DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
In The Dark
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

A blotch of pallor stirs beneath the high
Square picture-dusk, the window of dark sky.
A sound subdued in the darkness: tears!
As if a bird in difficulty up the valley steers.
"Why have you gone to the window? Why don't you sleep?
How you have wakened me! But why, why do you weep?"
"I am afraid of you, I am afraid, afraid!
There is something in you destroys me - !"
"You have dreamed and are not awake, come here to me."
"No, I have wakened. It is you, you are cruel to me!"
"My dear!" - "Yes, yes, you are cruel to me. You cast
A shadow over my breasts that will kill me at last."
"Come!" - "No, I'm a thing of life. I give
You armfuls of sunshine, and you won't let me live."
"Nay, I'm too sleepy!" - "Ah, you are horrible;
You stand before me like ghosts, like a darkness upright."
"I!" - "How can you treat me so, and love me?
My feet have no hold, you take the sky from above me."
"My dear, the night is soft and eternal, no doubt
You love it!" - "It is dark, it kills me, I am put out."
"My dear, when you cross the street in the sunshine, surely
Your own small night goes with you. Why treat it so poorly?"
"No, no, I dance in the sun, I'm a thing of life - "
"Even then it is dark behind you. Turn round, my wife."
"No, how cruel you are, you people the sunshine
With shadows!" - "With yours I people the sunshine, yours and mine - "
"In the darkness we all are gone, we are gone with the trees
And the restless river; - we are lost and gone with all these."
"But I am myself, I have nothing to do with these."
"Come back to bed, let us sleep on our mysteries.
"Come to me here, and lay your body by mine,
And I will be all the shadow, you the shine.
"Come, you are cold, the night has frightened you.
Hark at the river! It pants as it hurries through
"The pine-woods. How I love them so, in their mystery of not-to-be."
" - But let me be myself, not a river or a tree."
"Kiss me! How cold you are! - Your little breasts
Are bubbles of ice. Kiss me! - You know how it rests
"One to be quenched, to be given up, to be gone in the dark;
To be blown out, to let night dowse the spark.
"But never mind, my love. Nothing matters, save sleep;
Save you, and me, and sleep; all the rest will keep."
The Frightened Lion
by Walter Crane

A Bull Frog, according to rule,
Sat a-croak in his usual pool:
And he laughed in his heart
As a Lion did start
In a fright from the brink like a fool.
Imaginary Fears Are The Worst
Mail Drop
by Paul Cameron Brown

A boat sits on the very shallows
of a lake
in egg-cup fashion,
a tea-cosy covering waves,
orchestrating the bob of colours
in white enamel blue
inverted water.
Afar, the boat is a rasher of bacon
a strip, stripling, stipend
slicing the lake,
distancing.
The boat is an envelope
at the end of the world,
planet-sized, pea-green
about to spin crazily
into the sun at the
end of a rifle-sized
mail drop.
The boat rides amid the
between places of things,
furtive longings
where crones sit within
waiting bushes &
lizards visit skin,
dirge of teeth gnashing
the fringe canopy of
flowing leaves.
How To Make A Man Of Consequence
by Mark Lemon

A brow austere, a circumspective eye.
A frequent shrug of the os humeri;
A nod significant, a stately gait,
A blustering manner, and a tone of weight,
A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare:
Adopt all these, as time and place will bear;
Then rest assur'd that those of little sense
Will deem you sure a man of consequence.
Pastime.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking,
Two idle people, without pause or aim;
While in the ominous west there gathers darkness
Flushed with flame.
A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping,
Two drowsy people pillowed round about;
While in the ominous west across the darkness
Flame leaps out.
Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless,
Better a wrecked life than a life so soft;
The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire
Lit aloft.
To E. G., Dedicating A Book
by George MacDonald

A broken tale of endless things,
Take, lady: thou art not of those
Who in what vale a fountain springs
Would have its journey close.
Countless beginnings, fair first parts,
Leap to the light, and shining flow;
All broken things, or toys or hearts,
Are mended where they go.
Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail,
Float faithful fearless on, loved friend;
'Tis God that has begun the tale
And does not mean to end.
Echoes.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

A breath                         A breath
And a sigh, -                     And a sigh, - 
How we fly                       How we fly
From Death!                      From Death! - 
A palm                           Sing on
Warm pressed,                    O our bird!
As we guessed                    Thou art heard
Love's psalm.                    Alone.
A word                           We know
Breathed close,                  No life,
And then rose                    Neither strife,
The bird                         Nor woe,
That cowers                      Nor aught
In the wood                      But this hour, - 
'Mid a flood                     Love's dower
Of flowers,                      Dear bought. - 
Till Love's                      Death's voice
Heart sighs,                     Is away,
Like the cries                   And we may
Of doves, -                      Rejoice.
Then sings                       The bird
His song,                        Of our song
Beating strong                   May be long
White wings, -                   Unheard,
Heart clear                      But, Dear,
Though faint,                    Bend low;
Like a saint                     It is now
In prayer. -                     We hear.
He reigns                        Dear Heart
In power,                        Your kiss! - 
And Love's hour                  After this
Disdains.                        We part.
Forget                           A breath
For a day                        And a sigh, - 
All his sway,                    How we fly
Life's fret.                     From Death!
Doubting
by Henry Kendall

