DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Barefooted Friar
by Walter Scott (Sir)

1.
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
2.
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste, for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.
3.
Your monarch? Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!
4.
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.
5.
He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.
6.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
7.
Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
The Garden Seat
by Thomas Hardy

Its former green is blue and thin,
And its once firm legs sink in and in;
Soon it will break down unaware,
Soon it will break down unaware.
At night when reddest flowers are black
Those who once sat thereon come back;
Quite a row of them sitting there,
Quite a row of them sitting there.
With them the seat does not break down,
Nor winter freeze them, nor floods drown,
For they are as light as upper air,
They are as light as upper air!
My Orcha'd In Linden Lea
by William Barnes

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
The Haunted Room.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Its casements' diamond disks of glass
Stare myriad on a terrace old,
Where urns, unkempt with ragged grass,
Foam o'er with frothy cold.
The snow rounds o'er each stair of stone;
The frozen fount is hooped with pearl;
Down desolate walks, like phantoms lone,
Thin, powd'ry snow-wreaths whirl.
And to each rose-tree's stem that bends
With silver snow-combs, glued with frost,
It seems each summer rosebud sends
Its airy, scentless ghost.
The stiff Elizabethan pile
Chatters with cold thro' all its panes,
And rumbling down each chimney file
The mad wind shakes his reins.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *
Lone in the Northern angle, dim
With immemorial dust, it lay,
Where each gaunt casement's stony rim
Stared lidless to the day.
Drear in the Northern angle, hung
With olden arras dusky, where
Tall, shadowy Tristrams fought and sung
For shadowy Isolds fair.
Lies by a dingy cabinet
A tarnished lute upon the floor;
A talon-footed chair is set
Grotesquely by the door.
A carven, testered bedstead stands
With rusty silks draped all about;
And like a moon in murky lands
A mirror glitters out.
Dark in the Northern angle, where
In musty arras eats and clings
The drowsy moth; and frightened there
The wild wind sighs and sings
Adown the roomy flue and takes
And swings the ghostly mirror till
It shrieks and creaks, then pulls and shakes
The curtains with a will.
A starving mouse forever gnaws
Behind a polished panel dark,
And 'long the floor its shadow draws
A poplar in the park.
I have been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
I have been there at dead of night,
But never will again....
She grew upon my vision as
Heat sucked from the dry summer sod;
In taffetas as green as grass
Silent and faint she trod;
And angry jewels winked and frowned
In serpent coils on neck and wrist,
And 'round her dainty waist was wound
A zone of silver mist.
And icy fair as some bleak land
Her pale, still face stormed o'er with night
Of raven tresses, and her hand
Was beautiful and white.
Before the ebon mirror old
Full tearfully she made her moan,
And then a cock crew far and cold;
I looked and she was gone.
As if had come a sullying breath
And from the limpid mirror passed,
Her presence past, like some near death
Leaving my blood aghast.
Tho' I've been there when blades of light
Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;
Tho' I've been there at dead of night,
I never will again.
Saints And Angels.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

It's oh in Paradise that I fain would be,
Away from earth and weariness and all beside;
Earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea,
But Paradise upbuilds the bower for the bride.
Where flowers are yet in bud while the boughs are green,
I would get quit of earth and get robed for heaven;
Putting on my raiment white within the screen,
Putting on my crown of gold whose gems are seven
Fair is the fourfold river that maketh no moan,
Fair are the trees fruit-bearing of the wood,
Fair are the gold and bdellium and the onyx stone,
And I know the gold of that land is good.
O my love, my dove, lift up your eyes
Toward the eastern gate like an opening rose;
You and I who parted will meet in Paradise,
Pass within and sing when the gates unclose.
This life is but the passage of a day,
This life is but a pang and all is over;
But in the life to come which fades not away
Every love shall abide and every lover.
He who wore out pleasure and mastered all lore,
Solomon, wrote "Vanity of vanities:"
Down to death, of all that went before
In his mighty long life, the record is this.
With loves by the hundred, wealth beyond measure,
Is this he who wrote "Vanity of vanities"?
Yea, "Vanity of vanities" he saith of pleasure,
And of all he learned set his seal to this.
Yet we love and faint not, for our love is one,
And we hope and flag not, for our hope is sure,
Although there be nothing new beneath the sun
And no help for life and for death no cure.
The road to death is life, the gate of life is death,
We who wake shall sleep, we shall wax who wane;
Let us not vex our souls for stoppage of a breath,
The fall of a river that turneth not again.
Be the road short, and be the gate near, -
Shall a short road tire, a strait gate appall?
The loves that meet in Paradise shall cast out fear,
And Paradise hath room for you and me and all.
Keeping His First Wife Now
by Henry Lawson

