DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Recollections After An Evening Walk.
by John Clare

Just as the even-bell rang, we set out
To wander the fields and the meadows about;
And the first thing we mark'd that was lovely to view,
Was the sun hung on nothing, just bidding adieu:
He seem'd like a ball of pure gold in the west,
In a cloud like a mountain blue, dropping to rest;
The skies all around him were ting'd with his rays,
And the trees at a distance seem'd all on a blaze,
Till, lower and lower, he sank from our sight,
And the blue mist came creeping with silence and night.
The woodman then ceas'd with his hatchet to hack,
And bent away home with his kid on his back;
The mower too lapt up his scythe from our sight,
And put on his jacket, and bid us good-night;
The thresher once lumping, we heard him no more,
He left his barn-dust, and had shut up his door;
The shepherd had told all his sheep in his pen,
And humming his song, sought his cottage agen:
But the sweetest of all seeming music to me,
Were the songs of the clumsy brown-beetle and bee;
The one was seen hast'ning away to his hive,
The other was just from his sleeping alive,--
'Gainst our hats he kept knocking as if he'd no eyes,
And when batter'd down he was puzzled to rise.
The little gay moth too was lovely to view,
A dancing with lily-white wings in the dew;
He whisk'd o'er the water-pudge flirting and airy,
And perch'd on the down-headed grass like a fairy.
And there came the snail from his shell peeping out,
As fearful and cautious as thieves on the rout;
The sly jumping frog too had ventur'd to tramp,
And the glow-worm had just 'gun to light up his lamp;
To sip of the dew the worm peep'd from his den,
But dreading our footsteps soon vanish'd agen:
And numbers of creatures appear'd in our sight,
That live in the silence and sweetness of night,
Climbing up the tall grasses or scaling the bough,
But these were all nameless, unnotic'd till now.
And then we wound round 'neath the brook's willow row,
And look'd at the clouds that kept passing below;
The moon's image too, in the brook we could see't,
As if 'twas the other world under our feet;
And we listen'd well pleas'd at the guggles and groans
The water made passing the pebbles and stones.
And then we turn'd up by the rut-rifted lane,
And sought for our cot and the village again;
For night gather'd round, and shut all from the eye,
And a black sultry cloud crept all over the sky;
The dew on the bush, soon as touch'd it would drop,
And the grass 'neath our feet was as wet as a mop:
And, as to the town we approach'd very fast,
The bat even popp'd in our face as he past;
And the crickets sang loud as we went by the house,
And by the barn-side we saw many a mouse
Quirking round for the kernels that, litter'd about,
Were shook from the straw which the thresher hurl'd out.
And then we came up to our cottage once more,
And shut out the night-dew, and lock'd up the door;
The dog bark'd a welcome, well-pleas'd at our sight,
And the owl o'er our cot flew, and whoop'd a "good-night."
Roses On The Breakfast Table
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Just a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar
Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth
Float like boats on a river, while other
Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.
She laughs at me across the table, saying
I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses
And suddenly realise, in them as in me,
How lovely the present is that this day discloses.
A Soldier's Valentine.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Just from the sentry's tramp
(I must take it again at ten),
I have laid my musket down,
And seized instead my pen;
For, pacing my lonely round
In the chilly twilight gray,
The thought, dear Mary, came,
That this is St. Valentine's Day.
And with the thought there came
A glimpse of the happy time
When a school-boy's first attempt
I sent you, in borrowed rhyme,
On a gilt-edged sheet, embossed
With many a quaint design,
And signed, in school-boy hand,
"Your loving Valentine."
The years have come and gone,--
Have flown, I know not where, --
And the school-boy's merry face
Is grave with manhood's care;
But the heart of the man still beats
At the well-remembered name,
And on this St. Valentine's Day
His choice is still the same.
There was a time-- ah, well!
Think not that I repine
When I dreamed this happy day
Would smile on you as mine;
But I heard my country's call;
I knew her need was sore.
Thank God, no selfish thought
Withheld me from the war.
But when the dear old flag
Shall float in its ancient pride,
When the twain shall be made one,
And feuds no more divide,--
I will lay my musket down,
My martial garb resign,
And turn my joyous feet
Toward home and Valentine.
Envoy.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Just as of old!    The world rolls on and on;
The day dies into night - night into dawn - 
Dawn into dusk - through centuries untold. - 
Just as of old.
Time loiters not.    The river ever flows,
Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows;
Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold:
Just as of old.
Lo! where is the beginning, where the end
Of living, loving, longing?    Listen, friend! - 
God answers with a silence of pure gold - 
Just as of old.
The Two Soldiers
by Thomas Hardy

