DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Wind-Flower
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,
That, being made wise, I may aspire to be
As beautiful in thought, and so express
Immortal truths to earth's mortality;
Though to my soul ability be less
Than 't is to thee, O sweet anemone.
II
Teach me the secret of thy innocence,
That in simplicity I may grow wise;
Asking from Art no other recompense
Than the approval of her own just eyes;
So may I rise to some fair eminence,
Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.
III
Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,--
When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,
And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie
In that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes,--
I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,
For beauty born of beauty--that remains.
Teach Me.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Translated from the Danish of Oehlenschl'ger.
Teach me, O wood, to fade away,
As autumn's yellow leaves decay
A better spring impends,--
Then green and glorious shall my tree
Take deep root in eternity,--
Whose summer never ends!
Teach me, O bird of passage, this,
To seek, in faith a better bliss
On other unknown shores!
When all is winter here and ice,
There ever-smiling Paradise
Unfolds its happy doors.
Teach me, thou summer butterfly,
To break the bonds which on me lie.
With fetters all too firm.
Ah, soon on golden purple wing
The liberated soul shall spring,
Which now creeps as a worm!
Teach me, O Lord, to yonder skies
To lift in hope these weary eyes
With earthly sorrows worn.
Good Friday was a bitter day,
But bright the sun's eternal ray
Which broke on Easter morn.
To -----
by Friedrich Schiller

Tell me all that thou knowest, and I will thankfully hear it!
But wouldst thou give me thyself, let me, my friend, be excused!
Inside Of King's College Chapel, Cambridge
by William Wordsworth

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned
Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only, this immense
And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering'and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
Tell Her, Oh, Tell Her.
by Thomas Moore

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.
Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.
So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!
Tell me not things past all belief;
by Walter Savage Landor

Tell me not things past all belief;
One truth in you I prove;
The flame of anger, bright and brief,
Sharpens the barb of Love.
A Call Of The Sidhe
by George William Russell

Tarry thou yet, late lingerer in the twilight's glory:
Gay are the hills with song: earth's faery children leave
More dim abodes to roam the primrose-hearted eve,
Opening their glimmering lips to breathe some wondrous story.
Hush, not a whisper! Let your heart alone go dreaming.
Dream unto dream may pass: deep in the heart alone
Murmurs the Mighty One his solemn undertone.
Canst thou not see adown the silver cloudland streaming
Rivers of faery light, dewdrop on dewdrop falling,
Starfire of silver flames, lighting the dark beneath?
And what enraptured hosts burn on the dusky heath!
Come thou away with them, for Heaven to Earth is calling.
These are Earth's voice--her answer--spirits thronging.
Come to the Land of Youth: the trees grown heavy there
Drop on the purple wave the starry fruit they bear.
Drink: the immortal waters quench the spirit's longing.
Art thou not now, bright one, all sorrow past, in    elation,
Made young with joy, grown brother-hearted with the vast,
Whither thy spirit wending flits the dim stars past
Unto the Light of Lights in burning adoration.
Upon Teage.
by Robert Herrick

Teage has told lies so long that when Teage tells
Truth, yet Teage's truths are untruths, nothing else.
The Night-Rain
by Madison Julius Cawein

Tattered, in ragged raiment of the rain,
The Night arrives. Outside the window there
He stands and, streaming, taps upon the pane;
Or, crouching down beside the cellar-stair,
Letting his hat-brim drain,
Mutters, black-gazing through his trickling hair.
Then on the roof with cautious feet he treads,
Whispering a word into the windy flues;.
And all the house, huddling itsflowerbeds,
Looks, dark of face, as if it heard strange news,
Hugging the musky heads
Of all its roses to its sides of ooze.
Now in the garden, with a glowworm lamp,
Night searches, letting his black mantle pour;
Treading the poppies down with heavy tramp,
Thudding the apple, sodden to its core,
Into the dripping damp,
From boughs the wet loads, dragging more and more.
Then at the barn he fumbles, gropes his way,
Through splashing pools; and, seeping, enters in
The stalls and creeps among the bedding hay,
Burying him moistly to his clammy chin,
While near him, brown and gray,
The dozing cattle make a drowsy din.
The martin-box, poled high above the gate,
He pushes till the fluttering fledglings wake,
Wondering what bird it is that comes so late:
Then to the henhouse door he gives a shake;
Or, like a thief await,
Leans listening softly with black heart aquake.
Then with his ragged cloak flung back he goes,
With flickering lantern, where the stream o'erflowed,
Breathing wet scents of wayside weed and.rose,
And guttural music of the frog and toad;
A firefly-light, that glows,
Green in his hand to guide him on his road.
And doffing then, upon the wooded hill,
His hat of cloud, a little while he stands,
Hearkening in silence to the leaping rill;
Then, stooping low, he lifts in azure hands
A great gold daffodil
The moon and pins it in his cloak's blown bands.
Cuckoo Song
by Rudyard Kipling

