DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Silence.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

I am the word that lovers leave unsaid,
The eloquence of ardent lips grown mute,
The mourning mother's heart-cry for her dead,
The flower of faith that grows to unseen fruit.
I am the speech of prophets when their eyes
Behold some splendid vision of the soul;
The song of morning stars, the hills' replies,
The far call of the immaterial pole.
And, since I must be mateless, I shall win
One boon beyond the meed of common clay:
My life shall end where other lives begin,
And live when other lives have passed away.
I Am The Reaper
by William Ernest Henley

I am the Reaper.
All things with heedful hook
Silent I gather.
Pale roses touched with the spring,
Tall corn in summer,
Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms -
Reaping, still reaping -
All things with heedful hook
Timely I gather.
I am the Sower.
All the unbodied life
Runs through my seed-sheet.
Atom with atom wed,
Each quickening the other,
Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless
Ceaselessly sowing,
Life, incorruptible life,
Flows from my seed-sheet.
Maker and breaker,
I am the ebb and the flood,
Here and Hereafter.
Sped through the tangle and coil
Of infinite nature,
Viewless and soundless I fashion all being.
Taker and giver,
I am the womb and the grave,
The Now and the Ever.
1875
The Rat-Catcher.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I am the bard known far and wide,
The travell'd rat-catcher beside;
A man most needful to this town,
So glorious through its old renown.
However many rats I see,
How many weasels there may be,
I cleanse the place from ev'ry one,
All needs must helter-skelter run.
Sometimes the bard so full of cheer
As a child-catcher will appear,
Who e'en the wildest captive brings,
Whene'er his golden tales he sings.
However proud each boy in heart,
However much the maidens start,
I bid the chords sweet music make,
And all must follow in my wake.
Sometimes the skilful bard ye view
In the form of maiden-catcher too;
For he no city enters e'er,
Without effecting wonders there.
However coy may be each maid,
However the women seem afraid,
Yet all will love-sick be ere long
To sound of magic lute and song.
How The Leopard Got His Spots
by Rudyard Kipling

I am the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in Most wise tones,
"Let us melt into the landscape,just us two by our lones."
Peoplehavecome,inacarriage,calling. But Mummy is there....
Yes, I can go if you take me'Nurse says she don't care.
Let's go up to the pig-styes and sit on the farmyard rails!
Let's say things to the bunnies, and watch 'em skitter their tails!
Let's'-oh, anything, daddy, so long as it's you and me,
And going truly exploring, and not being in till tea!
Here's your boots (I've brought 'em), and here's your cap and stick,
And here's your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it,quick!
Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o'er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
'T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,
'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.'
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
Dana
by George William Russell

I am the tender voice calling 'Away,'
Whispering between the beatings of the heart,
And inaccessible in dewy eyes
I dwell, and all unkissed on lovely lips,
Lingering between white breasts inviolate,
And fleeting ever from the passionate touch,
I shine afar, till men may not divine
Whether it is the stars or the beloved
They follow with wrapt spirit. And I weave
My spells at evening, folding with dim caress,
Aerial arms and twilight dropping hair,
The lonely wanderer by wood or shore,
Till, filled with some deep tenderness, he yields,
Feeling in dreams for the dear mother heart
He knew, ere he forsook the starry way,
And clings there, pillowed far above the smoke
And the dim murmur from the duns of men.
I can enchant the trees and rocks, and fill
The dumb brown lips of earth with mystery,
Make them reveal or hide the god. I breathe
A deeper pity than all love, myself
Mother of all, but without hands to heal:
Too vast and vague, they know me not. But yet
I am the heartbreak over fallen things,
The sudden gentleness that stays the blow,
And I am in the kiss that foemen give
Pausing in battle, and in the tears that fall
Over the vanquished foe, and in the highest;
Among the Danaan gods, I am the last
Council of mercy in their hearts where they
Mete justice from a thousand starry thrones.
Pomona.
by William Morris

I am the ancient Apple-Queen,
As once I was so am I now.
For evermore a hope unseen,
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.
Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold!
And where the windy grave of Troy?
Yet come I as I came of old,
From out the heart of Summer's joy.
I Am The Only Being Whose Doom
by Emily Bronte

