DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Her Going. - Suggested By A Picture.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

She stood in the open door,
She blessed them faint and low:
"I must go," she said, "must go
Away from the light of the sun,
Away from you, every one;
Must see your eyes no more,--
Your eyes, that love me so.
"I should not shudder thus,
Nor weep, nor be afraid.
Nor cling to you so dismayed,
Could I only pierce with ray eyes
Where the dark, dark shadow lies;
Where something hideous
Is hiding, perhaps," she said.
Then slowly she went from them,
Went down the staircase grim,
With trembling heart and limb;
Her footfalls echoed
In the silence vast and dead,
Like the notes of a requiem,
Not sung, but uttered.
For a little way and a black
She groped as grope the blind,
Then a sudden radiance shined,
And a vision her eyelids burned;
All joyfully she turned,
For a moment turned she back,
And smiled at those behind.
There in the shadows drear
An angel sat serene,
Of grave and tender mien,
With whitest roses crowned;
A scythe lay on the ground,
As reaping-time were near,--
A burnished scythe and a keen.
She did not start or pale
As the angel rose and laid
His hand on hers, nor said
A word, hut beckoned on;
For a glorious meaning shone
On the lips that told no tale,
And she followed him, unafraid.
Her friends wept for a space;
Then one said: "Be content;
Surely some good is meant
For her, our Beautiful,--
Some glorious good and full.
Did you not see her face,
Her dear smile, as she went?"
Not In Vain I Waited.
by Jean Ingelow

She was but a child, a child,
And I a man grown;
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild,
And, I thought, my own.
What could I do? The long grass groweth,
The long wave floweth with a murmur on:
The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth?
Ere I thought to lose her she was grown - and gone.
This day or that day in warm spring weather.
The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether.
"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me,
Down in the dell wishing - wishing, wishing for thee."
The dews hang on the white may,
Like a ghost it stands,
All in the dusk before day
That folds the dim lands:
Dark fell the skies when once belated,
Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun;
But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited.
O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won!
Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover,
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over;
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see:
Down the dell she's coming - coming, coming with me.
On A Political Prisoner
by William Butler Yeats

She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers' touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.
Did she in touching that lone wing
Recall the years before her mind
Became a bitter, an abstract thing,
Her thought some popular enmity:
Blind and leader of the blind
Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?
When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth's lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:
Sea-borne, or balanced on the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 06: Adele And Davis
by Conrad Potter Aiken

She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more.
And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes,
To shut out, if she could, this dingy room,
The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,
Yellows and greens in the dark, she walked again
Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . .
Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp,
Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked
In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store,
And wondered if she dared to ask for poison:
But it was late, few customers were there,
The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her,
And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river,
She listened to the water slapping the wall,
And felt queer fascination in its blackness:
But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel,
The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray
Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so
She dragged herself once more to home, and bed.
Paul hadn't guessed it yet, though twice, already,
She'd fainted, once, the first time, on the stage.
So she must tell him soon, or else, get out . . .
How could she say it? That was the hideous thing.
She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble,
Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then,
If he refused to marry her . . . well, what?
She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke,
His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words
Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent,
Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe,
And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled,
And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy, listen,
There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped,
Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say?
'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!'
'But what I've got to say, IS, serious!'
Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober,
His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying,
He always did, and what could she do but cry?
Perhaps, then, he would guess, perhaps he wouldn't.
And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'
She knew she'd never tell, just say she was sick . . .
And after that, when would she dare again?
And what would he do, even suppose she told him?
If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!
She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was,
Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind
To pay out Felix for never having liked her,
By making people think that it was he . . .
She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,
Just saying 'Felix did it, and wouldn't marry.'
And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . .
Paul would never forgive her, he'd never forgive her!
Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . .
She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin.
And then she closed her eyes and walked again
Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often:
Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind
She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window,
Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box.
But it was late. No customers were there,
Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her!
And then, what poison would she dare to ask for?
And if they asked her why, what would she say?
The Shepherdess
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

