DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Lost Heart.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

One golden summer day,
Along the forest-way,
Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert.
His locks with careless grace
Rimmed round his handsome face
And drifted outward on the airy surge.
So blithe of heart was he,
He hummed a melody,
And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing.
Across his shoulders flung
His bow and baldric hung:
So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.
The sun mounts up the sky,
The air moves sluggishly,
And reeks with summer heat in every pore.
His limbs begin to tire,
Slumbers his youthful fire;
He sinks upon a violet-bed to rest.
The soft winds go and come
With low and drowsy hum,
And ope for him the ivory gate of dreams.
Beneath the forest-shade
There trips a woodland maid,
And marks with startled eye the sleeping youth.
At first she thought to fly,
Then, timid, drawing nigh,
She gazed in wonder on his fair young face.
When swiftly stooping down
Upon his locks so brown
She lightly pressed her lips, and blushing fled.
When Colin woke from sleep,
From slumbers calm and deep,
He felt- he knew not how- his heart had flown.
And so, with anxious care,
He wandered here and there,
But could not find his lost heart anywhere.
Then he, with air distraught,
And brow of anxious thought,
Went out into the world beyond the wood.
Of each that passed him by,
He queried anxiously,
"I prithee, hast thou seen a heart astray?"
Some stared and hurried on,
While others said in scorn.
Your heart has gone in search of your lost wits"
The day is wearing fast,
Young Colin comes at last
To where a cottage stood embowered in trees.
He looks within, and there
He sees a maiden fair,
Who sings low songs the while she plies her wheel.
"I prithee, maiden bright,"--
She turns as quick as light,
And straight a warm flush crimsons all her face.
She, much abashed, looks down,
For on his locks so brown
She seems to see the marks her lips have made.
Whereby she stands confest;
What need to tell the rest?
He said, "I think, fair maid, you have my heart.
"Nay, do not give it back,
I shall not feel the lack,
If thou wilt give to me thine own therefor."
The Oyster And The Pleaders (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

One day two pilgrims espied upon the sands of the shore an oyster that had been thrown up by the tide. They devoured it with their eyes whilst pointing at it with their fingers; but whose teeth should deal with it was a matter of dispute.
When one stopped to pick up the prey the other pushed him away saying: "It would be just as well first to decide which of us is to have the pleasure of it. He who first saw it should swallow it, and let the other watch him eat."
"If you settle the affair that way," replied his companion, "I have good eyes, thank God."
"But my sight is not bad either," said the other, "and I saw it before you did, and that I'll stake my life upon."
"Well, suppose you did see it, I smelt it."
During this lively interlude Justice Nincompoop arrived on the scene, and to him they appealed to judge their claims. The justice very gravely took the oyster, opened it, and put it into his mouth, whilst the two claimants looked on. Having deliberately swallowed the oyster, the justice, in the portentous tones of a Lord Chief Justice, said, "The court here awards each of you a shell, without costs. Let each go home peaceably."
Reckon what it costs to go to law in these days. Then count what remains to most families. You will see that Justice Nincompoop draws all the money and leaves only the empty purse and the shells to the litigants.
Morning Song In The Jungle
by Rudyard Kipling

One moment past our bodies cast
No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
And we run home again.
In morning-hush, each rock and bush
Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: "Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!"
Now horn and pelt our peoples melt
In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
Our Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man's oxen strain,
That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
Above the lit talao.
Ho! Get to lair! The sun's aflare
Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
"The Day--the Day to Man!"
The dew is dried that drenched our hide,
Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
Of stretched or hooded claw:
Then hear the Call: "Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!"
To Mistress Mary Willand.
by Robert Herrick

One more by thee, love, and desert have sent,
T' enspangle this expansive firmament.
O flame of beauty! come, appear, appear
A virgin taper, ever shining here.
A Pair o' Black Een.
by John Hartley