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born
In secret pleasure, secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day
There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here
But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were
First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew
'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere,
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there
Shadows
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I am sorry in the gladness
Of the joys that crown my days,
For the souls that sit in sadness
Or walk uninviting ways.
On the radiance of my labour
That a loving fate bestowed,
Falls the shadow of my neighbour,
Crushed beneath a thankless load.
As the canticle of pleasure
From my lovelit altar rolls,
There is one discordant measure,
As I think of homeless souls.
And I know that grim old story,
Preached from pulpits, is not so,
For no God could sit in glory
And see sinners writhe below.
In that great eternal Centre
Where all human life has birth,
Boundless love and pity enter
And flow downward to the earth.
And all souls in sin or sorrow
Are but passing through the night,
And I know on some to-morrow
God will love them into light.
The Happy Ending
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION
I am tired of the day with its profitless labours,
And tired of the night with its lack of repose,
I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,
Especially Aryan Brothers and crows;
O land of illusory hope for the needy,
O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar,
When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy,
What a beast of a country you are!
There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a
Most moving description of pleasures to win
By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna
As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin';
I know that a pig is magnificent sticking;
But good as you are in the matter of sports,
When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking,
You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.
For the moment he feels the effects of the weather - 
A mild go of fever - a touch of the sun - 
He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether,
And finds your attractions a bit overdone;
Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry,
He sits in his misery, scowling at grief,
With a face like a pallid rechauff'e of curry,
And a head like a lump of boiled beef.
I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention),
And sick of the night (as I stated before),
And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension
To carry me home to a happier shore!
And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny,
Away from the tropics - away from the heat,
And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny,
As I shake off her dust from my feet!
To Julia.
by Robert Herrick

I am zealless; prithee pray
For my welfare, Julia,
For I think the gods require
Male perfumes, but female fire.
After A Visit
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I be'n down in ole Kentucky
Fur a week er two, an' say,
'T wuz ez hard ez breakin' oxen
Fur to tear myse'f away.
Allus argerin' 'bout fren'ship
An' yer hospitality--
Y' ain't no right to talk about it
Tell you be'n down there to see.
See jest how they give you welcome
To the best that's in the land,
Feel the sort o' grip they give you
When they take you by the hand.
Hear 'em say, "We 're glad to have you,
Better stay a week er two;"
An' the way they treat you makes you
Feel that ev'ry word is true.
Feed you tell you hear the buttons
Crackin' on yore Sunday vest;
Haul you roun' to see the wonders
Tell you have to cry for rest.
Drink yer health an' pet an' praise you
Tell you git to feel ez great
Ez the Sheriff o' the county
Ez the Gov'ner o' the State.
Wife, she sez I must be crazy
'Cause I go on so, an' Nelse
He 'lows, "Goodness gracious! daddy,
Cain't you talk about nuthin' else?"
Well, pleg-gone it, I 'm jes' tickled,
Bein' tickled ain't no sin;
I be'n down in ole Kentucky,
An' I want o' go ag'in.
To Francis, Earl Of Moira.
by Thomas Moore

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.
MY LORD,
It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present.
I am, my Lord,
With every feeling of attachment and respect,
Your Lordship's very devoted Servant,
THOMAS MOORE.
37 Bury Street, St. James's,
April 10, 1806.
I Bear In Youth The Sad Infirmities
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

I bear in youth the sad infirmities
That use to undo the limb and sense of age;
It hath pleased Heaven to break the dream of bliss
Which lit my onward way with bright presage,
And my unserviceable limbs forego.
The sweet delight I found in fields and farms,
On windy hills, whose tops with morning glow,
And lakes, smooth mirrors of Aurora's charms.
Yet I think on them in the silent night,
Still breaks that morn, though dim, to Memory's eye,
And the firm soul does the pale train defy
Of grim Disease, that would her peace affright.
Please God, I'll wrap me in mine innocence,
And bid each awful Muse drive the damned harpies hence.
CAMBRIDGE, 1827.
Upon His Eyesight Failing Him.
by Robert Herrick

I begin to wane in sight;
Shortly I shall bid good-night:
Then no gazing more about,
When the tapers once are out.
The Treasure Box.
by Jean Blewett