She walks - the lady of my delight -
A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;
She guards them from the steep.
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright,
Dark valleys safe and deep.
Into that tender breast at night
The chastest stars may peep.
She walks - the lady of my delight -
A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight,
Though gay they run and leap.
She is so circumspect and right;
She has her soul to keep.
She walks - the lady of my delight -
A shepherdess of sheep.
She Was A Phantom Of Delight
by William Wordsworth

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
One We Knew
by Thomas Hardy

(M. H. 1772-1857)
She told how they used to form for the country dances -
"The Triumph," "The New-rigged Ship" -
To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses,
And in cots to the blink of a dip.
She spoke of the wild "poussetting" and "allemanding"
On carpet, on oak, and on sod;
And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing,
And the figures the couples trod.
She showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted,
And where the bandsmen stood
While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted
To choose each other for good.
She told of that far-back day when they learnt astounded
Of the death of the King of France:
Of the Terror; and then of Bonaparte's unbounded
Ambition and arrogance.
Of how his threats woke warlike preparations
Along the southern strand,
And how each night brought tremors and trepidations
Lest morning should see him land.
She said she had often heard the gibbet creaking
As it swayed in the lightning flash,
Had caught from the neighbouring town a small child's shrieking
At the cart-tail under the lash . . .
With cap-framed face and long gaze into the embers -
We seated around her knees -
She would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who remembers,
But rather as one who sees.
She seemed one left behind of a band gone distant
So far that no tongue could hail:
Past things retold were to her as things existent,
Things present but as a tale.
May 20, 1902.
An Escape
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

She was beautiful that evening and so gay....
In little games
My hand had slipped her mantle,
I am not sure
About her skirts.
Then in the night's curtain of shadows,
Heavy and discreet,
I asked and she replied:
To-morrow.
Next day I came
Saying, Remember.
Words of a night, she said, to bring the day.
From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century).
Sonnet LXXXVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

La donna che 'l mio cor nel viso porta.
HER KIND AND GENTLE SALUTATION THRILLS HIS HEART WITH PLEASURE.
She, in her face who doth my gone heart wear,
As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true,
Appear'd before me: to show honour due,
I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.
Soon as of such my state she was aware,
She turn'd on me with look so soft and new
As, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdue
His rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.
I started: on her further way she pass'd
Graceful, and speaking words I could not brook,
Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.
When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast,
So rich and varied do my pleasures flow,
No pain I feel, nor evil fear below.
MACGREGOR.
Heri, Cras, Hodie
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen,
To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between:
Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.
A Captain Of The Press-Gang.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Shipmate, leave the ghostly shadows,
Where thy boon companions throng!
We will put to sea together
Through the twilight with a song.
Leering closer, rank and girding,
In this Black Port where we bide,
Reel a thousand flaring faces;
But escape is on the tide.
Let the tap-rooms of the city
Reek till the red dawn comes round.
There is better wine in plenty
On the cruise where we are bound.
I've aboard a hundred messmates
Better than these 'long-shore knaves.
There is wreckage on the shallows;
It's the open sea that saves.
Hark, lad, dost not hear it calling?
That's the voice thy father knew,
When he took the King's good cutlass
In his grip, and fought it through.
Who would palter at press-money
When he heard that sea-cry vast?
That's the call makes lords of lubbers,
When they ship before the mast.
Let thy cronies of the tavern
Keep their kisses bought with gold;
On the high seas there are regions
Where the heart is never old,
Where the great winds every morning
Sweep the sea-floor clean and white,
And upon the steel-blue arches
Burnish the great stars of night;
There the open hand will lose not,
Nor the loosened tongue betray.
Signed, and with our sailing orders,
We will clear before the day;
On the shining yards of heaven
See a wider dawn unfurled....
The eternal slaves of beauty
Are the masters of the world.
The Bright Medusa
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(1807)
She's the daughter of the breeze,
She's the darling of the seas,
And we call her, if you please, the bright Medu--sa;
From beneath her bosom bare
To the snakes among her hair
She's a flash o' golden light, the bright Medu--sa.
When the ensign dips above
And the guns are all for love,
She's as gentle as a dove, the bright Medu--sa;
But when the shot's in rack
And her forestay flies the Jack,
He's a merry man would slight the bright Medu--sa.
When she got the word to go
Up to Monte Video,
There she found the river low, the bright Medu--sa;
So she tumbled out her guns
And a hundred of her sons,
And she taught the Dons to fight the bright Medu--sa.
When the foeman can be found
With the pluck to cross her ground,
First she walks him round and round, the bright Medu--sa;
Then she rakes him fore and aft
Till he's just a jolly raft,
And she grabs him like a kite, the bright Medu--sa.
She's the daughter of the breeze,
She's the darling of the seas,
And you'll call her, if you please, the bright Medu--sa;
For till England's sun be set--
And it's not for setting yet--
She shall bear her name by right, the bright Medu--sa.
Shepherd Of Israel.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Shepherd of Israel! o'er Thy fold
How sweet Thy guardian care,
To them invisible indeed,
Yet present everywhere.
Thy crook still points to "pastures green,"
When rugged paths they see,
Beside "still waters" bids them rest,
And cast their care on Thee.
The "stranger's voice" thou, Lord, canst teach
Their watchful ears to know,
And make their "peace," their heavenly peace,
Like boundless waters flow.
When round this thorny world we stray
And find no place of rest,
Then come like "doves unto the ark,"
Faint, wearied, and oppressed,
Thy gentle hand is soon put forth
Each wanderer to receive;
Thou bindest up the broken heart,
And bidd'st the sinner live.
Why should we fear the storms of time?
Thy word their force can stay;
Enough, be still! the high behest,
Which winds and waves obey.
"Thy will be done" can calm the soul
By fearful tempests driven,
The holiest anthem sung on earth,
The highest heard in Heaven.
The Shepherdess.
by Richard Hunter