It's oh! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied,
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
They're getting mixed up in society,
There's an awful family row,
For Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Is 'keeping' his first wife now!
Oh! she belonged to the smart, smart set
(Where reasons are far to seek),
And the wedding and 'crush' are remembered yet
As the 'smart' things of the week.
Never an atom of love had she,
But they had a child somehow,
And Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Has the love of his first wife now.
Mad for 'notice' and 'talk' was she,
A butterfly blind as a bat,
She would flaunt for a season a divorcee,
Or divorce him, failing that.
He played his part and she held his heart
As light as her marriage vow,
But Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Has a hold on his first wife now.
She swore in Court what the world knew false,
With never a thought of shame,
She was free to flaunt to her heart's content,
But she found it mighty tame:
The talk of the 'town' for a week or two,
The gush, the smirk and the bow,
But Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Is the God of his first wife now!
Her soul grew sick of the smart, smart set,
Or her conscience drove her wild,
Or she craved for 'notice' and 'talk' once more,
Or perhaps because of the child;
But they met at last and they met again,
No matter the where or how,
And Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Is in love with his first wife now.
'Tis a 'terrible life' for the second young wife,
But she married him too for 'place';
And she mustn't forget that a smarting set
Belongs to the human race.
They say it's fixed up in camera,
And, if that is the case, I'll vow,
That Reginald Jones of 'The Fernery'
Will marry his first wife now.
And there is a song of the English world
And a song for the English race:
The second husband and second wife
Must ever take second place.
So cherish the best that you find in the first,
And a margin of width allow:
The future looks after itself too well!
Look after the first ones now.
A Road Song
by Madison Julius Cawein

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon
Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the hollows,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the hollows."
It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one
With a renegade foot that doubles!
And a jolly lilt that he flings to the sun
As he turns with the friendly laugh, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the troubles,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the troubles!"
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXLII. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

It's once I courted as pretty a lass,
As ever your eyes did see;
But now she's come to such a pass,
She never will do for me.
She invited me to her own house,
Where oft I'd been before,
And she tumbled me into the hog-tub,
And I'll never go there any more.
Sketch From The Life, A
by Arthur Guiterman

Its eyes are gray;
Its hair is either brown
Or black;
And, strange to say,
Its dresses button down
The back!
It wears a plume
That loves to frisk around
My ear.
It crowds the room
With cushions in a mound
And queer
Old rugs and lamps
In corners a la Turque
And things.
It steals my stamps,
And when I want to work
It sings!
It rides and skates,
But then it comes and fills
My walls
With plaques and plates
And keeps me paying bills
And calls.
It's firm; and if
I should my many woes
Deplore,
'Twould only sniff
And perk its little nose
Some more.
It's bright, though small;
Its name, you may have guessed,
Is "Wife."
But, after all,
It gives a wondrous zest
To life!
The Lonesomest House.
by Jean Blewett

It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,
This big gray house where I stay.
I don't call it living at all, at all,
Since my mother's gone away.
Only four weeks now - it seems a year - 
Gone to heaven, the preacher said,
And my heart is just broke awaiting her,
And my eyes are always red.
I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,
'Cause every identical room
Seems empty enough to scare a boy,
And packed to the door with gloom.
Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals,
And her not there in her place,
Pouring the tea, and passing the things,
With that lovin' shine on her face!
But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair
And to bed as still 's a mouse,
And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard
To stay in this old gray house!
And nobody giving me good-night hugs,
Or smoothing my hair back - so;
Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,
But things that he likes, you know.
There's no one to go to when things go wrong - 
Oh, she was so safe and sure!
There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy
That she couldn't up and cure.
There's lots of women, it seems to me,
That wouldn't be missed so much,
The women whose boys are 'most growed up,
And old maid aunties, and such.
I can't understand it at all, at all,
Why on earth she should have to go,
And leave me here in this old gray house,
Needin' an' wantin' her so!
Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all
In the wide, wide world to-day
Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke
'Cause his mother's gone away!
Mater Dolorosa
by William Barnes

