,
Hast thou the potion and magic lotion
To give me also the HEART of youth?
With the cheek of rose and the eye of beauty,
And the lustrous looks of life's lost prime,
Wilt thou bring thronging each hope and longing
That made the glory of that dead Time?
When the sap in the trees sets young buds bursting,
And the song of the birds fills the air like spray,
Will rivers of feeling come once more stealing
From the beautiful hills of the far-away?
Wilt thou demolish the tower of reason,
And fling for ever down into the dust
The caution time brought me, the lessons life taught me,
And put in their places my old sweet trust?
If Time's foot-print from my brow is driven,
Canst thou, too, take with thy subtle powers
The burden of thinking, and let me go drinking
The careless pleasures of youth's bright hours?
If silver threads from my tresses vanish,
If a glow once more in my pale cheek gleams,
Wilt thou slay duty and give back the beauty
Of days untroubled by aught but dreams?
When the soft fair arms of the siren Summer
Encircle the earth in their languorous fold,
Will vast, deep oceans of sweet emotions
Surge through my veins as they surged of old?
Canst thou bring back from a day long-vanished
The leaping pulse and the boundless aim?
I will pay thee double, for all thy trouble,
If thou wilt restore all these, good dame.
Anglicised Utopia
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,
Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)
No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.
(That's a maxim that is prevalent in England.)
No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes
Who wouldn't be accepted by the lower-middle classes;
Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about - Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England - with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our city we have beautified - we've done it willy-nilly -
And all that isn't Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.
(They haven't any slummeries in England.)
We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,
So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished -
(They are going to abolish it in England.)
The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,
Of "risky" situation and indelicate suggestion;
No piece is tolerated if it's costumed indiscreetly -
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about - Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England - with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our Peerage we've remodelled on an intellectual basis,
Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races -
(They are going to remodel it in England.)
The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission,
And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition -
(As Literary Merit does in England!)
Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens
Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p'raps a Duke of Dickens -
Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we'll welcome sweetly -
And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We've brought about - Utopia's quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England - with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
To Ethel.
by Wilfred S. Skeats

So you think you will be a Scotch lassie;
The braw Hieland lad in a kilt
Has taken your fancy, dear, has he?
And you, too, would be clad in a "tilt."
Well, not one will gainsay you nor blame you,
For your wishes are ever fulfilt;
And how proudly your father will claim you,
When arrayed in a tartan and "tilt"!
And your mother will certainly further
The hopes that her Ethel has built;
You have only to ask to ensure their
Fulfilment concerning the "tilt."
And I--(Oh! I know I don't count, dear,
And for speaking acknowledge my guilt,
For my wishes to nothing amount, dear,)
I would rather you hadn't a "tilt."
For although thou wilt take us by storm, dear,
Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt,
Yet, you know, it is very bad form, dear,
And not English to wish for a "tilt."
And I thought, (but of course was mistaken,
For my hopes lie around me all spilt),
That my Ethel would never awaken
To sigh for a Hielander's "tilt."
None the less will I try to be glad then,
Nor let courtesy play me the jilt;
Though I know that my heart will be sad when
Little Ethel is wearing her "tilt".
Mysteries
by Madison Julius Cawein

Soft and silken and silvery brown,
In shoes of lichen and leafy gown,
Little blue butterflies fluttering around her,
Deep in the forest, afar from town,
There where a stream came trickling down,
I met with Silence, who wove a crown
Of sleep whose mystery bound her.
I gazed in her eyes, that were mossy green
As the rain that pools in a hollow between
The twisted roots of a tree that towers:
And I saw the things that none has seen,
That mean far more than facts may mean,
The dreams, that are true, of an age that has been,
That God has thought into flowers.
I gazed on her lips, that were dewy gray
As the mist that clings, at the close of day,
To the wet hillside when the winds cease blowing;
And I heard the things that none may say,
That are holier far than the prayers we pray,
The murmured music God breathes alway
Through the hearts of all things growing.
Soft and subtle and vapory white,
In shoes of shadow and gown of light,
Crimson poppies asleep around her,
Far in the forest, beneath a height,
I came on Slumber, who wove from night
A wreath of silence, that, darkly bright,
With its mystic beauty bound her.
I looked in her face that was pale and still
As the moon that rises above the hill
Where the pines loom sombre as sorrow:
And the things that all have known and will,
I knew for a moment: the myths that fill
And people the past of the soul and thrill
Its hope with a far to-morrow.
I heard her voice, that was strange with pain
As a wind that whispers of wreck and rain
To the leaves of the autumn rustling lonely:
And I felt the things that are felt in vain
By all the longings that haunt the brain
Of man, that come and depart again
And are part of his dreamings only.
Fragment - December 18, 1847.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes;
White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields;
Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them
Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind.
On Carthy's Publishing Several Lampoons, Under The Names Of Infamous Poetasters (Epigram Against Carthy)
by Jonathan Swift