I asked Aunt Persis yester-eve, as twilight fell,
If she had things of value hidden safe away - 
Treasures that were her very own? And did she love
To bring them forth, and feast her eyes upon their worth,
And finger them with all a miser's greed of touch?
She smiled that slow, warm smile of hers, and drew me down
Beside her in the inglenook. The rain beat hard
Against the panes, without the world was doubly gray
With twilight and with cloud. The room was full of shade
Till Persis stirred the slumbering grate fire wide awake,
And made it send its flickering shafts of light into
Each corner dim - gay shafts that chased the shadows forth
And took their place, then stole away and let
The shadow back, and then gave chase again,
The maddest and the stillest game!
To music of
The raindrops on the pane, and wind that softly shrilled
About the eaves, the treasure box was opened wide
And its contents exposed to the rude gaze of one
Too young, too worldly-wise to know their value great.
I thought to see pearls, corals, quaint, old-fashioned gems,
Or lace like gossamer creamed by the hand of time - 
Real treasures worthy of the hoarding.
Lo! I saw
A leather-covered book, a worn and musty thing
With ragged leaves and many marks. "What is it?" I asked;
"To me it looks the school-book that some stupid child
Has learned its lesson from."
"And so it is," she smiled. "My father's testament,
And at his knee I conned the Golden Rule, and all
The wondrous truths that teach us how to live. 'Tis dear
To me, you may suppose."
A knot of ribbon that
Had once been blue, a braid of dark brown hair, a spray
Of lily o' the valley, withered, sere, yet holding still a breath
Of sweetness indescribable; some letters tied
With silk, a broken fan, some verses scribbled on
A yellow page, a baby's shoe, more letters, and,
What think you, friend? A string of amber beads, without
A trace of value - beads of glass strung on a bit
Of twine. Aunt Persis took them in her hand and let
The firelight play on them. "My grandmother's first gift,"
She said, and slipped them round her neck. "I love them best
Of all my ornaments - each amber bead holds fast
A joy caught in the childhood days of pleasantness,
And when I sit here with the sparkling things held close
The joys they gathered long ago slip from them to
My heart, and ere I know, I am a child once more.
"Treasures! Nay, dear one, in your clear young eyes I see
The disappointment grow - no treasures these, you say;
These faded things, and poor, these musty, ragged things - 
But some day in the gloaming of your life you'll ope
Your treasure box, and find a hoard of just such things
As these - a few rare trifles wrapped in memories."
New And Old.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I and new love, in all its living bloom,
Sat vis-a-vis, while tender twilight hours
Went softly by us, treading as on flowers.
Then suddenly I saw within the room
The old love, long since lying in its tomb.
It dropped the cerecloth from its fleshless face
And smiled on me, with a remembered grace
That, like the noontide, lit the gloaming's gloom.
Upon its shroud there hung the grave's green mould,
About it hung the odor of the dead;
Yet from its cavernous eyes such light was shed
That all my life seemed gilded, as with gold;
Unto the trembling new love '"Go," I said
"I do not need thee, for I have the old."
In The Garden At The Dawn Hour
by Edgar Lee Masters

I arise in the silence of the dawn hour.
And softly steal out to the garden
Under the Favrile goblet of the dawning.
And a wind moves out of the south-land,
Like a film of silver,
And thrills with a far borne message
The flowers of the garden.
Poppies untie their scarlet hoods and wave them
To the south wind as he passes.
But the zinnias and calendulas,
In a mood of calm reserve, nod faintly
As the south wind whispers the secret
Of the dawn hour!
I stand in the silence of the dawn hour
In the garden,
As the star of morning fades.
Flying from scythes of air
The hare-bells, purples and golden glow
On the sand-hill back of the orchard
Race before the feet of the wind.
But clusters of oak-leaves over the yellow sand rim
Begin to flutter and glisten.
And in a moment, in a twinkled passion,
The blazing rapiers of the sun are flashed,
As he fences the lilac lights of the sky,
And drives them up where the ice of the melting moon
Is drowned in the waste of morning!
*        *        *        *        *
In the silence of the garden,
At the dawn hour
I turn and see you - 
You who knew and followed,
You who knew the dawn hour,
And its sky like a Favrile goblet.
You who knew the south-wind
Bearing the secret of the morning
To waking gardens, fields and forests.
You in a gown of green, O footed Iris,
With eyes of dryad gray,
And the blown glory of unawakened tresses - 
A phantom sprung out of the garden's enchantment,
In the silence of the dawn hour!
*        *        *        *        *
And here I behold you
Amid a trance of color, silent music,
The embodied spirit of the morning:
Wind from the south-land, flashing beams of the sun
Caught in the twinkling oak leaves:
Poppies who wave their untied hoods to the south wind;
And the imperious bows of zinnias and calendulas;
The star of morning drowned, and lights of lilac
Turned white for the woe of the moon;
And the silence of the dawn hour!
*        *        *        *        *
And there to take you in my arms and feel you
In the glory of the dawn hour,
Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and flesh!
To know your spirit by that oneness
Of living and of love, in the twinkled passion
Of life re-lit and visioned.
In dryad eyes beholding
The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing
Rapturous moment of the arisen sun;
And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile.
There to behold you,
Our spirits lost together
In the silence of the dawn hour!
De Profundis Clamavi
by Charles Baudelaire

