DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Throstle
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

'Summer is coming, summer is coming.
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,'
Yes, my wild little Poet.
Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it as gladly.
'New, new, new, new'! Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?
'Love again, song again, nest again, young again,'
Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See, there is hardly a daisy.
'Here again, here, here, here, happy year'!
O warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
And all the winters are hidden.
Lover's Lane
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Summah night an' sighin' breeze,
'Long de lovah's lane;
Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees,
'Long de lovah's lane.
White folks' wo'k all done up gran'--
Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han'
Struttin' lak we owned de lan',
'Long de lovah's lane.
Owl a-settin' 'side de road,
'Long de lovah's lane,
Lookin' at us lak he knowed
Dis uz lovah's lane.
Go on, hoot yo' mou'nful tune,
You ain' nevah loved in June,
An' come hidin' f'om de moon
Down in lovah's lane.
Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway,
Down in lovah's lane,
Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say
'Long de lovah's lane.
But I whispahs low lak dis,
An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss--
Mistah Bush he shek his fis',
Down in lovah's lane.
Whut I keer ef day is long,
Down in lovah's lane.
I kin allus sing a song
'Long de lovah's lane.
An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say
Meks up fu' de weary day
Wen I's strollin' by de way,
Down in lovah's lane.
An' dis t'ought will allus rise
Down in lovah's lane;
Wondah whethah in de skies
Dey 's a lovah's lane.
Ef dey ain't, I tell you true,
'Ligion do look mighty blue,
'Cause I do' know whut I 'd do
'Dout a lovah's lane.
To A Certain Critic
by George MacDonald

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind
When I my homely dish with care designed;
'Twas certain humble souls I would have fed
Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread:
You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way,
O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay;
Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt,
Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"
Prefixed to John Davies of Hereford; Holy Roode (1609). - To M. IOHN DAVIES, my good friend.
by Michael Drayton

Such men as hold intelligence with Letters,
And in that nice and Narrow way of Verse,
As oft they lend, so oft they must be Debters,
If with the Muses they will haue commerce:
Seldome at Stawles, me, this way men rehearse,
To mine Inferiours, not unto my Betters:
He stales his Lines that so doeth them disperse;
I am so free, I loue not Golden-fetters.
And many Lines fore Writers, be but Setters
To them which cheate with Papers; which doth pierse,
Our Credits: when we shew our selues Abetters:
To those that wrong our knowledge: we rehearse
Often (my good Iohn; and I loue) thy Letters;
Which lend me Credit, as I lend my Verse.
Hope Deferred
by George MacDonald

Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ
Shall be to revel in unlikely things,
In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings,
And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk
Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea;
Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk,
Has grown a paradise for you and me.
But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth
Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there--
That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare,
How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!--
The sweetness is but one pined memory flown
Back from our summer, wandering alone!
See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart,
Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow,
Takes in the changing world its changing part,
Return a sigh, an echo sad and low,
To the faint, scarcely audible sound
With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground!
O love, sad winter lieth at the door--
Behind sad winter, age--we know no more.
Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold
Each of us compassed: we are growing old;
And if we be not as a ring enchanted,
Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay,
The young, who claim the joy that haunted
Our visions once, will push us far away
Into the desolate regions, dim and gray,
Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry,
The clouds hang low, and have no tears,
Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years,
And hopes and songs all careless pass us by.
But if all each do keep,
The rising tide of youth will sweep
Around us with its laughter-joyous waves,
As ocean fair some palmy island laves,
To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep;
And our youth hover round us like the breath
Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.
Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves,
The sundered doors into one palace home,
Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go,
Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low,
Willing to part, not willing to deny
The lovely past, where all the futures lie.
Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord,
Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word,
Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth--
Because there is no age, in sooth,
Beyond its passing shows!
A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows;
Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light
That knows not youth nor age,
That fears no darkness nor the rage
Of windy tempests--burning still more bright
Than when glad youth was all about,
And summer winds were out!
1845.
A Masque Of The Seasons
by James Whitcomb Riley