Just at the corner of the wall
We met yes, he and I -
Who had not faced in camp or hall
Since we bade home good-bye,
And what once happened came back all -
Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew
And loved long dead and gone,
Whose poor half-perished residue,
Tombless and trod, lay yon!
But at this moment to our view
Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see,
Lit by a lurid shine,
The drama re-enact which she
Had dyed incarnadine
For us, and more. And doubtless he
Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known,
And with an indifferent air
We passed, without a sign being shown
That, as it real were,
A memory-acted scene had thrown
Its tragic shadow there.
Lament V
by Jan Kochanowski

Just as a little olive offshoot grows
Beneath its orchard elders' shady rows,
No budding leaf as yet, no branching limb,
Only a rod uprising, virgin-slim - 
Then if the busy gardener, weeding out
Sharp thorns and nettles, cuts the little sprout,
It fades and, losing all its living hue,
Drops by the mother from whose roots it grew:
So was it with my Ursula, my dear;
A little space she grew beside us here,
Then Death came, breathing pestilence, and she
Fell, stricken lifeless, by her parent tree.
Persephone, Persephone, this flow
Of barren tears! How couldst thou will it so?
Feed My Lambs.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Just before the bright cloud the Saviour received,
When about to return to his father in Heaven;
His mission accomplished, his work on earth done,
'Twas then that this parting injunction was given:
"Feed my lambs!" this was said to one of the twelve,
Whom he called to be with him while sojourning here;
"Feed my lambs!" Oh, what love was evinced by those words,
What tender compassion, what fatherly care.
Three times at this meeting the question was asked,
"Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?"
And though grieved, yet how truly could Peter reply,
"Lord thou knowest all things, thou know'st I love thee."
Thrice this same Peter his Lord had denied,
And had he not reason reproaches to fear?
Oh, no! for his Saviour had all this forgiven,
He saw his repentance, he knew it sincere.
That disciple soon followed his Lord whom he loved,
And many long ages have since passed away;
But the parting command still remains in full force,
And will ever remain so till time's latest day.
Many wolves in sheep's clothing are still to be found,
Whom Satan fails not to instruct and employ;
They enter the fold, and with most specious wiles,
Seek the young of the flock to ensnare and destroy.
And shall we dare call ourselves followers of Christ,
And yet his known precepts presume to evade?
Ah! stop and reflect, what's the test that's required?
"If ye love me, keep my commandments," he said.
June 26, 1852.
Cherry-Pit
by Robert Herrick

Julia and I did lately sit,
playing for sport at cherry-pit;
She threw; I cast; and, having thrown
I got the pit, she got the stone.
Geraldine
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Just as the sun went bathing in a sea
Of liquid amber, flecked with caps of gold, I told
The sweet old story unto Geraldine, my Queen,
Who long hath made the whole of life for me.
But though she smiled upon me yesterday,
And heaven seemed near because she was so kind, I find
She held me but as one of many men; and then
Dismissed me in her proud, yet gracious way.
Ah, Geraldine! my lady of sweet arts,
There waits for thee not very far away, a day
When thou shalt waken out of tranquil sleep, and weep
Such bitter tears as spring from anguished hearts.
Thou shalt look in thy mirror with dismay
To find upon each feature of thy face, the trace
Of time, the lover who shall follow thee, and see
Thy rare youth slipping suddenly away.
So self-assured, so certain of thy power,
It shall come on thee with a swift surprise.    Thine eyes
Appalled, shall fall upon each certain, strange, sad change,
And rob thee of thy triumph in an hour.
And when that day shall come, as come it must,
You then will think of me, sweet Geraldine, my Queen,
And of the faithful heart there tossed away one day,
Before thy dead sea apples turned to dust.
To dust and ashes, leaving nothing more,
That day will come, my lady, I can wait; and Fate
Shall right my wrongs.    Thou smilest, Geraldine, my Queen!
Ah well, so have fair women smiled before.
Carnival And Lent
by Paul Cameron Brown