One neet as aw trudged throo mi wark,
Thinks aw, nah mi labor is done,
Aw feel just inclined for a lark,
For its long sin aw had onny fun.
An ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind,
Shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that!
For when on a spree aw'm inclined,
Aw could nivver get on baght awr Mat.
Sally Slut wor a croney o' hers,
A bonny an warm-hearted lass,
An shoo'd latly been wed to a chap,
'At could booast booath some brains an some brass.
But someha, awr Mat seemed to think,
'At Sally, soa hansum an trim;
For a partner throo life owt to luk
Wi' somdy mich better nor him.
An shoo profiside trubble an care,
Wor i' stoor at noa far distant day,
An shoo muttered "poor Sal, aw declare,
Tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away."
As sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck,
Aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face,
Then aw sank like a hawf empty seck
Into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place.
"Gooid gracious, alive! What's to do?"
Says Matty, "whativver's amiss?"
"A'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true, - 
It's a tarrible come-off is this,"
"Tha knows Sally Slut, - A'a dear me!
To-day as aw went across th' green,
Aw met her, - an what should aw see, - 
Why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een,"
"That scamp! But aw'll sattle wi' him!"
Says Mat, as shoo threw on her shawl, - 
"Aw warned her agean weddin Tim, - 
But aw'll let him see; - sharply an all!"
Off shoo flew an left me bi misen,
An aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff,
An aw crept up to bed, thear an then, - 
For aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff.
An shoo did, in a few minnits mooar;
An worn't shoo mad? nivver fear!
An th' laader aw reckoned to snooar,
An th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear.
Tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew, - 
But aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn!
But tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew,
Shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born.
Shoo can booast ov her een, - that shoo can!
But shoo's nowt at aw envy, - net me!
Unless it's her bavin a man,
Asteead ov a hawbuck like thee.
Our Sweet Singer - J. A.
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

One memory trembles on our lips;
It throbs in every breast;
In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,
The shadow stands confessed.
O silent voice, that cheered so long
Our manhood's marching day,
Without thy breath of heavenly song,
How weary seems the way!
Vain every pictured phrase to tell
Our sorrowing heart's desire, - 
The shattered harp, the broken shell,
The silent unstrung lyre;
For youth was round us while he sang;
It glowed in every tone;
With bridal chimes the echoes rang,
And made the past our own.
Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys
We know must have an end,
But love and friendship's broken toys
May God's good angels mend!
The cheering smile, the voice of mirth
And laughter's gay surprise
That please the children born of earth.
Why deem that Heaven denies?
Methinks in that refulgent sphere
That knows not sun or moon,
An earth-born saint might long to hear
One verse of "Bonny Doon";
Or walking through the streets of gold
In heaven's unclouded light,
His lips recall the song of old
And hum "The sky is bright."
And can we smile when thou art dead?
Ah, brothers, even so!
The rose of summer will be red,
In spite of winter's snow.
Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom
Because thy song is still,
Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom
With grief's untimely chill.
The sighing wintry winds complain, - 
The singing bird has flown, - 
Hark! heard I not that ringing strain,
That clear celestial tone?
How poor these pallid phrases seem,
How weak this tinkling line,
As warbles through my waking dream
That angel voice of thine!
Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay;
It falters on my tongue;
For all we vainly strive to say,
Thou shouldst thyself have sung!
A Position In The Hebrew Divinity.
by Robert Herrick

One man repentant is of more esteem
With God, than one that never sinned 'gainst Him.
Ode On Indolence
by John Keats

1.
One morn before me were three figures seen,
I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
When shifted round to see the other side;
They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
2.
How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
Unhaunted quite of all but nothingness?
3.
A third time came they by; alas! wherefore?
My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine,
Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
4.
A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
And ached for wings, because I knew the three;
The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;
The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,
I knew to be my demon Poesy.
5.
They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
O folly! What is Love! and where is it?
And for that poor Ambition it springs
From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
For Poesy! no, she has not a joy,
At least for me, so sweet as drowsy noons,
And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
That I may never know how change the moons,
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
6.
So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
For I would not be dieted with praise,
A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
Fade sofdy from my eyes, and be once more
In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
And for the day faint visions there is store;
Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
Into the clouds, and never more return!
A Cold Dooas.
by John Hartley

One neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell,
But it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel.
Furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes,
Aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes.
Thinks aw - tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will!
But aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still;
Soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed,
Thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed.
When awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas,
Aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors;
Soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath,
An ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath.
When aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang,
For it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang;
It wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hurt,
But still, aw wor lockt aght o' door i' mi shirt.
Thinks aw its noa use to be feared ov a din,
Awst be foorced to rouse Betty to let me get in.
An to mend matters snow wor beginnin to fall,
An a linen shirt makes but a poor overall.
Aw knockt at first pratly, for fear ov a row,
But her snooarin aw heeard plain enuff daan below.
Mi flesh wor i' gooise-lumps, mi feet wor like ice,
To be frozzen to deeath, thinks aw, willn't be nice;
Soa as knockin wor useless aw started to bray,
Till at last one oth pannels began to give way.
All th' neighbors ther heeads aght oth windows did pop,
But aw couldn't wake Betty, shoo slept like a top.
At last a poleeceman coom raand wi his lamp,
An he spied mi an thowt mi some murderin scamp;
Aw tried to explain, but he wodn't give heed,
For he wanted a job like all th' rest ov his breed.
He tuk me to th' lock-up, an thear made a charge,
At aw wor a lunatic rooamin at large.
In a cell aw wor put, whear aw fan other three,
'Twor a small cell for four, but a big sell for me;
An shiv'rin an shudd'rin an pairt druffen sick,
That neet seem'd to me twice as long as a wick.
Next mornin they dragg'd me to th' cooart-haase to tell
What it meant, an to give an accaant o' misel;
An they fined me five shillin, but ha could aw pay,
When mi brass wor ith pockets oth clooas far away?
Then they sent Betty word, an shoo coom, for it seems
Shoo wor up i' gooid time, for shoo'd had ugly dreeams;
An shoo browt me mi clooas, an shoo set me all streight,
But her pity wor nobbut, "It just sarves thee reight."
Sin then yo've noa nooation what awve to endure,
For aw gate sich a cold 'at noa phisic can cure;
An if aw complain Betty says i' quicksticks,
"Tha sees what tha gets wi thi wrang-headed tricks."
Soa aw grin an aw bide it as weel as aw can,
But awve altered mi tactics, an nah it's mi plan
If mi mates ivver tempt me an get me to rooam,
Aw sup pop when awm aght an sup whisky at hooam.
An Betty declares it's been all for mi gooid,
For awd long wanted summat to cooil mi young blooid;
But this lesson it towt me awl freely confess, - 
To mak sewer th' gate's made fast befoor aw undress.
One Lovely Name
by Walter Savage Landor