I'd a dream to-night
As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Ay, the child I had,
But was not to keep.
As in heaven high,
I my child did seek,
There in train came by
Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,
With a lamp alight;
Each was clear to sight,
But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad,
Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had,
O it did not burn!
He, to clear my doubt,
Said, half turn'd about,
'Your tears put it out;
Mother, never mourn.'
The Flawed Bell
by Charles Baudelaire

It's bitter, yet sweet, on wintry nights,
near to the fire that crackles and fumes,
listening while, far-off, slow memories rise
to echoing chimes that ring through the gloom.
Lucky indeed, the loud-tongued bell
still hale and hearty despite its age,
repeating its pious call, true and well,
like an old trooper in the sentry's cage!
My soul is flawed: when, at boredom's sigh,
it would fill the chill night air with its cry,
it often happens that its voice, enfeebled,
thickens like a wounded man's death-rattle
by a lake of blood, vast heaps of the dying,
who ends, without moving, despite his trying.
The Old Byway
by Madison Julius Cawein

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees
Through sumac and wild blackberries,
Thick elder and the bramble-rose,
Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees
Hang droning in repose.
The little lizards lie all day
Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray;
And, insect-Ariels of the sun,
The butterflies make bright its way,
Its path where chipmunks run.
A lyric there the redbird lifts,
While, twittering, the swallow drifts
'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream, - 
In which the wind makes azure rifts, - 
O'er dells where wood-doves dream.
The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound
Mid weeds and briers that hedge it round;
And in its grass-grown ruts, - where stirs
The harmless snake, - mole-crickets sound
Their faery dulcimers.
At evening, when the sad west turns
To lonely night a cheek that burns,
The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;
And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns
The winds wake, whispering.
Johnson's Wonder
by Henry Lawson

I'd been right round by overlands to see the world and life,
And on the boat at Plymouth I met Johnson and his wife;
He was a man who knew the world and wore the know-all smile,
His wife a silly pussy cat, the soft, obedient style.
His constant source of comfort was his life was all serene,
His ceaseless source of wonder was that 'men could be so green'.
There were two women of the world whom Johnson knew by sight,
The one as fair as Southern dawn; the other dark as night,
They played each other off you see, as many sisters do,
They travelled with their 'uncle dear' (their 'manager', a Jew);
To us the make-up and the game was plainly to be seen,
And Johnson wondered how on earth most men could be so green.
At Naples, as at Genoa, too, they left no room for doubt;
They took down the chief officer and cleared the captain out.
We saw it as outsiders do, those seamen looked so mad,
'Twas managed so that neither knew the other had been had.
Such games are known to all who sail for gain or change of scene,
And Johnson wondered how in air such men could be so green.
You know Port Said, by Suez Lane, and no doubt you're aware
What sort of carnivals are held ashore on Sunday there.
And 'Uncle', being far from well, and voting ports a bore,
The doctor and a Johnnie took the lovely pair ashore.
They had a glorious donkey ride (you know which pair I mean),
And Johnson wondered how the deuce an ass could be so green.
There was a third-class passenger who acted like an earl,
Spent something over thirty pounds upon a Southern girl.
They'd met aboard, and soon the news went round from mouth to mouth,
They were engaged to marry when they reached the Sunny South.
She chucked him at Fremantle, and she didn't think it mean,
And Johnson wondered how in life a boy could be so green.
There was another married pair whom Johnson did despise;
She carried on most scand'lously before her husband's eyes.
He fetched and carried all day long as to the manner born,
And plain to all on board but him, was her conceited 'scorn'.
And Johnson bossed his wife to show the difference between
Some husbands, wondering 'owinel a man could be so green.
Now, Mrs Johnson, through it all, was anything but slack;
I'd seen her sleepy-meaning smile behind her husband's back,
I'd heard the whispered covered sneer, the stress on 'him' and 'he'.
She spread her charms for all men, from the captain down to me.
She used her drooping eyes on all while Johnson smoked serene,
And chuckled secretly because the world was very green.
He got a wire from Adelaide, on business, understand,
And left his wife to follow round, and journeyed overland.
That very night, while musing in a quiet spot on deck,
I caught her with her arms about a first-class Johnnie's neck.
The Johnsons live at Manly now, their lives are all serene,
And Johnson still is wondering how the world can be so green.
The Happy Household
by Eugene Field