A brother wandered forth with me,
Beside a barren beach:
He harped on things beyond the sea,
And out of reach.
He hinted once of unknown skies,
And then I would not hark,
But turned away from steadfast eyes,
Into the dark.
And said 'an ancient faith is dead
And wonder fills my mind:
I marvel how the blind have led
So long the blind.
'Behold this truth we only know
That night is on the land!
And we a weary way must go
To find God's hand.'
I wept 'Our fathers told us, Lord,
That Thou wert kind and just,
But lo! our wailings fly abroad
For broken trust.
'How many evil ones are here
Who mocking go about,
Because we are too faint with fear
To wrestle Doubt!
'Thy riddles are beyond the ken
Of creatures of the sod:
Remember that we are but men,
And Thou art God!
'O, doting world, methinks your stay
Is weaker than a reed!
Our Father turns His face away;
'Tis dark indeed.'
The evening woods lay huddled there,
All wrapped in silence strange:
A sudden wind and lo! the air
Was filled with change.
'Your words are wild,' my brother said,
'For God's voice fills the breeze;
Go hide yourself, as Adam did,
Amongst the trees.
'I pluck the shoes from off my feet,
But dare to look around;
Behold,' he said, 'my Lord I greet,
On holy ground!'
And God spake through the wind to me
'Shake off that gloom of Fear,
You fainting soul who could not see
That I was near.
'Why vex me crying day and night?
You call on me to hark!
But when I bless your world with light,
Who makes it dark?
'Is there a ravelled riddle left
That you would have undone?
What other doubts are there to sift?'
I answered 'None.'
'My son, look up, if you would see
The Promise on your way,
And turn a trustful face to me.'
I whispered 'Yea.'
A Book For The King
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A book has been made for the King,
A book of beauty and art;
To the good king's eyes
A smile shall rise
Hiding the ache in his heart - 
Hiding the hurt and the grief
As he turns it, leaf by leaf.
A book has been made for the King,
A book of blood and of blight;
To the Great King's eyes
A look shall rise
That will blast and wither and smite - 
Yes, smite with a just God's rage,
As He turns it, page by page.
Epilogue To Through The Looking Glass
by Lewis Carroll

A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July,
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear,
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden gleam,
Life what is it but a dream?
The Bat, The Bush, And The Duck.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A bush, duck, and bat, having found that in trade,
Confined to their country, small profits were made,
Into partnership enter'd to traffic abroad,
Their purse, held in common, well guarded from fraud.
Their factors and agents, these trading allies
Employ'd where they needed, as cautious as wise:
Their journals and ledgers, exact and discreet,
Recorded by items expense and receipt.
All throve, till an argosy, on its way home,
With a cargo worth more than their capital sum,
In attempting to pass through a dangerous strait,
Went down with its passengers, sailors, and freight,
To enrich those enormous and miserly stores,
From Tartarus distant but very few doors.
Regret was a thing which the firm could but feel;
Regret was the thing they were slow to reveal;
For the least of a merchant well knows that the weal
Of his credit requires him his loss to conceal.
But that which our trio unluckily suffer'd
Allow'd no repair, and of course was discover'd.
No money nor credit, 'twas plain to be seen
Their heads were now threaten'd with bonnets of green;[2]
And, the facts of the case being everywhere known,
No mortal would open his purse with a loan.
Debts, bailiffs, and lawsuits, and creditors gruff,
At the crack of day knocking,
(Importunity shocking!)
Our trio kept busy enough.
The bush, ever ready and on the alert,
Now caught all the people it could by the skirt: - 
'Pray, sir, be so good as to tell, if you please,
If you know whereabout the old villanous seas
Have hid all our goods which they stole t' other night.
The diver, to seek them, went down out of sight.
The bat didn't venture abroad in the day,
And thus of the bailiffs kept out of the way.
Full many insolvents, not bats, to hide so,
Nor bushes, nor divers, I happen to know,
But even grand seigniors, quite free from all cares,
By virtue of brass, and of private backstairs.
Fight Of A Buffalo With Wolves.
by James McIntyre