Shepherdess! Shepherdess!
Looks to the sheep;
Shepherdess! Shepherdess!
Watches their sleep.
Shepherdess! Shepherdess!
When they cry "Baa,"
Shepherdess! Shepherdess!
Knows where they are.
She's All My Fancy Painted Him
by Lewis Carroll

She's all my fancy painted him
(I make no idle boast);
If he or you had lost a limb,
Which would have suffered most?
He said that you had been to her,
And seen me here before;
But, in another character,
She was the same of yore.
There was not one that spoke to us,
Of all that thronged the street:
So he sadly got into a 'bus,
And pattered with his feet.
They sent him word I had not gone
(We know it to be true);
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
They gave her one, the gave me two,
They gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.
It seemed to me that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle, that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don't let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.
I'd Back Agen The World
by Henry Lawson

She's not like an empress,
And crowned with raven hair,
She is not 'pert an' bonny,'
Nor 'winsome, wee, an' fair.'
But when a man's in trouble,
And darkest shadows fall,
She's just a little woman
I'd back against them all.
I'd back against them all,
When friends on rocks are hurled, 
Oh, she's the little woman
I'd back against the world.
She has her little temper
(As all the world can know)
When things are running smoothly,
She sometimes lets it go;
But when the sea is stormy,
And clouds are like a pall,
Oh, she's the little woman
I'd back against them all.
I'd back against the world,
When darkest shadows fall, 
Oh, she's the little woman
I'd back against them all.
She's had to stand at business
Till she was fit to drop;
She has to count the pennies
When she goes to the shop.
She has no land or terrace,
Nor money in the bank,
And, save what's in her ownself,
No influence nor rank.
No influence nor rank
While darker shadows fall, 
Oh, she's a little woman
I'd back against them all.
It will not last for ever,
As old time goes his rounds,
Where now she counts the pennies
She yet shall count the pounds.
And those who laugh to see her,
Or pass her unawares,
Shall stand beside her motor car,
And bow her up the stairs.
And bow her up the stairs,
When foes on rocks are hurled, 
For she's the little woman
I'll back against the world.
Or may I slave in prisons,
In mental misery,
And no one write a letter,
And no one visit me!
And may I rot with paupers,
A ditch without a stone,
My work be never quoted,
And my grave be never known.
My work be never quoted,
When friends on rocks are hurled, 
Ah! she's a little woman
I'd back against the world.
Orientale
by William Ernest Henley