It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,
That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;
Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,
For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!
And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,
While gran'ma laughs,
And gran'pa laughs,
And wife, she laughs,
And I - well, I laugh, too!
You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,
That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had;
But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fuss
As if the only baby in the world had come to us!
And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,
Gran'ma, she laughs,
Gran'pa, he laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And I, of course, laugh, too!
But once - a likely spell ago - when that poor little chick
From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,
You wouldn't know us people as the same that went about
A-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;
And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through,
Old gran'ma cried,
And gran'pa cried,
And wife, she cried,
And I - yes, I cried, too!
It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,
With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;
The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,
And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!
No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo,
Old gran'ma laughs,
And gran'pa laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And I - you bet, I laugh, too!
Pan In Vermont
by Rudyard Kipling

It's forty in the shade to-day, the spouting eaves declare;
The boulders nose above the drift, the southern slopes are bare;
Hub-deep in slush Apollo's car swings north along the Zod,
iac. Good luck, the Spring is back, and Pan is on the road!
His house is Gee & Tellus' Sons,, so goes his jest with men,
He sold us Zeus knows what last year; he'll take us in again.
Disguised behind the livery-team, fur-coated, rubber-shod,
Yet Apis from the bull-pen lows, he knows his brother God!
Now down the lines of tasseled pines the yearning whispers wake,
Pithys of old thy love behold! Come in for Hermes's sake!
How long since that so-Boston boot with reeling Maenads ran!
Numen adest! Let be the rest. Pipe and we pay, O Pan.
(What though his phlox and hollyhocks ere half a month demised?
What though his ampelopsis clambered not as advertised?
Though every seed was guaranteed and every standard true,
Forget, forgive they did not live! Believe, and buy anew!)
Now o'er a careless knee he flings the painted page abroad,
Such bloom hath never eye beheld this side of Eden Sword;
Such fruit Pomona marks her own, yea, Liber oversees,
That we may reach (one dollar each) the Lost Hesperides!
Serene, assenting, unabashed, he writes our orders down:,
Blue Asphodel on all our paths, a few true bays for crown,
Uncankered bud, immoral flower, and leaves that never fall,
Apples of Gold, of Youth, of Health, and, thank you, Pan, that's all'.
He's off along the drifted pent to catch the Windsor train,
And swindle every citizen from Keene to Lake Champlain.
But where his goat's-hoof cut the crust, beloved, look below,
He's left us (I'll forgive him all) the may-flower 'neath her snow!
An Old Song
by Madison Julius Cawein

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon
Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the hollows,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the hollows!"
It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one
With a renegade foot that doubles!
And a kindly look that he turns upon
Your face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!
We'll soon be out of the troubles,
My heart!
We'll soon be out of the troubles!"
A Lay Of The Links
by Arthur Conan Doyle

It's up and away from our work to-day,
For the breeze sweeps over the down;
And it's hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,
And the bracken is bronzing to brown.
With the turf 'neath our tread and the blue overhead,
And the song of the lark in the whin;
There's the flag and the green, with the bunkers between -
Now will you be over or in?
The doctor may come, and we'll teach him to know
A tee where no tannin can lurk;
The soldier may come, and we'll promise to show
Some hazards a soldier may shirk;
The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,
That at last he is high in his aims;
And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand
That is worth every club in St. James'.
The palm and the leather come rarely together,
Gripping the driver's haft,
And it's good to feel the jar of the steel
And the spring of the hickory shaft.
Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique?
A cleek here is common to all;
And the lie that might sting is a very small thing
When compared with the lie of the ball.
Come youth and come age, from the study or stage,
From Bar or from Bench--high and low!
A green you must use as a cure for the blues -
You drive them away as you go.
We're outward bound on a long, long round,
And it's time to be up and away:
If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow,
At least we'll be happy to-day.
Italia
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!
Look southward where Rome's desecrated town
Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.
VENICE.
The Old Byway
by Madison Julius Cawein

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees
Through sumac and wild blackberries,
Thick elder and the bramble-rose,
Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees
Hang droning in repose.
The little lizards lie all day
Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray;
And, insect-Ariels of the sun,
The butterflies make bright its way,
Its path where chipmunks run.
A lyric there the redbird lifts,
While, twittering, the swallow drifts
'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream,
In which the wind makes azure rifts,
O'er dells where wood-doves dream.
The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound!
Mid weeds and briers that hedge it round;
And in its grass-grown ruts, where stirs
The harmless snake, mole-crickets sound
Their faery dulcimers.
At evening, when the sad west turns
To lonely night a cheek that burns,
The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;
And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns
The winds wake, whispering.