Tell it to the locked-up trees,
Cuckoo, bring your song here!
Warrant, Act and Summons, please,
For Spring to pass along here!
Tell old Winter, if he doubt,
Tell him squat and square, a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair, a!
March has searched and April tried,
'Tisn't long to May now.
Not so far to Whitsuntide
And Cuckoo's come to stay now!
Hear the valiant fellow shout
Down the orchard bare, a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair, a!
When your heart is young and gay
And the season rules it,
Work your works and play your play
'Fore the Autumn cools it!
Kiss you turn and turn-about,
But, my lad, beware, a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair, a!
Upon Tears
by Robert Herrick

Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,
Above, they are the Angels' spiced wine.
Tears.
by Robert Herrick

Tears most prevail; with tears, too, thou may'st move
Rocks to relent, and coyest maids to love.
To A Windflower
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,
That, being made wise, I may aspire to be
As beautiful in thought, and so express
Immortal truths to Earth's mortality;
Though to my soul ability be less
Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.
II
Teach me the secret of thy innocence,
That in simplicity I may grow wise;
Asking of Art no other recompense
Than the approval of her own just eyes;
So may I rise to some fair eminence,
Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.
III
Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I, - 
When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,
And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie
In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes, - 
I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,
For beauty born of beauty - that remains.
Corinna, From Athens, To Tanagra
by Walter Savage Landor

Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-storeyd streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.
I promise to bring back with me
What thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;
A crown, a crown from Athens won!
A crown no god can wear, beside Latonas son.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on the Muse;
But ever shall those cities rue
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no rest,
To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavernd Dirce flows
Do white-armd maidens chaunt my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues
Lisp your Corinnas early songs;
To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
O let thy children lean aslant
Against the tender mothers knee,
And gaze into her face, and want
To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy trance
Look up to heaven; be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.
Diplomacy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Tell your love where the roses blow,
And the hearts of the lilies quiver,
Not in the city's gleam and glow,
But down by a half-sunned river.
Not in the crowded ball-room's glare,
That would be fatal, Marie, Marie,
How can she answer you then and there?
So come then and stroll with me, my dear,
Down where the birds call, Marie, Marie.
Dispossessed
by Lola Ridge

Tender and tremulous green of leaves
Turned up by the wind,
Twanging among the vines - 
Wind in the grass
Blowing a clear path
For the new-stripped soul to pass...
The naked soul in the sunlight...
Like a wisp of smoke in the sunlight
On the hill-side shimmering.
Dance light on the wind, little soul,
Like a thistle-down floating
Over the butterflies
And the lumbering bees...
Come away from that tree
And its shadow grey as a stone...
Bathe in the pools of light
On the hillside shimmering - 
Shining and wetted and warm in the sun-spray falling like golden rain - 
But do not linger and look
At that bleak thing under the tree.
The Poor Man's Part.
by Robert Herrick

Tell me, rich man, for what intent
Thou load'st with gold thy vestiment?
Whenas the poor cry out: To us
Belongs all gold superfluous.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XV.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Tell me, why, my sweetest dove,
Thus your humid pinions move,
Shedding through the air in showers
Essence of the balmiest flowers?
Tell me whither, whence you rove,
Tell me all, my sweetest dove.
Curious stranger, I belong
To the bard of Teian song;
With his mandate now I fly
To the nymph of azure eye;--
She, whose eye has maddened many,
But the poet more than any,
Venus, for a hymn of love,
Warbled in her votive grove,[2]
('Twas, in sooth a gentle lay,)
Gave me to the bard away.
See me now his faithful minion,--
Thus with softly-gliding pinion,
To his lovely girl I bear
Songs of passion through the air.
Oft he blandly whispers me,
"Soon, my bird, I'll set you free."
But in vain he'll bid me fly,
I shall serve him till I die.
Never could my plumes sustain
Ruffling winds and chilling rain,
O'er the plains, or in the dell,
On the mountain's savage swell,
Seeking in the desert wood
Gloomy shelter, rustic food.
Now I lead a life of ease,
Far from rugged haunts like these.
From Anacreon's hand I eat
Food delicious, viands sweet;
Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,
Sip the foamy wine with him.
Then, when I have wantoned round
To his lyre's beguiling sound;
Or with gently moving-wings
Fanned the minstrel while he sings;
On his harp I sink in slumbers,
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!
This is all--away--away--
You have made me waste the day.
How I've chattered! prating crow
Never yet did chatter so.
To Mrs. Henry Tighe, On Reading Her "Psyche."
by Thomas Moore