Jungle, the cave
human reservoir & cistern ... .
quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow,
fairest glance of goodness in
soiled wildflower under winter snows.
Pebbles into a cesspool,
our sometime passions alive
in the outback where honey-fuelled
ants soothe enemy bones.
My blood, tempest-whipped,
ardour drawn to the surface
fathom marks the depths
sees a spectacle on the roads
queues/Carnival & Lent,
unbridled raw and raging.
Jesus would have nails.
Poison darts,
liana and mangrove sounds
with footsteps in the distance
the blow-gun or bolo knife
attache case / cellular phone ...
"I'll kick your teeth down
your throat, professionally
speaking." Nine to five fecal
beings perform the toilet-bowl flush.
Tsetse fly with design - 
sapient, sand paper rough
along the edge, dry rot to the core.
Plague rats cluster in a feeding
frenzy sampling tidbits.
Swirl of the bull fight,
colour and scope, only
its a supermarket, freeway.
Wide angle, wild angel,
Umbrage of the uppercut.
Tough-mindedness, singleness
of purpose, the glacial speed of
fairness along the sorted, sordid
circles of Spitsbergen.
Our species' jailbait reason
firing up the flashlight in the dark
for a circumspect peek in the woods sleeping.
Tell me your adventures in living.
Another hour spent
strangling a reindeer
on the taiga, boreally-speaking.
Home and Love
by Robert William Service

Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I'm sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love.
Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
Which of the two were best to gain;
Home without Love is bitterness;
Love without Home is often pain.
No! each alone will seldom do;
Somehow they travel hand and glove:
If you win one you must have two,
Both Home and Love.
And if you've both, well then I'm sure
You ought to sing the whole day long;
It doesn't matter if you're poor
With these to make divine your song.
And so I praisefully repeat,
When angels talk in Heaven above,
There are no words more simply sweet
Than Home and Love.
A Ring Presented To Julia
by Robert Herrick

Julia, I bring
To thee this Ring.
Made for thy finger fit;
To shew by this,
That our love is
(Or sho'd be) like to it.
Close though it be,
The joynt is free:
So when Love's yoke is on,
It must not gall,
Or fret at all
With hard oppression.
But it must play
Still either way;
And be, too, such a yoke,
As not too wide,
To over-slide;
Or be so strait to choak.
So we, who beare,
The beame, must reare
Our selves to such a height:
As that the stay
Of either may
Create the burden light.
And as this round
Is no where found
To flaw, or else to sever:
So let our love
As endless prove;
And pure as Gold for ever.
The Little Jumping Girls.
by Kate Greenaway

Jump jump jump 
Jump away
From this town into
The next, to-day.
Jump jump jump 
Jump over the moon;
Jump all the morning,
And all the noon.
Jump jump jump 
Jump all night;
Won't our mothers
Be in a fright?
Jump jump jump 
Over the sea;
What wonderful wonders
We shall see.
Jump jump jump 
And leave behind
Everything evil
That we may find.
Jump jump jump 
Jump far away;
And all come home
Some other day.
A Prayer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Just as I shape the purport of my thought,
Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot.
Let each ill thought that in my heart may be,
Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.
Until I weed the garden of my mind
From all that is unworthy and unkind,
Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord?
Then as I THINK, so must be my reward.
Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength,
That which we plant, we gather in at length.
Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me,
And as my thoughts, so let my future be.
A Protestant Irishman To His Wife.
by Thomas Frederick Young

