DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Tim Turpin. - A Pathetic Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Mature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forc'd to do - 
Look out for pupils, for he had
A vacancy for two.
There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small:
But Tim had specks within his eyes,
And could not see at all.
Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid,
And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By day she led him up and down
Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, altho' she led
The life of any dog.
But just when Tim had liv'd a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.
But when his eyes were open'd thus,
He wish'd them dark again:
For when he look'd upon his wife,
He saw her very plain.
Her face was bad, her figure worse,
He couldn't bear to eat:
For she was any thing but like
A Grace before his meat.
Tim he was a feeling man:
For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for every thing - 
But that was with a stick.
So with a cudgel in his hand - 
It was not light or slim - 
He knocked at his wife's head until
It open'd unto him.
And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
He took his slaughter'd spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
The ashes of her house.
But like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear.
The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in:
Said he, this wound I dread
Can hardly be sew'd up - his life
Is hanging on a thread.
But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope - 
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.
Ah! when he hid his bloody work
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out.
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
Than he contracted for!
A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But tho' they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
Said Tim unto those jurymen,
You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself at once
The author of her death.
And, oh! when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
Inscrib'd with double guilt!
Then turning round his head again,
He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
The judges of a-size!
The great judge took his judgment cap,
And put it on his head,
And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang,
'Till he was three times dead.
So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham-drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.
The Hares And The Frogs
by Walter Crane

Timid Hares, from the trumpeting wind,
Fled as swift as the fear in their mind;
Till in fright from their fear,
From the green sedges near,
Leaping Frogs left their terror behind.
Our Own Are Not The Only Troubles
High Noon
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Time's finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toil while daylight lasts. When I bethink
How brief the past, the future still more brief,
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptation's hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.
Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue; sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o'er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth,
Out to the western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men and with myself,
Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon,
Three things I learned, three things of precious worth
To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save.
To pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent.
To toil for universal good, since thus
And only thus can good come unto me.
To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have
To those who have not, this alone is gain.
The Iron Flail
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Time beats out all things with his iron flail,
Things great, things small.
With steady strokes that never fail,
With slow, sure strokes of his iron flail,
Time beats out all.
Sonnet II
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,--so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Time and Life
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
Time, thy name is sorrow, says the stricken
Heart of life, laid waste with wasting flame
Ere the change of things and thoughts requicken,
Time, thy name.
Girt about with shadow, blind and lame,
Ghosts of things that smite and thoughts that sicken
Hunt and hound thee down to death and shame.
Eyes of hours whose paces halt or quicken
Read in bloodred lines of loss and blame,
Writ where cloud and darkness round it thicken,
Time, thy name.
II.
Nay, but rest is born of me for healing,
So might haply time, with voice represt,
Speak:    is grief the last gift of my dealing?
Nay, but rest.
All the world is wearied, east and west,
Tired with toil to watch the slow sun wheeling,
Twelve loud hours of life's laborious quest.
Eyes forspent with vigil, faint and reeling,
Find at last my comfort, and are blest,
Not with rapturous light of life's revealing
Nay, but rest.
Disenchantment
by Arthur Macy

Time and I have fallen out;
We, who were such steadfast friends.
So slowly has it come about
That none may tell when it began;
Yet sure am I a cunning plan
Runs through it all;
And now, beyond recall,
Our friendship ends,
And ending, there remains to me
The memory of disloyalty.
Long years ago Time tripping came
With promise grand,
And sweet assurances of fame;
And hand in hand
Through fairy-land
Went he and I together
In bright and golden weather.
Then, then I had not learned to doubt,
For friends were gods, and faith was sure,
And words were truth, and deeds were pure,
Before we had our falling out;
And life, all hope, was fair to see,
When Time made promise sweet to me.
When first my faithless friend grew cold
I sought to knit a closer bond,
But he, less fond,
Sad days and years upon me rolled,
Pressed me with care,
With envy tinged the boyhood hair,
And ploughed unwelcome furrows in
Where none had been.
In vain I begged with trembling lip
For our old sweet companionship,
And saw, 'mid prayers and tears devout,
The presage of our falling out.
And now I know Time has no friends,
Nor pity lends,
But touches all
With heavy finger soon or late;
And as we wait
The Reaper's call,
The sickle's fatal sweep,
We strive in vain to keep
One truth inviolate,
One cherished fancy free from doubt.
It was not so
Long years ago,
Before we had our falling out.
If Time would come again to me,
And once more take me by the hand
For golden walks through fairy-land,
I could forgive the treachery
That stole my youth
And what of truth
Was mine to know;
Nor would I more his love misdoubt;
And I would throw
My arms around him so,
That he'd forgive the falling out!
Death Ends All Woe.
by Robert Herrick