Tell me the witching tale again,
For never has my heart or ear
Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.
Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame,
When the high heaven itself was thine;
When piety confest the flame,
And even thy errors were divine;
Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,
A glory round thy temple spread?
Did ever lip's ambrosial air
Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?
One maid there was, who round her lyre
The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;--
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,
The myrtle withered as she breathed.
Oh! you that love's celestial dream,
In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam
Too strongly through the vision glow.
Love safest lies, concealed in night,
The night where heaven has bid him lie;
Oh! shed not there unhallowed light,
Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.
Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour,
Through many a wild and magic waste,
To the fair fount and blissful bower
Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced!
Where'er thy joys are numbered now,
Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow
Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;
Whether above the horizon dim,
Along whose verge our spirits stray,--
Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim,
Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]--
Thou dwellest in a world, all light,
Or, lingering here, doth love to be,
To other souls, the guardian bright
That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;
Still be the song to Psyche dear,
The song, whose gentle voice was given
To be, on earth, to mortal ear,
An echo of her own, in heaven.
The End
by Richard Le Gallienne

Tell me, strange heart, so mysteriously beating - 
Unto what end?
Body and soul so mysteriously meeting,
Strange friend and friend;
Hand clasped in hand so mysteriously faring,
Say what and why all this dreaming and daring,
This sowing and reaping and laughing and weeping,
That ends but in sleeping - 
Only one meaning, only - the End.
Ah! all the love, the gold glory, the singing, - 
Unto what end?
Flowers of April immortally springing,
Face of one's friend,
Stars of the morning and moon in her quarters,
Shining of suns and running of waters,
Growing and blowing and snowing and flowing, - 
Ah! where are they going?
All on one journey, all to - the End.
De Sauty - An Electro-Chemical Eclogue
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The first messages received through the submarine cable were sent by an electrical expert, a mysterious personage who signed himself De Sauty.
Professor        Blue-Nose
PROFESSOR
Tell me, O Provincial! speak, Ceruleo-Nasal!
Lives there one De Sauty extant now among you,
Whispering Boanerges, son of silent thunder,
Holding talk with nations?
Is there a De Sauty ambulant on Tellus,
Bifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in nightcap,
Having sight, smell, hearing, food-receiving feature
Three times daily patent?
Breathes there such a being, O Ceruleo-Nasal?
Or is he a mythus, - ancient word for "humbug" - 
Such as Livy told about the wolf that wet-nursed
Romulus and Remus?
Was he born of woman, this alleged De Sauty?
Or a living product of galvanic action,
Like the acarus bred in Crosse's flint-solution?
Speak, thou Cyano-Rhinal!
BLUE-NOSE
Many things thou askest, jackknife-bearing stranger,
Much-conjecturing mortal, pork-and-treacle-waster!
Pretermit thy whittling, wheel thine ear-flap toward me,
Thou shall hear them answered.
When the charge galvanic tingled through the cable,
At the polar focus of the wire electric
Suddenly appeared a white-faced man among us
Called himself "DE SAUTY."
As the small opossum held in pouch maternal
Grasps the nutrient organ whence the term mammalia,
So the unknown stranger held the wire electric,
Sucking in the current.
When the current strengthened, bloomed the pale-faced stranger, - 
Took no drink nor victual, yet grew fat and rosy, - 
And from time to time, in sharp articulation,
Said, "All right! DE SAUTY."
From the lonely station passed the utterance, spreading
Through the pines and hemlocks to the groves of steeples,
Till the land was filled with loud reverberations
Of "All right DE SAUTY."
When the current slackened, drooped the mystic stranger, - 
Faded, faded, faded, as the stream grew weaker, - 
Wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn odor
Of disintegration.
Drops of deliquescence glistened on his forehead,
Whitened round his feet the dust of efflorescence,
Till one Monday morning, when the flow suspended,
There was no De Sauty.
Nothing but a cloud of elements organic,
C. O. H. N. Ferrum, Chlor. Flu. Sil. Potassa,
Cale. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur, Mang. (?)
Alumin. (?) Cuprum, (?)
Such as man is made of.
Born of stream galvanic, with it he had perished!
There is no De Sauty now there is no current!
Give us a new cable, then again we'll hear him
Cry, "All right! DE SAUTY."
Jack The Giant Killer.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Bad Boy's Version.
Tell you a story - an' it's a fac': - 
Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack,
An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap
Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;"
An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows - 
Th' horns an' all - an' pigs an' sows!
But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!
So awful sharp 'at he could go
An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two
Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!
An' one ole Gi'nt, he had four
Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore" - 
An' he wuz feered o' Jack - 'cause he,
Jack, he killed six - five - ten - three,
An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him:
An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim
'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore" - 
Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door:
But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum
Clean acrost; an' when he come
To th' uther side, he thist put on
His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone!
You could n't see him at all! - An' so
He slewed the "griffuns" - boff, you know!
Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head
High on th' wall, an' words 'at read, - 
"Whoever kin this trumput blow
Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"
An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed
The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed
Th' castul-gates wide open, an'
Nen tuck his gold sword in his han',
An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore,"
An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four
Heads on him - an' chopped 'em off, too! - 
Wisht 'at I'd been Jack! - don't you?
A June Night.
by Emma Lazarus