She's an enchanting little Israelite,
A world of hidden dimples! - Dusky-eyed,
A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride,
With hair escaped from some Arabian Night,
Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white,
Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside
The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride,
Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight.
And when she passes with the dreadful boys
And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude,
My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range
The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise
Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood
A touch Sidonian - modern - taking - strange!
Jack And Me.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Shine! All right; here y'are, boss!
Do it for jest five cents.
Get 'em fixed in a minute, 
That is, 'f nothing perwents.
Set your foot right there, sir.
Mornin's kinder cold, 
Goes right through a feller,
When his coat's a gittin' old.
Well, yes, call it a coat, sir,
Though 't aint much more 'n a tear.
Git another! I can't, boss;
Ain't got the stamps to spare.
"Make as much as most on 'em!"
Yes; but then, yer see,
They've only got one to do for, 
There's two on us, Jack and me.
Him? Why, that little feller
With a curus lookin' back,
Sittin' there on the gratin',
Warmin' hisself, that's Jack.
Used to go round sellin' papers,
The cars there was his lay;
But he got shoved off of the platform
Under the wheels one day.
Fact, the conductor did it, 
Gin him a reg'lar throw, 
He didn't care if he killed him;
Some on 'em is just so.
He's never been all right since, sir,
Sorter quiet and queer;
Him and me goes together,
He's what they call cashier.
Style, that 'ere, for a boot-black, 
Made the fellers laugh;
Jack and me had to take it,
But we don't mind no chaff.
Trouble! not much, you bet, boss!
Sometimes, when biz is slack,
I don't know how I'd manage
If 't wa'n't for little Jack.
You jest once orter hear him:
He says we needn't care
How rough luck is down here, sir,
If some day we git up there.
All done now, how's that, sir?
Shines like a pair of lamps.
Mornin'! Give it to Jack, sir,
He looks after the stamps.
Song
by Richard Le Gallienne

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XL.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno.
HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.
She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign,
And for free poverty court-affluence spurn,
Has known to sour the precious sweets to turn
On which I lived, for which I burn and pine.
Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mine
That future ages from my song should learn
Her heavenly beauties, and like me should burn,
My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.
The gifts, though all her own, which others share,
Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er,
Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare;
But when to the diviner part I soar,
To the dull world a brief and brilliant light,
Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.
MACGREGOR.
Shew Us The Father
by George MacDonald

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of space,
And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers,
A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours--
A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace.
And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face,
From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers,
Infinite love and beauty, all the hours,
Woo men that love them with divinest grace;
And to the depths of all the answering soul
High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own;
And yet we long, and yet we have not known
The very Father's face who means the whole!
Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love
Revealed in beauty, is there One above?
Making New Year's Calls.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Shining patent-leather,
Tie of spotless white;
Through the muddy weather
Rushing 'round till night.
Gutters all o'erflowing,
Like Niagara Falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
Rushing up the door-step,
Ringing at the bell 
"Mrs. Jones receive to-day?"
"Yes, sir." "Very well."
Sending in your pasteboard,
Waiting in the halls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
Skipping in the parlour,
Bowing to the floor,
Lady of the house there,
Half a dozen more;
Ladies' dresses gorgeous,
Paniers, waterfalls, 
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
"Wish you Happy New Year" 
"Many thanks, I'm sure."
"Many calls, as usual?"
"No; I think they're fewer."
Staring at the carpet,
Gazing at the walls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
"Really, I must go now,
Wish I had more leisure."
"Wont you have a glass of wine?"
"Ah, thanks! greatest pleasure."
Try to come the graceful,
Till your wine-glass falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
Hostess looks delighted 
Out of doors you rush;
Sit down at the crossing,
In a sea of slush.
Job here for your tailor 
Herr Von Schneiderthals 
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
Pick yourself up slowly
Heart with anguish torn.
Sunday-go-to-meetings
In a state forlorn.
Kick a gibing boot-black,
Gibing boot-black bawls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.
Home, and woo the downy,
But your soul doth quake,
At most fearful night-mares 
Turkey, oysters, cake.
While each leaden horror
That your rest appalls,
Cries, "Dear heart! how pleasant;
Making New Year's calls."
Nursery Rhyme. DXLI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Shoe the colt,
Shoe the colt,
Shoe the wild mare,
Here a nail,
There a nail,
Yet she goes bare.