One lovely name adorns my song,
And, dwelling in the heart,
Forever falters at the tongue,
And trembles to depart.
Two Fishers
by Unknown

One morning when Spring was in her teens,
A morn to a poet's wishing,
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens,
Miss Bessie and I went fishing.
I in my rough and easy clothes,
With my face at the sun-tan's mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose,
And her nose tipped, vice versa.
I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,
And a hamper for lunching recesses;
She with the bait of her comely looks,
And the seine of her golden tresses.
So we sat us down on the sunny dike,
Where the white pond-lilies teeter,
And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,
And she like Simon Peter.
All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,
And dreamily watched and waited,
But the fish were cunning and would not rise,
And the baiter alone was baited.
And when the time of departure came,
My bag hung flat as a flounder;
But Bessie had neatly hooked her game,
A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.
A Lay Of Old Time
by John Greenleaf Whittier

One morning of the first sad Fall,
Poor Adam and his bride
Sat in the shade of Eden's wall,
But on the outer side.
She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit
For the chaste garb of old;
He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit
For Eden's drupes of gold.
Behind them, smiling in the morn,
Their forfeit garden lay,
Before them, wild with rock and thorn,
The desert stretched away.
They heard the air above them fanned,
A light step on the sward,
And lo! they saw before them stand
The angel of the Lord!
"Arise," he said, "why look behind,
When hope is all before,
And patient hand and willing mind,
Your loss may yet restore?
"I leave with you a spell whose power
Can make the desert glad,
And call around you fruit and flower
As fair as Eden had.
"I clothe your hands with power to lift
The curse from off your soil;
Your very doom shall seem a gift,
Your loss a gain through Toil.
"Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees,
To labor as to play."
White glimmering over Eden's trees
The angel passed away.
The pilgrims of the world went forth
Obedient to the word,
And found where'er they tilled the earth
A garden of the Lord!
The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit
And blushed with plum and pear,
And seeded grass and trodden root
Grew sweet beneath their care.
We share our primal parents' fate,
And, in our turn and day,
Look back on Eden's sworded gate
As sad and lost as they.
But still for us his native skies
The pitying Angel leaves,
And leads through Toil to Paradise
New Adams and new Eves
To His Lovely Mistresses
by Robert Herrick

One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come,
And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb;
When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,
And there to lick th' effused sacrifice,
Though paleness be the livery that I wear,
Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.
Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once show
The least grim look, or cast a frown on you;
Nor shall the tapers, when I'm there, burn blue.
This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,
Cast on my girls a glance, and loving eye;
Or fold mine arms, and sigh, because I've lost
The world so soon, and in it, you the most:
Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,
Though then I smile, and speak no words at all.
A Fragment.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "John Anderson my jo."
One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crooded o'er me,
That echoed thro' the braes.
The Old Man In Leather
by Walter Crane

One misty, moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather,
There I met an old man clothed all in leather, clothed all in leather,
With cap under his chin,
How do you do, how do you do, how do you do, again, again.
Jimmy's Choice.
by John Hartley