Scene. - A kitchen. - Group of Children, popping corn. - The Fairy Queen of the Seasons discovered in the smoke of the corn-popper. - Waving her wand, and, with eerie, sharp, imperious ejaculations, addressing the bespelled auditors, who neither see nor hear her nor suspect her presence.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, - 
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE JASPER
When I'm dressed warm as warm can be,
And with boots, to go
Through the deepest snow,
Winter-time is the time for me!
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, - 
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MILDRED
I like blossoms, and birds that sing;
The grass and the dew,
And the sunshine, too, - 
So, best of all I like the Spring.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, - 
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MANDEVILLE
O little friends, I most rejoice
When I hear the drums
As the Circus comes, - 
So Summer-time's my special choice.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, - 
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE EDITH
Apples of ruby, and pears of gold,
And grapes of blue
That the bee stings through. - 
Fall - it is all that my heart can hold!
QUEEN
Soh! my lovelings and pretty dears,
You've each a favorite, it appears, - 
Summer and Winter and Spring and Fall. - 
That's the reason I send them all!
Mentana: Third Anniversary
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

1
Such prayers last year were put up for thy sake;
What shall this year do that hath lived to see
The piteous and unpitied end of thee?
What moan, what cry, what clamour shall it make,
Seeing as a reed breaks all thine empire break,
And all thy great strength as a rotten tree,
Whose branches made broad night from sea to sea,
And the world shuddered when a leaf would shake?
From the unknown deep wherein those prayers were heard,
From the dark height of time there sounds a word,
Crying, Comfort; though death ride on this red hour,
Hope waits with eyes that make the morning dim,
Till liberty, reclothed with love and power,
Shall pass and know not if she tread on him.
2
The hour for which men hungered and had thirst,
And dying were loth to die before it came,
Is it indeed upon thee? and the lame
Late foot of vengeance on thy trace accurst
For years insepulchred and crimes inhearsed,
For days marked red or black with blood or shame,
Hath it outrun thee to tread out thy name?
This scourge, this hour, is this indeed the worst?
O clothed and crowned with curses, canst thou tell?
Have thy dead whispered to thee what they see
Whose eyes are open in the dark on thee
Ere spotted soul and body take farewell
Or what of life beyond the worm's may be
Satiate the immitigable hours in hell?
From T. Morley's First Book of Ballets (1595). - Mr. M.D. to the Author.
by Michael Drayton

Such was old Orpheus cunning,
That sencelesse things drew neere him,
And heards of beasts to heare him,
The stock, the stone, the Oxe, the Asse came running,
Morley! but this enchaunting
To thee, to be the Musick-God is wanting.
And yet thou needst not feare him;
Draw thou the Shepherds still and Bonny lasses,
And enuie him not stocks, stones, Oxen, Asses.
A Summer Night
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Summah is de lovin' time--
Do' keer what you say.
Night is allus peart an' prime,
Bettah dan de day.
Do de day is sweet an' good,
Birds a-singin' fine,
Pines a-smellin' in de wood,--
But de night is mine.
Rivah whisperin' "howdy do,"
Ez it pass you by--
Moon a-lookin' down at you,
Winkin' on de sly.
Frogs a-croakin' f'om de pon',
Singin' bass dey fill,
An' you listen way beyon'
Ol' man whippo'will.
Hush up, honey, tek my han'
Mek yo' footsteps light;
Somep'n' kin' o' hol's de lan'
On a summah night.
Somep'n' dat you nevah sees
An' you nevah hyeahs,
But you feels it in de breeze,
Somep'n' nigh to teahs.
Somep'n' nigh to teahs? dat's so;
But hit's nigh to smiles.
An' you feels it ez you go
Down de shinin' miles.
Tek my han', my little dove;
Hush an' come erway--
Summah is de time fu' love,
Night-time beats de day!
Silence.
by Robert Herrick