I beg your pity, You, my only love;
My fallen heart lies in a deep abyss,
A universe of leaden heaviness,
Where cursing terrors swim the night above!
For six months stands a sun with heatless beams,
The other months are spent in total night;
It is a polar land to human sight
No greenery, no trees, no running streams!
But there is not a horror to surpass
The cruelty of that blank sun's cold glass,
And that long night, that Chaos come again!
I'm jealous of the meanest of the beasts
Who plunge themselves into a stupid sleep -
So slowly does the time unwind its skein!
For a Picture of St. Dorothea
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light, I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass
And at the basket that I bear,
Where in a newly-drawn green litter
Sweet flowers I carry, - sweets for bitter.
Lilies I shew you, lilies none,
None in Caesar's gardens blow, - 
And a quince in hand, - not one
Is set upon your boughs below;
Not set, because their buds not spring;
Spring not, 'cause world is wintering.
But these were found in the East and South
Where Winter is the clime forgot. - 
The dewdrop on the larkspur's mouth
O should it then be quench'd not?
In starry water-meads they drew
These drops: which be they? stars or dew?
Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze:
Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linked heavens with milky ways!
That was her larkspur row. - So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul? - We see
Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.
Philosophy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I been t'inkin' 'bout de preachah; whut he said de othah night,
'Bout hit bein' people's dooty, fu' to keep dey faces bright;
How one ought to live so pleasant dat ouah tempah never riles,
Meetin' evahbody roun' us wid ouah very nicest smiles.
Dat 's all right, I ain't a-sputin' not a t'ing dat soun's lak fac',
But you don't ketch folks a-grinnin' wid a misery in de back;
An' you don't fin' dem a-smilin' w'en dey 's hongry ez kin be,
Leastways, dat 's how human natur' allus seems to 'pear to me.
We is mos' all putty likely fu' to have our little cares,
An' I think we 'se doin' fus' rate w'en we jes' go long and bears,
Widout breakin' up ouah faces in a sickly so't o' grin,
W'en we knows dat in ouah innards we is p'intly mad ez sin.
Oh dey 's times fu' bein' pleasant an' fu' goin' smilin' roun',
'Cause I don't believe in people allus totin' roun' a frown,
But it's easy 'nough to titter w'en de stew is smokin' hot,
But hit's mighty ha'd to giggle w'en dey's nuffin' in de pot.
The Sewing-Girl.
by Marietta Holley

I asked to see the dead man's face,
As I gave the servant my well-filled basket;
And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace,
Where he lay asleep in his rosewood casket.
I was only the sewing-girl, and he the heir to this princely palace.
Flowers, white flowers, everywhere,
In odorous cross, and anchor, and chalice.
The smallest leaf might touch his hair;
But I - my God! I must stand apart,
With my hands pressed silently on my heart,
I must not touch the least brown curl;
For I was only the sewing-girl.
If his stately mother knew what I know,
As she weeping stood by his side this morning,
Would she clasp me in motherly love and woe - 
Or drive me out in the cold with scorning?
If she knew that I loved him better than life,
Better than death; since for him I gave
My hopes of rest, that I faced life's strife,
And renounced the quiet and restful grave,
When his strong, true hand drew me back that day,
When woe, and want, and the want of pity
Drove me down where the cold waves lay
Like wolves round the walls of this cruel city.
"Not much?" would she say with her proud lip's curl - 
"Only the life of a sewing-girl?"
Now love for me in his heart did linger - 
I saw the lady, his promised bride,
I saw his ring on her slender finger,
As she weeping stood by his mother's side.
That same ring shone, as he lifted me
Dripping and cold from the sea-waves bitter.
I had thought Heaven's light I next should see,
But earth's sun shone in its ruby glitter;
I had thought when I looked in the Lord's mild face,
That He would forgive my rashness and sin,
When He knew there was not a single place,
Not a place so small that I could creep in.
And I wanted a home, and I longed for love,
And God and mother were both above.
But he showed me my sin, and taught me to live,
Above this life of tumult and whirl,
Though I was only a sewing-girl.
What shall I do with the life he won,
From death that day, in a hard-won battle?
Shall I lay it down e'er the rising sun
Looks down on the city's roar and rattle?
Shall I lay it down e'er the midnight dim
With horrible shadows is roofed and paved?
No, I will make it so pure and sweet,
That angels shall say with smiles to him,
When we meet above on the golden street:
"Behold the soul of her you saved."
Maybe it shall add to his crown one pearl,
Though only the soul of a sewing-girl.
The Indian Serenade.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me - who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!
2.
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream -
The Champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart; -
As I must on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art!
3.
Oh lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast; -
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.
CANCELLED PASSAGE.
O pillow cold and wet with tears!
Thou breathest sleep no more!
The Sorceress!
by Vachel Lindsay

I asked her, "Is Aladdin's lamp
Hidden anywhere?"
"Look into your heart," she said,
"Aladdin's lamp is there."
She took my heart with glowing hands.
It burned to dust and air
And smoke and rolling thistledown
Blowing everywhere.
"Follow the thistledown," she said,
"Till doomsday, if you dare,
Over the hills and far away.
Aladdin's lamp is there."