Time is the bound of things; where'er we go
Fate gives a meeting, Death's the end of woe.
Verses To Miss M. G ---- , Accompanied With A Dried Heliotrope, Which She Had Presented To The Author A Year Before.
by John Carr (Sir)

Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me,
Has often turn'd his glass of sand;
Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee
That once its breath perfum'd thy hand.
Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see
How much thy gifts my care engage,
I've sent the cherish'd flow'r to thee
Without a blemish, but from age.
Kiss but its leaves; - one kiss from thee,
And all its sweetness 'twill regain;
And, if I live in memory
Thus honour'd, send it back again!
Time's Defeat
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Time has made conquest of so many things
That once were mine.    Swift-footed, eager youth
That ran to meet the years; bold brigand health,
That broke all laws of reason unafraid,
And laughed at talk of punishment.
Close ties of blood and friendship, joy of life,
Which reads its music in the major key
And will not listen to a minor strain - 
These things and many more are spoils of time.
Yet as a conqueror who only storms
The outposts of a town, and finds the fort
Too strong to be assailed, so time retreats
And knows his impotence.    He cannot take
My three great jewels from the crown of life:
Love, sympathy, and faith; and year on year
He sees them grow in lustre and in worth,
And glowers by me, plucking at his beard,
And dragging, as he goes, a useless scythe.
Once in the dark he plotted with his friend
Grim Death, to steal my treasures.    Death replied:
'They are immortal, and beyond thy reach,
I could but set them in another sphere,
To shine with greater lustre.'
Time and Death
Passed on together, knowing their defeat;
And I am singing by the road of life.
High Noon
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Time's finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! and yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.
To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on ravelled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric.    We must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields
And toil while daylight lasts.    When I bethink
How brief the past, the future, still more brief
Calls on to action, action!    Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams,
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.
Have I done nobly?    Then I must not let
Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame.
Have I done wrong?    Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lip
Be my reminder in temptation's hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.
Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.
Looking back,
My faults and errors seem like stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And made me value virtue; sorrows shine
In rainbow colours o'er the gulf of years,
Where lie forgotten pleasures.
Looking forth,
Out to the western sky still bright with noon,
I feel well spurred and booted for the strife
That ends not till Nirvana is attained.
Battling with fate, with men, and with myself,
Up the steep summit of my life's forenoon,
Three things I learned, three things of precious worth,
To guide and help me down the western slope.
I have learned how to pray, and toil, and save:
To pray for courage to receive what comes,
Knowing what comes to be divinely sent;
To toil for universal good, since thus
And only thus can good come unto me;
To save, by giving whatsoe'er I have
To those who have not - this alone is gain.
London Types - VII. 'Lady'
by William Ernest Henley

Time, the old humourist, has a trick to-day
Of moving landmarks and of levelling down,
Till into Town the Suburbs edge their way,
And in the Suburbs you may scent the Town.
With MOUNT ST. thus approaching MUSWELL HILL,
And CLAPHAM COMMON marching with the MILE,
You get a HAMMERSMITH that fills the bill,
A HAMPSTEAD with a serious sense of style.
So this fair creature, pictured in THE ROW,
As one of that 'gay adulterous world,' {79} whose round
Is by the SERPENTINE, as well would show,
And might, I deem, as readily be found
On STREATHAM'S HILL, or WIMBLEDON'S, or where
Brixtonian kitchens lard the late-dining air.
The Lass With The Delicate Air
by John Clare

Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy,
She drops her head at every passer bye.
Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets
And turns away from every smile she meets.
The forward clown has many things to say
And holds her by the gown to make her stay,
The picture of good health she goes along,
Hale as the morn and happy as her song.
Yet there is one who never feels a fear
To whisper pleasing fancies in her ear;
Yet een from him she shuns a rude embrace,
And stooping holds her hands before her face,--
She even shuns and fears the bolder wind,
And holds her shawl, and often looks behind.
The Immutable.
by Friedrich Schiller

Time flies on restless pinions constant never.
Be constant and thou chainest time forever.
A Withered Rose-Bud
by Walter R. Cassels

Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth,
Tracking the course of Life's short wandering,
With fallen remnants of its mortal part,
Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.
Thou flower of Love! thou little treasury
Of gentleness, and purity, and grace!
What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee--
What unseen essence melted into space?
For now thou liest like a sinless child,
Whom God hath homeward to his bosom smiled.
The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play'd,
As Life is ever made of smiles and tears;
And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd,
And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears;
But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan,
And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!
Thus fade we--thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright,
Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime,
And their poor fabrics lie within our sight,
Stript of their radiance e'en in summer-time--
Their spirit hath gone from them, and they wither,
But wherefore hath the spirit gone, and whither?
Our knowledge is like dreams amid a sleep--
Faint-pinion'd thoughts that beat the vault of Night,
And flutter earthward--so we smile or weep
At what we know not, cannot see aright;
Life is death, and death is life, perchance,
In the dim twilight of our waking trance.
Thou art a leaf from the great Book of God,
Whose lightest word is wiser than the wise;
And, meekly resting there upon the sod,
Thou breathest upward holy mysteries,
In simple tones that steal upon the sense,
Like Childhood's prattling truth and innocence.
Then, O sweet flower, that in thy low estate
Hast in thee emblems of the life of Man,
Read to our beings whispers of the fate
That waits us at the end of Time's short span;
How short we know not--e'en the bud may be
Gather'd in harvest to eternity.
Rhymes And Rhythms - XIV
by William Ernest Henley

Time and the Earth,
The old Father and Mother,
Their teeming accomplished,
Their purpose fulfilled,
Close with a smile
For a moment of kindness
Ere for the winter
They settle to sleep.
Failing yet gracious,
Slow pacing, soon homing,
A patriarch that strolls
Through the tents of his children,
The Sun, as he journeys
His round on the lower
Ascents of the blue,
Washes the roofs
And the hillsides with clarity;
Charms the dark pools
Till they break into pictures;
Scatters magnificent
Alms to the beggar trees;
Touches the mist-folk
That crowd to his escort
Into translucencies
Radiant and ravishing,
As with the visible
Spirit of Summer
Gloriously vaporised,
Visioned in gold.
Love, though the fallen leaf
Mark, and the fleeting light
And the loud, loitering
Footfall of darkness
Sign, to the heart
Of the passage of destiny,
Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summers to be.
On A Goldfinch, Starved To Death In His Cage.
by William Cowper

Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date;
For, caught and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon pass'd the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of every ill!
More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.
Time For Bed
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