Suffer thy legs, but not thy tongue to walk:
God, the Most Wise, is sparing of His talk.
Hurrahing in Harvest
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, 'yes, he'rt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love's greeting of realer, of rounder replies?
And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic - as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! - 
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.
Sonnet CXXXVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desvia.
HIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSION.
Such vain thought as wonted to mislead me
In desert hope, by well-assur'd moan,
Makes me from company to live alone,
In following her whom reason bids me flee.
She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;
And after her my heart would fain be gone,
But arm'd sighs my way do stop anon,
'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;
Yet as I guess, under disdainful brow
One beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:
Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:
And therewithal bolded I seek the way how
To utter the smart I suffer within;
But such it is, I not how to begin.
WYATT.
Full of a tender thought, which severs me
From all my kind, a lonely musing thing,
From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,
Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;
And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,
That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:
Of arm'd sighs such legions does she bring,
The fair antagonist of Love and me.
Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,
Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,
Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:
Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!
But when my simple hope I would disclose,
My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.
WRANGHAM.
Such As Have Not Gold To Bring Thee. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house."
Such as have not gold to bring Thee,
They bring thanks - Thy grateful sons;
Such as have no song to sing Thee,
Live Thee praise - Thy silent ones.
Such as have their unknown dwelling,
Secret from Thy children here,
Known of Thee, will Thee be telling
How Thy ways with them are dear.
None the place ordained refuseth,
They are one, and they are all
Living stones, the Builder chooseth
For the courses of His wall.
Now Thy work by us fulfilling,
Build us in Thy house divine;
Each one cries, "I, Lord, am willing,
Whatsoever place be mine."
Some, of every eye beholden,
Hewn to fitness for the height,
By Thy hand to beauty moulden,
Show Thy workmanship in light.
Other, Thou dost bless with station
Dark, and of the foot downtrod,
Sink them deep in the foundation - 
Buried, hid with Christ in God.
To ......, In Her Seventieth Year
by William Wordsworth

Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind
To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;
That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive Evening deepens into night.
East to West
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Sunset smiles on sunrise: east and west are one,
Face to face in heaven before the sovereign sun.
From the springs of the dawn everlasting a glory renews and transfigures the west,
From the depths of the sunset a light as of morning enkindles the broad sea's breast,
And the lands and the skies and the waters are glad of the day's and the night's work done.
Child of dawn, and regent on the world-wide sea,
England smiles on Europe, fair as dawn and free.
Not the waters that gird her are purer, nor mightier the winds that her waters know.
But America, daughter and sister of England, is praised of them, far as they flow:
Atlantic responds to Pacific the praise of her days that have been and shall be.
So from England westward let the watchword fly,
So for England eastward let the seas reply;
Praise, honour, and love everlasting be sent on the wind's wings, westward and east,
That the pride of the past and the pride of the future may mingle as friends at feast,
And the sons of the lords of the world-wide seas be one till the world's life die.
The Dance Of Summer
by Madison Julius Cawein

Summer, gowned in catnip-gray,
Goes her weedy wildwood way,
Where with rosehip-buttoned coat,
Cardinal flower-plume afloat,
With the squirrel-folk at play,
Brown September, smiling, stands,
Chieftain of the Romany bands
Of the Fall a gypsy crew,
Glimmering in lobelia-blue,
Gold and scarlet down the lands.
Summer, with a redbird trill,
Dares him follow at her will,
There to romp in tree and vine,
Drink the sunset's crimson wine,
And on beauty feast his fill.
He his Autumn whistle takes,
And his dark hair backward shakes;
Pipes a note, and bids her on,
Dancing like a woodland faun,
And she follows through the brakes.
She must follow: she is bound
By the wildness of the sound.
Is it love or necromance?
Down the world he leads the dance,
And the woods go whirling round.
Wildly briars clutch and hold;
Branches reach out arms of gold;
Naught can stay them. Pipe, and follow
Over hill and over hollow
Till the night fall dark and cold.
Now her gown is torn in shreds,
And her gossamer veil is threads
Streaming round her nakedness;
And the flowers, at her distress,
Weep and hide their drooping heads.
Round her whirl the frightened leaves,
And the stammering water grieves;
Nut and haw the forest throws
At her as she dancing goes
To the pipe that magic weaves.
Death will have her. She must spin
Till, a skeleton, she win
To the land where Winter dwells,
Where shall end Fall's gipsy spells,
And her long white sleep begin.
On A Beautiful Youth Struck Blind With Lightning
by Oliver Goldsmith