So witches bent on bad pursuits,
Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
On A Piece Of Silver
by John Frederick Freeman

So! the fierce acid licks the silver clean,
Unwonted plain the superscription's seen
Round the cleared head; the metal, virgin-bright,
Shines a mild Moon to the Sun candle-light.
And in these floating stains, this evil murk,
All your change-crowded, moment-histories lurk,
Voluble Silverling! Dost yield me now
Your chance-illumined record, and allow
Prying of idle eyes?... you came a boon
To men as weary as any the weak moon
Shines on but cheers not; you were life in death;
Almost a God to give the prize of breath,
Almost a God to give the prize of joy,
Almost a God--but God! the veriest toy
Child's fingers break, from death to buy back life,
Turn the keen trouble of grief's eager knife,
Or sense-confounded hearts heal of the ancient strife.
O Coin that men have toiled for, lacked and mourned,
Sold life for and sold honour, won and scorned;
O Coin that oft hast been a spinning Fate,
Yet impotent her bitterness to abate;
O Coin that Love contemns, reckoning nought
(But with you, ah, Love's best is sold and bought)--
Heart of the harlot, you; the Judas blood
Hell's devils leech on; you the Price of God!
In Three Days
by Robert Browning

So, I shall see her in three days
And just one night, but nights are short,
Then two long hours, and that is morn.
See how I come, unchanged, unworn
Feel, where my life broke off from thine,
How fresh the splinters keep and fine,
Only a touch and we combine!
Too long, this time of year, the days!
But nights at least the nights are short.
As night shows where her one moon is,
A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,
So life's night gives my lady birth
And my eyes hold her! What is worth
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?
O loaded curls, release your store
Of warmth and scent, as once before
The tingling hair did, lights and darks
Out-breaking into fairy sparks,
When under curl and curl I pried
After the warmth and scent inside,
Thro' lights and darks how manifold
The dark inspired, the light controlled!
As early Art embrowned the gold.
What great fear, should one say, 'Three days
That change the world might change as well
Your fortune; and if joy delays,
Be happy that no worse befell!'
What small fear, if another says,
'Three days and one short night beside
May throw no shadow on your ways;
But years must teem with change untried,
With chance not easily defied,
With an end somewhere undescried.'
No fear! or if a fear be born
This minute, it dies out in scorn.
Fear? I shall see her in three days
And one night, now the nights are short,
Then just two hours, and that is morn.
Cupid's Promise - Paraphrased
by Matthew Prior

Soft Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, moved with my lyre,
In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And uttered thus his fond desire.
Oh! raise thy voice, one song I ask,
Touch then th' harmonious string;
To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.
Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be;
None, none like Beauty's queen is fair;
Paris has vouch'd this truth for me.
I straight reply'd, thou know'st alone,
That brightest Cloe rules my breast,
I'll sing thee two instead of one
If thou'lt be kind and make me blest.
One kiss from Cloe's lips, no more
I crave. He promised me success;
I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.
But, oh! my Cloe, beauteous maid,
Wilt thou the wish'd reward bestow?
Wilt thou make good what Love has said,
And by thy grant his power show?
The Boy In The Rain
by Madison Julius Cawein

Sodden and shivering, in mud and rain,
Half in the light that serves but to reveal
The blackness of an alley and the reel
Homeward of wretchedness in tattered train,
A boy stands crouched; big drops of drizzle drain
Slow from a rag that was a hat: no steel
Is harder than his look, that seems to feel
More than his small life's share of woe and pain.
The pack of papers, huddled by his arm,
Is pulp; and still he hugs the worthless lot....
A door flares open to let out a curse
And drag him in out of the night and storm.
Out of the night, you say? You know not what!
To blacker night, God knows! and hell, or worse!
From One Augur To Another.
by Emma Lazarus