"Just forty years to-day, my dear,
We sail'd from Irish waters,
And bade farewell, with many a tear,
To Erin's sons and daughters.
"You'll recollect how ach'd our hearts,
That day in Tipperary,
When we set forth for foreign parts,
For distant woods or prairie.
"You know our very hearts were rent
With grief, almost asunder,
And if we thought all joy was spent,
No exil'd heart will wonder.
"But soon we reach'd our strange, new home,
Where mighty forests flourish'd,
With others, forc'd like us to roam,
Who in our isle were nourish'd.
"But now I'm fairly happy here,
And so are you, my Mary,
But still I've seen you drop a tear
Betimes, for Tipperary.
"We've many friends from home, here, now,
And some we call our brothers,
While some we meet with clouded brow, - 
Their creed, our feeling smothers.
"There's some from Dublin, Cork, indeed
There's some from distant Galway,
But ev'ry man, whate'er his creed,
Should own his country, alway.
"Tho' one attends the church, and one
Devoutly seeks the chapel,
Agreeably they yet might run,
Nor have one discord apple.
"True Irishmen have often met,
One common cause to feel,
And many a furious onset met,
With 'valor's clashing steel.'
"And surely there will come a day,
When common thoughts and aims,
Will shed a pure and healthy ray,
And show what duty claims.
"Sure Parson E. went o'er the sea,
And back he came so smiley,
With stick so fine from black-thorn tree,
For father John O'Rielly.
"Thus we, as Irishmen, should ne'er
Forget our common land,
Or claims of breth'ren, ev'rywhere,
Upon our heart and hand."
Song of Faiz Ulla
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Just at the time when Jasmins bloom, most sweetly in the summer weather,
Lost in the scented Jungle gloom, one sultry night we spent together
We, Love and Night, together blent, a Trinity of tranced content.
Yet, while your lips were wholly mine, to kiss, to drink from, to caress,
We heard some far-off faint distress; harsh drop of poison in sweet wine
Lessening the fulness of delight, -    Some quivering note of human pain,
Which rose and fell and rose again, in plaintive sobs throughout the night,
Spoiling the perfumed, moonless hours
We spent among the Jasmin flowers.
Don't Worry
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Just do your best,
And leave the rest
To Him who gave you
Life,--
And Zeal for Labour,--
And the Joy of Strife,--
And Zest of Love,--
And all that lifts your soul above
The lower things.
Life's truest harvest is in what we would,
And strive our best for,
Not most in what we could.
The things we count supreme
Stand, haply, not so high
In God's esteem
As How and Why.
All-Seeing Sight
Cleaves through the husk of things,
Right to the Roots and Springs,--
Sees all things whole,
And measures less the body than the soul.
All-Righteous Right
Will weigh men's motives,
Not their deeds alone.
End and Beginning unto Him are one;
And would for could shall oft, perchance, atone.
Motives are seeds,
From which at times spring deeds
Not equal to the soul's outreaching hope.
Strive for the stars!
Count nought well done but best!
Then, with brave patience, leave the rest
To Him who knows.
He'll judge you justly ere the record close.
He And I
by James Whitcomb Riley

Just drifting on together -
He and I -
As through the balmy weather
Of July
Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded
Each in each - by zephyrs wedded -
Touring upward, giddy-headed,
For the sky.
And, veering up and onward,
Do we seem
Forever drifting dawnward
In a dream,
Where we meet song-birds that know us,
And the winds their kisses blow us,
While the years flow far below us
Like a stream.
And we are happy - very -
He and I -
Aye, even glad and merry
Though on high
The heavens are sometimes shrouded
By the midnight storm, and clouded
Till the pallid moon is crowded
From the sky.
My spirit ne'er expresses
Any choice
But to clothe him with caresses
And rejoice;
And as he laughs, it is in
Such a tone the moonbeams glisten
And the stars come out to listen
To his voice.
And so, whate'er the weather,
He and I, -
With our lives linked thus together,
Float and fly
As two thistle-tufts imbedded
Each in each - by zephyrs wedded -
Touring upward, giddy-headed,
For the sky.
Watterin Places (Prose)
by John Hartley

July is th' month to gooa a spawin'; an' fowk luk forrard to it just th' same as if they conldn't do withaat it. Th' fact is aw hardly dar say owt agean it, for awm fond ov a bit ov a off mysen; but then ther's different ways o' dooin it. A chap at gethers horsemuck at hooam needn't want to mak' fowk believe he's th' Lord Mayor o' London abrooad. Aw remember once when aw wur at a watterin' place, aw followed some fine young ladies an' wished 'em "gooid day;" aw wornt exactly sure whether one on 'em mightn't be th' Princess o' Wales or net, but haasumiver, they curled up ther nooas th' same as if they'd passed a fooamet. But in abaat a wick at after, aw met one on 'em gooin ovver th' North Brigg wi' a slice o' traitle cake in her hand, varry near like th' door ov a mahogany shut-up-bed, an' up to th' elbows i' Miln greease too. Aw thowt if ony body wanted to pick a lass for a wife they shouldn't goa to a spawin' spot. For all that, awve nowt to say agean it - one body's as mich reight to goa an get sunburnt as another; but they mud as weel spaik truth, an' not allus say it's for th' gooid o' ther health, when all th' time it's just for a bit ov a spree. Aw could give some gooid advice to ony body at thinks o' gooin. Tak varry little brass, an' let it be i' your pocket, net i' yor face. Th' less yo have an' th' less yo'll spend. Dooant buy patent booits to walk o' th' sand in. If you're anxious to ride in a cock booat, dooant be particler to wear white trowsers. If yo want a horse to ride, tak one wi yo - it 'll save yo a deeal o' disappointment; if yo want a donkey, settle ha mony legs yo could like it to have, an' yo'll find plenty. Be careful noabody taks a fancy to yo th' same way. Ther's as mony donkeys wi' two legs as four, an' a bonny seet mooar. Talkin' abaat th' number o' legs maks me think ov a chap at considered hissen rayther a sharp en; he'd a bit ov a garden an' some cherry trees in it, an' one mornin' when he gate aat o' bed he fan somdy had saved him th' trouble o' getherin' th' fruit; they'd done it for him woll he wor asleep. He coom an' tell'd th' tale to me. "A'a," he said, "if he could nobbut find aat who'd done it, he'd stransport 'em over th' seah' that he wod!" "Why," aw says, "tha knows burds is varry fond o' cherries, an' its happen th' burds." "Burds!" he said, an' he winked at me varry knowingly. "Burds! happen they wor burds - but they wor two-legged ens aw'll bet." Aw niver thowt him quite so sharp after that.
Nah just a word bi way of a caution. A chap 'at's two paand i' debt an' goas an' spends three paand at a watterin' place, maks hiss en five paand behund; whereas if he'd paid what he owed he'd still ha had one paand to spend, an' that ud goa as far o' th' top o' Blackstonedge as three paand at Blackpool. It's worth a thowt.
A Pointer.
by John Hartley