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
The Mocking-Bird.
by Sidney Lanier

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drew
The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay
Of languid doves when long their lovers stray,
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew
At morn in brake or bosky avenue.
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?
Eight Years Old
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter's ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter's way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we'the music in our ears
Made of love's pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child's ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
Surprised By Joy - Impatient As The Wind
by William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind 
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Arms And The Man. - Our Ancient Allies.
by James Barron Hope

Superb in white and red, and white and gold,
And white and violet, the French unfold
Their blazoned banners on the Autumn air,
While cymbols clash and brazen trumpets blare:
Steeds fret and foam, and spurs with scabbards clank
As far they form, in many a shining rank.
Deux-Ponts is there, as hilt to sword blade true,
And Guvion rises smiling on the view;
And the brave Swede, as yet untouched by Fate,
Rides 'mid his comrades with a mien elate;
And Duportail - and scores of others glance
Upon the scene, and all are worthy France!
And for those Frenchmen and their splendid bands,
The very Centuries shall clap their hands,
While at their head, as all their banners flow,
And all their drums roll out, and trumpets blow,
Rides first and foremost splendid Rochambeau!
And well he rides, worthy an epic rhyme - 
Full well he rides in attitude sublime - 
Fair Freedom's Champion in the lists of Time.
Suppose
by Eugene Field

Suppose, my dear, that you were I
And by your side your sweetheart sate;
Suppose you noticed by and by
The distance 'twixt you were too great;
Now tell me, dear, what would you do?
I know--and so do you.
And when (so comfortably placed)
Suppose you only grew aware
That that dear, dainty little waist
Of hers looked very lonely there;
Pray tell me sooth--what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
When, having done what I just did
With not a frown to check or chill,
Suppose her red lips seemed to bid
Defiance to your lordly will;
Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
The Sabbath Of The Woods
by Kate Seymour Maclean

Sundown--and silence--and deep peace,--
Night's benediction and release;--
The tints of day die out and cease.
This morn I heard the Sabbath bells
Across the breezy upland swells;--
My path lay down the woodland dells.
To-day, I said, the dust of creeds,
The wind of words reach not my needs;--
I worship with the birds and weeds.
From height to height the sunbeam sprung,
The wild vine, touched with vermeil, clung,
The mountain brooklet leapt and sung.
The white lamp of the lily made
A tender light in deepest shade,--
The solitary place was glad.
The very air was tremulous,--
I felt its deep and reverent hush,--
God burned before me in the bush!
And nature prayed with folded palm,
And looks that wear perpetual calm,--
The while glad notes uplifted psalm.
The wild rose swung her fragrant vase,
The daisy answered from her place,--
Praise Him whose looks are full of grace.
And violets murmured where the feet
Of brooks made hollows cool and deep;
He giveth His beloved sleep.
Wide stood the great cathedral doors,
Arched o'er with heaven's radiant floors;--
Nature, with lifted brow, adores.
And wave, and wind, and rocking trees,
And voice of birds, and hum of bees,
Made anthem, like the roll of seas.
The sunset vapors sail and swim;--
All day uprose their mighty hymn,--
I listened till the woods were dim.
And through the beechen aisles there fell
A silver silence, like a spell.
The heifer's home returning bell,
Faint and remote, as if it grew
A portion of that silence too,
Dissolved and ceased, like falling dew.
Stars twinkled through the coming night,--
A voice dropped down the purple height,--
At even time it shall he light.
Ah rest my soul, for God is good,
Though sometimes faintly understood,
His goodness fills the solitude.
Fold up thy spirit,--trust the right,
As blossoms fold their leaves at night,
And trust the sun though out of sight.
Surprised By Joy
by William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind,
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss! That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Superfluous Were The Sun
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Superfluous were the sun
When excellence is dead;
He were superfluous every day,
For every day is said
That syllable whose faith
Just saves it from despair,
And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates
If love inquire, 'Where?'
Upon his dateless fame
Our periods may lie,
As stars that drop anonymous
From an abundant sky.