So, Calchas, on the sacred Palatine,
Thou thought of Mopsus, and o'er wastes of sea
A flower brought your message.    I divine
(Through my deep art) the kindly mockery
That played about your lips and in your eyes,
Plucking the frail leaf, while you dreamed of home.
Thanks for the silent greeting!    I shall prize,
Beyond June's rose, the scentless flower of Rome.
All the Campagna spreads before my sight,
The mouldering wall, the Caesars' tombs unwreathed,
Rome and the Tiber, and the yellow light,
Wherein the honey-colored blossom breathed.
But most I thank it - egoists that we be!
For proving then and there you thought of me.
To Jack
by Henry Lawson

So, I've battled it through on my own, Jack,
I have done with all dreaming and doubt.
Though 'stoney' to-night and alone, Jack,
I am watching the Old Year out.
I have finished with brooding and fears,
Jack, And the spirit is rising in me,
For the sake of the old New Years, Jack,
And the bright New Years to be.
I have fallen in worldly disgrace, Jack,
And I know very well that you heard;
They have blackened my name in this place, Jack,
And I answered them never a word.
But why should I bluster or grieve,
Jack? So narrow and paltry they be,
I knew you would never believe, Jack,
The lies that were said against me.
That is done which shall never be undone,
And I blame not, I blame not my land,
But I'm hearing the Calling of London,
And I long for the roar of the Strand.
It was always the same with our race,
Jack; You know how a vagabond feels,
We can fight a straight man face to face, Jack.
But we can't keep the curs from our heels.
You know I loved women and drink, Jack,
And that's how the trouble began;
But you know that I never would shrink,
Jack, From a deed that was worthy a man!
I never was paltry or mean, Jack.
And cruel I never could be,
I will give you a hand which is clean,
Jack, When we meet again over the sea.
I will bring a few wrinkles of care,
Jack; I have altered a lot, I am told;
The steel-filings show in my hair, Jack;
But my heart is as young as of old.
I have faith still in women, and men, Jack,
Though selfish and blind they may be.
I still have my soul and my pen, Jack,
And my country seems dearer to me.
I will sail when your summer sets in, Jack,
And good-bye to my own native land;
Oh, I long for a glimpse of your grin, Jack,
And I long for the grip of your hand.
We both suffered sorrow and pain, Jack,
And sinned in the days that are done;
But we'll fight the old battle again, Jack,
Where the battle is worth being won.
Bread Upon The Waters.
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

So you are lost to me!
Ah you, you ear of corn straight lying,
What food is this for the darkly flying
Fowls of the Afterwards!
White bread afloat on the waters,
Cast out by the hand that scatters
Food untowards,
Will you come back when the tide turns?
After many days? My heart yearns
To know.
Will you return after many days
To say your say as a traveller says,
More marvel than woe?
Drift then, for the sightless birds
And the fish in shadow-waved herds
To approach you.
Drift then, bread cast out;
Drift, lest I fall in doubt,
And reproach you.
For you are lost to me!
The Sonnets CXXXIV - So, now I have confess'd that he is thine
by William Shakespeare

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgag'd to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
Old Dave to th' New Parson.
by John Hartley

"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo?
Well, awm fain to see yo've come;
Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst,
But mak yorsen at hooam.
Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me,
If aw tell what's in mi noddle,
Remember, if we dooant agree,
It's but an old man's twaddle.
But aw might happen drop a hint,
'At may start yo to thinkin;
Awd help yo if aw saw mi way,
An do it too, like winkin.
Awm net mich up o' parsons, - 
Ther's some daycent ens aw know;
They're smart enuff at praichin,
But at practice they're too slow.
For dooin gooid nooan can deny
Ther chonces are mooast ample;
If they'd give us fewer precepts,
An rayther moor example.
We need a friend to help waik sheep,
Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders; - 
Ther's a big responsibility
Rests on a parson's shoulders.
But oft ther labor's all in vain,
Noa matter ha persistent;
Becoss ther taichin an ther lives
Are hardly quite consistent.
Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God,
When bad is growing worse;
An nowt abate ther trust, unless
It chonce to touch ther purse.
They say, "Who giveth to the poor,
Lends to the Lord," but yet,
They all seem varry anxious,
Net to get the Lord in debt.
But wi my fooilish nooations
Mayhap yo'll net agree, - 
Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen, - 
But it seems that way to me.
If yo hear a clivver sarmon,
Yor attention it command's,
If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white
As what he keeps his hands.
Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways,
An too mich affectation;
They work i'th' vinyard a few days,
Then hint abaat vacation.
He has to have a holiday
Because he's worked soa hard; - 
Well, aw allus think 'at labor
Is desarvin ov reward.
What matters, tho' his little flock
A shepherd's care is wantin:
Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold
Wol he's off galavantin.
Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one,
Yo seem a gradely sooart;
But if yo' th' Gospel armour don,
Yo'll find it isn't spooart.
Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright,
For a mess ov worldly pottage:
But spend less time i'th' squire's hall
An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.
Point aght the way an walk in it,
They'll follow, one bi one,
An when yo've gained yor journey's end,
Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."
A Christian soldier has to be,
Endurin, bold an brave;
Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win,
As sewer as my name's Dave."
A Piece Of Advice.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