Just listen to mi stooary lads,
It's one will mak yo grieve;
It's full ov sich strange incidents;
Yo hardly can believe.
That lass aw cooarted, went one neet
Aght walkin wi' a swell;
They ovvertuk me on mi way,
An this is what befell.
They tuk me for a finger pooast;
Aw stood soa varry still;
An daan they set beside me,
Just at top o' Beacon Hill.
He sed shoo wor his deary;
Shoo sed he wor her pet;
'Twor an awkward sittiwation
Which aw shall'nt sooin forget.
Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill, - 
They set daan at mi feet;
He hugged her up soa varry cloise,
Aw thowt ther lips must meet.
He sed he loved wi' all his heart,
Shoo fainted reight away;
Aw darsn't luk, - aw darsn't start,
But aw wished misen away.
They tuk me for, &c.
He bathed her temples from the brook;
He sed shoo wor his life,
It made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn
To mak that lass mi wife.
Shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead,
Upon his heavin breast;
An then shoo skriked, an off aw ran,
But aw cannot tell the rest.
They tuk me for, &c.
They wedded wor, sooin after that,
Aw thowt mi heart wod braik; - 
It didn't, - soa aw'm livin on,
An freeatin for her sake.
But sweet revenge, - it coom at last,
For childer shoo had three,
An they're all marked wi' a finger pooast
Whear it didn't owt to be.
They tuk me for, &c.
Change
by John Frederick Freeman

Just as this wood, cast on the snaky fire,
Crushes the curling heads till smoke is thickened
And the ash sinks beneath the billet's weight,
And then again the hissing heads are quickened:
Just as this wood, by fretful fangs new stung,
Glows angrily, then whitens in the grate
And slowly smouldering smoulders away,
And dies defeated every famished tongue
And nothing's left but a memory of heat
And the sunk crimson telling warmth was sweet:
Just as this wood, once green with Spring's swift fire
Dies to a pinch of ashes cold and gray....
Just as this wood----
At The Play
by Virna Sheard

Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall
Looketh down a carven face from out the gilded wall.
Van Dyke beard and broidered ruff silently confess
That he lived - and loved perchance - in days of Good Queen Bess.
(Laces fine and linen sheer, curled and perfumed hair
Well became those gentlemen of gay, insouciant air.)
See! He gazeth evermore at the stage below;
Noteth well the players as they quickly come and go;
Queens and kings and maidens fair, motley fools and friars,
Lords and ladies, stately dames, mounted knights and squires.
Well he knoweth all of them, all the grave and gay,
These are they he dreamt of in the far and far away;
Saints and sinners, see they come down the bygone years,
And the world still shares with them its laughter and its tears.
Still we haunt the greenwood for love of Rosalind,
Still we hear the Jester's bells ajingle on the wind,
Still the frenzied Moor we fear - Ah! and even yet
Breathless wait before the tomb of all the Capulet.
Though the slow years pass away, yet on land and sea,
Follow we the Danish Prince in sad soliloquy;
And I fancy sometimes when the round moon saileth high
Yet in Venice meet the Jew - as he goeth by.
(Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall
Looketh down a carven face from out the gilded wall.)