Ten o'clock: the broken moon
Hangs not yet a half hour high,
Yellow as a shield of brass,
In the dewy air of June,
Poised between the vaulted sky
And the ocean's liquid glass.
Earth lies in the shadow still;
Low black bushes, trees, and lawn
Night's ambrosial dews absorb;
Through the foliage creeps a thrill,
Whispering of yon spectral dawn
And the hidden climbing orb.
Higher, higher, gathering light,
Veiling with a golden gauze
All the trembling atmosphere,
See, the rayless disk grows white!
Hark, the glittering billows pause!
Faint, far sounds possess the ear.
Elves on such a night as this
Spin their rings upon the grass;
On the beach the water-fay
Greets her lover with a kiss;
Through the air swift spirits pass,
Laugh, caress, and float away.
Shut thy lids and thou shalt see
Angel faces wreathed with light,
Mystic forms long vanished hence.
Ah, too fine, too rare, they be
For the grosser mortal sight,
And they foil our waking sense.
Yet we feel them floating near,
Know that we are not alone,
Though our open eyes behold
Nothing save the moon's bright sphere,
In the vacant heavens shown,
And the ocean's path of gold.
Youth And Age.
by Thomas Moore

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way.--
"It is a sunny hour of play,
"For which repentance dear doth pay;
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love, as wise men say."
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.--
"Soft as a passing summer's wind,
"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love--when love is o'er."
"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.
"Sweet as a May tree's scented air--
"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
"Repentance! Repentance!
"This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."
Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
"Repentance! Repentance!"
Youth laughing went with Love away.
Nursery Rhyme. CXI. Scholastic.
by Unknown

Tell tale, tit!
Your tongue shall be slit,
And all the dogs in the town
Shall have a little bit.
The Star-Song: A Carol To The King Sung At Whitehall.
by Robert Herrick

The Flourish of Music; then followed the Song.
1. Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue,
Where is the Babe but lately sprung?
Lies he the lily-banks among?
2. Or say, if this new Birth of ours
Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers,
Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear
All doubts, and manifest the where.
3. Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek
Him in the morning's blushing cheek,
Or search the beds of spices through,
To find him out.
Star. No, this ye need not do;
But only come and see Him rest
A Princely Babe in's mother's breast.
Chor. He's seen, He's seen! why then a round,
Let's kiss the sweet and holy ground;
And all rejoice that we have found
A King before conception crown'd.
4. Come then, come then, and let us bring
Unto our pretty Twelfth-tide King,
Each one his several offering;
Chor. And when night comes, we'll give Him wassailing;
And that His treble honours may be seen,
We'll choose Him King, and make His mother Queen.
The Stranger
by Charles Baudelaire

Tell me, enigmatic man, whom do you love best? Your father, your mother, your sister, or your brother?
"I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother."
Your friends, then?
"You use a word that until now has had no meaning for me."
Your country?
"I am ignorant of the latitude in which it is situated."
Then Beauty?
"Her I would love willingly, goddess and immortal."
Gold?
"I hate it as you hate your God."
What, then, extraordinary stranger, do you love?
"I love the clouds the clouds that pass yonder the marvelous clouds."
The Leaf And The Fountain.
by Thomas Moore

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
"So may the stars obey thee
"So may each airy
"Moon-elf and fairy
"Nightly their homage pay thee!
"Say, by what spell, above, below,
"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
"I may discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me, or no,
"Whether my love loves me."
"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
"Its stem enchanted.
"By moon-elves planted,
"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
"Bring thence their fairest leaf below;
"And thou'lt discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether thy love loves thee or no,
"Whether thy love loves thee."
"See, up the dark tree going,
"With blossoms round me blowing,
"From thence, oh Father,
"This leaf I gather,
"Fairest that there is growing.
"Say, by what sign I now shall know
"If in this leaf lie bliss or woe
"And thus discover
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me or no,
"Whether my love loves me."
"Fly to yon fount that's welling
"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,
"Dip in its water
"That leaf, oh Daughter,
"And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1]
"Watch thou if pale or bright it glow,
"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,
"And thou'lt discover
"Whether thy lover,
"Loved as he is, loves thee or no,
"Loved as he is, loves thee."
Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;
But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,
When, lo, its bloom was blighted!
And as she asked, with voice of woe--
Listening, the while, that fountain's flow--
"Shall I recover
"My truant lover?"
The fountain seemed to answer, "No;"
The fountain answered, "No."