One limpin Jimmy wed a lass;
An this wor th' way it coom to pass - 
He'd saved a little bit o' brass,
An soa he thowt he'd ventur
To tak unto hissen a wife,
To ease his mind ov all its strife,
An be his comfort all throo life - 
An, pray, what should prevent her?
"Awve brass enuff," he sed, "for two,
An noa wark at awm foorced to do,
But all th' day long can bill an coo,
Just like a little pigeon.
Aw nivver have a druffen rant;
Aw nivver praich teetotal cant;
Aw nivver booast at awm a saint,
I' matters o' religion.
"Then with a gradely chap like me,
A lass can live mooast happily;
An awl let all awr neighbors see
We'll live withaat a wrangle;
For if two fowk just have a mind
To be to one another kind,
They each may be as easy twined
As th' hannel ov a mangle.
"For love's moor paar nor oaths an blows,
An kind words, ivverybody knows,
Saves monny a hundred thaasand rows;
An soa we'll start wi kindness;
For if a chap thinks he can win
Love or respect wi oaths an din,
He'll surely find he's been let in,
An sarved reight for his blindness."
Soa Jimmy went to tell his tale
To a young lass called Sally Swale,
An just for fear his heart should fail,
He gate a drop o' whiskey.
Net mich, but just enuff, yo see,
To put a spark into his e'e,
An mak his tongue a trifle free,
An mak him strong an frisky.
Young Sally, shoo wor varry shy,
An when he'd done shoo breathed a sigh,
An then began to sob an cry
As if her heart wor brokken.
"Nay, Sally lass, - pray what's amiss?"
He sed, an gave a lovin kiss,
"If awd expected owt like this,
Awm sewer awd ne'er ha spokken."
At last shoo dried her bonny een,
An felt as praad as if a queen;
An nivver king has ivver been
One hawf as praad as Jimmy.
An soa they made all matters sweet,
An one day quietly stroll'd up th' street,
Till th' owd church door coom into seet - 
Says Jim, "Come, lass, goa wi me."
Then wed they wor an off they went
To start ther life ov sweet content;
An Sally ax'd him whear he meant
Ther honey-mooin to spend at?
Says Jim, "We're best at hooam, aw think,
We've lots o' stuff to ait an drink."
But Sally gave a knowin wink,
An sed, "Nay, awl net stand that.
"Tha needn't think aw meean to be
Shut up like in a nunnery;
Awm fond o' life, an love a spree,
As weel as onny other."
"Tha cannot goa," sed Jim, "that's flat."
"But goa aw shall, awl tell thee that!
What wod ta have a woman at?
Shame on thee for sich bother!"
Jim scrat his heead, "Nah lass," sed he,
"One on us mun a maister be,
Or else we'st allus disagree,
An nivver live contented."
Sed Sal, "Awd ne'er a maister yet,
An if tha thowt a slave to get,
Tha'll find thisen mista'en, awl bet;
Awm sewer aw nivver meant it."
Jim tried his best to change her mind,
But mud as weel ha saved his wind;
An soa to prove he worn't unkind,
He gave in just to pleeas her.
He's allus follow'd th' plan sin then,
To help her just to pleeas hersen;
An nah, he says, "They're fooilish men
At wed a wife to teeas her."
A Virtuous Wife
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

One moment I place your two bright pearls against my robe,
And the red silk mirrors a rose in each.
Why did I not meet you before I married?
See, there are two tears quivering at my lids;
I am giving back your pearls.
From the Chinese of Chang Chi (770-850).
Love's Lesson.
by Jean Blewett

One lesson let us bear in mind - 
Be very gentle with our own,
Be to their faults a little blind,
Nor wound them by a look or tone.
Put self behind! turn tender eyes;
Keep back the words that hurt and sting;
We learn, when sorrow makes us wise,
Forbearance is the grandest thing.
Be patient lest some day we turn
Our eyes on loved one fast asleep,
And whisper, as we lean and yearn,
"How often I have made you weep!
"Some loved you not and words let fall
That must have pierc'd your gentle breast,
But I, who loved you best of all,
Hurt you far more than all the rest."
One lesson let us keep in mind - 
To hold our dear ones close and fast,
Since loyal hearts are hard to find,
And life and love so soon are past.
The Drunkard
by Alfred Lichtenstein

One must guard oneself ever so carefully against
Howling, without any reason, like an animal.
Against pouring beer over the faces of all the waiters,
And kicking them in their faces.
Against shortening the disgusting time
Spent lying in a gutter.
Against throwing oneself off a bridge.
Against hitting friends in the mouth.
Against suddenly, while dogs bark,
Tearing the clothes off a well-fed body.
Against hurling into any old beloved woman's
Thighs one's dark skull.
October, 1803
by William Wordsworth

One might believe that natural miseries
Had blasted France, and made of it a land
Unfit for men; and that in one great band
Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.
But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze
Shed gentle favours: rural works are there,
And ordinary business without care;
Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
How piteous then that there should be such dearth
Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite
To work against themselves such fell despite:
Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth,
Impatient to put out the only light
Of Liberty that yet remains on earth!