A buffalo, lord of the plain,
With massive neck and mighty mane,
While from his herd he slowly strays,
He on green herbage calm doth graze,
And when at last he lifts his eyes
A savage wolf he soon espies,
But scarcely deigns to turn his head
For it inspires him with no dread,
He knows the wolf is treacherous foe
But feels he soon could lay him low,
A moment more and there's a pair
Whose savage eyes do on him glare,
But with contempt them both he scorns
Unworthy of his powerful horns;
Their numbers soon do multiply
But the whole pack he doth defy,
He could bound quickly o'er the plain
And his own herd could soon regain;
His foes they now are full a score
With lolling tongues pant for his gore,
He hears their teeth all loudly gnash
So eager his big bones to crash,
On every side they him infest,
The north, the south, the east, the west
Fierce rage doth now gleam from his eye,
Resolved to conquer or to die,
'Round him they yelp and howl and growl,
He glares on them with angry scowl,
They circle closer him around,
He roars and springs with mighty bound,
And of his powers gives ample proof,
Felling them with horn and hoof,
Though some lay dead upon the plain,
Yet their attack was not in vain,
For they have tasted of his blood,
Resolved it soon shall pour a flood,
He feels that they have torn his hide
And streams gush from each limb and side,
He rushes on them in despair
And tosses them full high in air,
But others rush on him and pull
Down to the earth that glorious bull;
On the flesh of this noble beast
Their bloody jaws they soon do feast,
Full worthy of a better fate
Far from his herd and his dear mate,
Who now do look for him in vain
His bones do whiten now the plain.
Per Aspera Ad Astra.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

A canvas-back duck, rarely roasted, between us,
A bottle of Chambertin, worthy of praise 
Less noble a wine at our age would bemean us 
A salad of celery en mayonnaise,
With the oysters we've eaten, fresh, plump, and delicious,
Naught left of them now but a dream and the shells;
No better souper e'en Lucullus could wish us 
Why, even our waiter regards us as swells.
Your dress is a marvel, your jewels show finely,
Your friends in the circle all envied your box;
You say Lilli Lehman sang quite too divinely 
I know I can't lose on that last deal in stocks.
Without waits our footman to call for our carriage 
Gad, how he must hate us, out there in the cold! 
We rode in a hack on the day of our marriage,
Number two forty-six I was rolling in gold,
For I'd quite fifty dollars; and don't you remember
We drove down to Taylor's, a long cherished dream:
How grandly I ordered just think, in December! 
Some cake, and two plates of vanilla ice-cream.
And how we enjoyed it! Your glance was the proudest
Among the proud beauties, your face the most fair;
I'm rather afraid, too, your laugh was the loudest;
I know we shocked every one we didn't care.
Now we'd care a great deal with two sons at college,
And daughters just out, whose sneers make you wince,
We've tasted the fruit of Society's knowledge 
I don't think we've quite enjoyed anything since.
All through, dear? Now, don't wipe your mouth with the doily!
They're really not careful at all with their wine;
It wasn't half warmed the salad was oily 
And I don't think the duck was remarkably fine.
The Impetuous Breeze And The Diplomatic Sun
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A Boston man an ulster had,
An ulster with a cape that fluttered:
It smacked his face, and made him mad,
And polyglot remarks he uttered:
"I bought it at a bargain," said he,
"I'm tired of the thing already."
The wind that chanced to blow that day
Was easterly, and rather strong, too:
It loved to see the galling way
That clothes vex those whom they belong to:
"Now watch me," cried this spell of weather,
"I'll rid him of it altogether."
It whirled the man across the street,
It banged him up against a railing,
It twined the ulster round his feet,
But all of this was unavailing:
For not without resource it found him:
He drew the ulster closer round him.
"My word!" the man was heard to say,
"Although I like not such abuse, it's
Not strange the wind is strong to-day,
It always is in Massachusetts.
Such weather threatens much the health of
Inhabitants this Commonwealth of."
The sun, emerging from a rift
Between the clouds, observed the victim,
And how the wind beset and biffed,
Belabored, buffeted, and kicked him.
Said he, "This wind is doubtless new here:
'Tis quite the freshest ever blew here."
And then he put forth all his strength,
His warmth with might and main exerted,
Till upward in its tube at length
The mercury most nimbly spurted.
Phenomenal the curious sight was,
So swift the rise in Fahrenheit was.
The man supposed himself at first
The prey of some new mode of smelting:
His pulses were about to burst,
His every limb seemed slowly melting,
And, as the heat began to numb him,
He cast the ulster wildly from him.
"Impulsive breeze, the use of force,"
Observed the sun, "a foolish act is,
Perceiving which, you see, of course.
How highly efficacious tact is."
The wondering wind replied, "Good gracious!
You're right about the efficacious."
THE MORAL deals, as morals do,
With tact, and all its virtues boasted,
But still I can't forget, can you,
That wretched man, first chilled, then roasted?
Bronchitis seized him shortly after,
And that's no cause for vulgar laughter.
Fortvne And The Boy
by Walter Crane