So you're going to give up flirtation, my dear,
And lead a life sober and quiet?
There, there, I don't doubt the intention's sincere.
But wait till occasion shall try it. 
Is Ramsay engaged?
Now, don't look enraged!
You like him, I know don't deny it!
What! Give up flirtation? Change dimples for frowns
Why, Nell, what's the use? You're so pretty,
That your beauty all sense of your wickedness drowns
When, some time, in country or city,
Your fate comes at last.
We'll forgive all the past,
And think of you only with pity.
Indeed! so "you feel for the woes of my sex!"
"The legions of hearts you've been breaking
Your conscience affright, and your reckoning perplex,
Whene'er an account you've been taking!"
"I'd scarcely believe
How deeply you grieve
At the mischief your eyes have been making!"
Now, Nellie! Flirtation's the leaven of life;
It lightens its doughy compactness.
Don't always the world with deception is rife 
Construe what men say with exactness!
I pity the girl,
In society's whirl,
Who's troubled with matter-of-factness.
A pink is a beautiful flower in its way,
But rosebuds and violets are charming,
Men don't wear the same boutonni're every day.
Taste changes. Flirtation alarming!
If e'er we complain,
You then may refrain,
Your eyes of their arrows disarming.
Ah, Nellie, be sensible; Pr'ythee, give heed
To counsel a victim advances;
Your eyes, I acknowledge, will make our hearts bleed,
Pierced through by love's magical lances.
But better that fate
Than in darkness to wait;
Unsought by your mischievous glances.
The Vesper Hour.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Soft and holy Vesper Hour - 
Precursor of the night - 
How I love thy soothing power,
The hush, the fading light;
Raising those vain thoughts of ours
To higher, holier things - 
Mingling gleams from Eden's bowers
With earth's imaginings!
How thrilling in some grand old fane
To hear the Vesper prayer
Rise, with the organ's solemn strain,
On incense-laden air;
While the last dying smiles of day
Athwart the stained glass pour - 
Flooding with red and golden ray
The shrine and chancel floor.
Who, at such moment, has not felt
Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet,
For Heaven's joys at last to melt,
Into fruition meet;
And wished, as with rapt soul he viewed
That glorious Home above,
That earth's vain thoughts would ne'er intrude
On visions of God's love?
To this calm hour belongs a sway
The bright day cannot wield - 
Sweet as the evening star's first ray,
Transforming wood and field;
Soft'ing gay flowers else too bright
And silvering hill and dell;
And clothing earth in that mild light
The sad heart loves so well.
The Return of Belisarius
by Bret Harte (Francis)

So you're back from your travels, old fellow,
And you left but a twelvemonth ago;
You've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,
Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe.
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning,
Astounding, and all that, you know;
Yes, things are about as you left them
In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.
The boys! they're all right, Oh! Dick Ashley,
He's buried somewhere in the snow;
He was lost on the Summit last winter,
And Bob has a hard row to hoe.
You know that he's got the consumption?
You didn't! Well, come, that's a go;
I certainly wrote you at Baden,
Dear me! that was six months ago.
I got all your outlandish letters,
All stamped by some foreign P. O.
I handed myself to Miss Mary
That sketch of a famous chateau.
Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco,
They say that he cuts quite a show.
You didn't meet Euchre-deck Billy
Anywhere on your road to Cairo?
So you thought of the rusty old cabin,
The pines, and the valley below,
And heard the North Fork of the Yuba
As you stood on the banks of the Po?
'Twas just like your romance, old fellow;
But now there is standing a row
Of stores on the site of the cabin
That you lived in a twelvemonth ago.
But it's jolly to see you, old fellow,
To think it's a twelvemonth ago!
And you have seen Louis Napoleon,
And look like a Johnny Crapaud.
Come in. You will surely see Mary,
You know we are married. What, no?
Oh, ay! I forgot there was something
Between you a twelvemonth ago.