"Time for bed!" - the weary day
With its toils has passed away
Sol has wrapped his forehead bright
In the curtains of the night,
And his glorious lamp again
Lowered behind the western main
Leaving all heaven's pure expanse
Radiant with his parting glance
Just a few, faint stars are seen
Ranged around the midnight queen - 
A select and glorious band
Who alone may waiting stand
Hound the monarch of the night,
Bearing up their urns of light,
Her majestic path to cheer
Till the shadows disappear.
"Time for bed!" the folded flowers
Hang their heads in forest bowers;
Nestled in each downy nest
Day's sweet songsters calmly rest;
And the night-bird's plaintive hymn
Echoes through the forest dim;
Dew-drops on the birchen-bough
In the star-beams sparkle now,
Scarce a zephyr stirs the rose
So profound is Earth's repose.
"Time for bed!" put by thy books,
Learner, with thy studious looks; - 
Poet, lay the pen away,
Candle-light will spoil thy lay; - 
Leave it till the morning hours
Come with sunshine to the flowers, - 
Leave it till from shrub and tree
Birds pour forth their minstrelsy, - 
Till the sun on wood and wold
Turns the drops of dew to gold, - 
Till the bee comes forth to sip
Nectar from the flow'rets lip, - 
Till the light-winged zephyrs wake
Dancing ripples on the lake,
And the cloudlets in the height
Don their fleecy robes of white; - 
Then, with graceful Euterpe,
Seek the spreading greenwood tree,
And with joy, and light, and love,
AH around thee and above,
Tune thy lyre to praiseful mirth
With all happy things of Earth!
"Time for bed!" - thou man of toil,
Why consume the midnight oil? - 
Night was made for slumbers blest,
Thou art weary, therefore rest!
"Time for bed!" - poor "Martha," thou
Long enough hast labored now;
All the day's bright hours are numbered,
Yet art thou "with toiling cumbered."
Lay that tedious work away
Till the blest return of day, - 
Thou art care-worn and oppressed,
Thou art weary "Martha," rest!
"Time for bed!" - shut up the stove,
To its place the table move,
Lay the books into their case,
Wheel the sofa to its place,
Wind the clock, brush up the floor,
Close the shutters, lock the door,
That will do - put out the light,
Toil and trouble, all good night!
Circumstances Alter Cases
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Tim Murphy's gon' walkin' wid Maggie O'Neill,
O chone!
If I was her muther, I'd frown on sich foolin',
O chone!
I'm sure it's unmutherlike, darin' an' wrong
To let a gyrul hear tell the sass an' the song
Of every young felly that happens along,
O chone!
An' Murphy, the things that's be'n sed of his doin',
O chone!
'Tis a cud that no dacent folks wants to be chewin',
O chone!
If he came to my door wid his cane on a twirl,
Fur to thry to make love to you, Biddy, my girl,
Ah, wouldn't I send him away wid a whirl,
O chone!
They say the gossoon is indecent and dirty,
O chone!
In spite of his dressin' so.
O chone!
Let him dress up ez foine ez a king or a queen,
Let him put on more wrinkles than ever was seen,
You'll be sure he's no match for my little colleen,
O chone!
Faith the two is comin' back an' their walk is all over,
O chone!
'Twas a pretty short walk fur to take wid a lover,
O chone!
Why, I believe that Tim Murphy's a kumin' this way,
Ah, Biddy jest look at him steppin' so gay,
I'd niver belave what the gossipers say,
O chone!
He's turned in the gate an' he's coming a-caperin',
O chone!
Go, Biddy, go quick an' put on a clane apern,
O chone!
Be quick as ye kin fur he's right at the dure;
Come in, master Tim, fur ye're welcome I'm shure.
We were talkin' o' ye jest a minute before.
O chone!
The Inventor
by Rudyard Kipling

Time and Space decreed his lot,
But little Man was quick to note:
When Time and Space said Man might not,
Bravely he answered, "Nay! I mote."
I looked on old New England.
Time and Space stood fast.
Men built altars to Distance
At every mile they passed.
Yet sleek with oil, a Force was hid
Making mock of all they did,
Ready at the appointed hour
To yield up to Prometheus
The secular and well-drilled Power
The Gods secreted thus.
And over high Wantastiquet
Emulous my lightnings ran,
Unregarded but afret,
To fall in with my plan.
I beheld two ministries,
One of air and one of earth,
At a thought I married these,
And my New Age came to birth!
For rarely my purpose errs
Though oft it seems to pause,
And rods and cylinders
Obey my planets' laws.
Oil I drew from the well,
And Franklin's spark from its blue;
Time and Distance fell,
And Man went forth anew.
On the prairie and in the street
So long as my chariots roll
I bind wings to Adam's feet,
And, presently, to his soul!
To The Serenader.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Tinkle on, O sweet guitar,
Let the dancing fingers
Loiter where the low notes are
Blended with the singer's:
Let the midnight pour the moon's
Mellow wine of glory
Down upon him through the tune's
Old romantic story!
I am listening, my love,
Through the cautious lattice,
Wondering why the stars above
All are blinking at us;
Wondering if his eyes from there
Catch the moonbeam's shimmer
As it lights the robe I wear
With a ghostly glimmer.
Lilt thy song, and lute away
In the wildest fashion: - 
Pour thy rippling roundelay
O'er the heights of passion! - 
Flash it down the fretted strings
Till thy mad lips, missing
All but smothered whisperings,
Press this rose I'm kissing.