A Boy heedless slept by the well
By Dame Fortune awaked, truth to tell,
Said she, "Hadst been drowned,
'Twould have surely been found
This by Fortune, not Folly befel."
Fortune Is Not Answerable For Our Want Of Foresight
A Broken Rainbow On The Skies Of May
by Madison Julius Cawein

A Broken rainbow on the skies of May,
Touching the dripping roses and low clouds,
And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost:
So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost
Of one great love, of iridescent ray,
Spanning the roses dim of memory,
Against the tumult of life's rushing crowds
A broken rainbow on the skies of May.
A flashing humming-bird among the flowers,
Deep-coloured blooms; its slender tongue and bill
Sucking the syrups and the calyxed myrrhs,
Till, being full of sweets, away it whirrs:
Such was his love that won her heart's rich bowers
To give to him their all, their honied showers,
The bloom from which he drank his body's fill
A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.
A moon, moth-white, that through long mists of fleece
Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black,
And, lost to vision, rims the black with froth:
A love that swept its moon, like some great moth,
Across the heaven of her soul's young peace;
And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease
Of time, through which its burning light comes back
A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists of fleece.
A bolt of living thunder downward hurled,
Momental blazing from the piled-up storm,
That instants out the mountains and the ocean,
The towering crag, then blots the sight's commotion:
Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world,
The deeps of life, 'round which fate's clouds are curled,
And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm
A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.
Sonnets. XI
by John Milton

A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon;
And wov'n close, both matter, form and stile;
The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while,
Numbring good intellects; now seldom por'd on.
Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on
A title page is this! and some in file
Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile-
End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp;
When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XIII - Casual Incitement
by William Wordsworth

A bright-haired company of youthful slaves,
Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale
Of a sad market, ranged for public sale,
Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves:
Angli by name; and not an Angel waves
His wing who could seem lovelier to man's eye
Than they appear to holy Gregory;
Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves
For Them, and for their Land. The earnest Sire,
His questions urging, feels, in slender ties
Of chiming sound, commanding sympathies;
De-Irians, he would save them from God's ire;
Subjects of Saxon Aella, they shall sing
Glad Halle-lujahs to the eternal King!
The British Tar.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

A British tar is a soaring soul,
As free as a mountain bird,
His energetic fist should be ready to resist
A dictatorial word
His nose should pant and his lips should curl,
His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,
His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,
And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.
His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,
His brow with scorn be rung;
He never should bow down to a domineering frown,
Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.
His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,
His hair should twirl and his face should scowl:
His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,
And this should be his customary attitude!
The Stockman
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'A wet sheet and a flowing sea.')
A bright sun and a loosened rein,
A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
As merrily forth we bound'
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
And, by the dawn's pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
From morn till starry night.
'Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,'
I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
With the flash of their tameless eye'
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
And the horse that mocks at fear.
There's mischief in you wide-horned steer,
There's danger in you cow;
Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
The wild mob's bolting now'
The wild mob's bolting now, my boys,
But 'twas never in their hides
To show the way to the well-trained nags
That are rattling by their sides.
Oh! 'tis jolly to follow the roving herd
Through the long, long summer day,
And camp at night by some lonely creek
When dies the golden ray.
Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree,
And our quart-pot tea we sip;
The saddle was our childhood's home,
Our heritage the whip.
The Dilettante And The Critic.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A boy a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.
An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,
Talkative, clever, and learned as well;
The boy his society used to prize,
Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.
"My friend the fox my pigeon must see
He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he
"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!
His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"
"Let's see!" The boy gave it. "'Tis really not bad;
And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"
So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.
The boy screamed. "Thou must now stronger pinions supply,
Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly." 
Soon 'twas stripp'd oh, the villain! and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken, and so my tale ceases.
*     *     *     *
He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,
Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.
The Bottle Tree
by Eugene Field

A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
A snug little berth in that ship I demand
That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away
Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day
And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand;
You take of that fruit as much as you list,
For colic's a nuisance that doesn't exist!
So cuddle me and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day!
Heigh-ho for Winkyway land!
And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I've heard people say)
Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand -
And that is a trick I would fain understand!
Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day!
And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night -
A bottle of milk that is creamy and white!
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
Christmas Roses
by Lizzie Lawson

A BUNCH of Christmas Roses, dear,
To greet my fairest child,
I plucked them in my garden where
The drifting snow lay piled.
I cannot bring thee violets dear,
Or cowslips growing wild,
Or daisy chain for thee to wear,
For thee to wear, my child.
For all the grassy meadows near
Are clad with snow, my child;
Through all the days of winter drear
No ray of sun has smiled.
I plucked this bunch of verses, dear,
From out my garden wild,
I plucked them in the winter drear
For you, my fairest child,
Your wet and wintry hours to cheer,
They're Christmas Roses, child.