mikewatson/test101 · Datasets at Hugging Face

Genre stringclasses 4 values	Poem stringlengths 14 469 ⌀
Environment	The three stood listening to a fresh accessOf wind that caught against the house a moment,Gulped snow, and then blew free again—the ColesDressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore.Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backwardOver his shoulder with his pipe-stem,
Environment	The tremulously mirrored clouds lie deep,Enchanted towers bosomed in the stream,And blossomed coronals of white-thorn gleamWithin the water where the willows sleep—Still-imaged willow-leaves whose shadows steepThe far-reflected sky in dark of dream;And glimpsed therein the sun-winged swallows seemAs fleeting memories to those who weep.
Environment	The ventriloquist’s vines fled to an address on the floor of a cumulus pond. The forest formed gills. The tentacles muttered. Eat a bee. Try to project the tiniest star deep beneath this fence. The ravaged shadows repaired in the shade. The numb panorama rewound.
Environment	The water understands Civilization well; It wets my foot, but prettily, It chills my life, but wittily, It is not disconcerted, It is not broken-hearted: Well used, it decketh joy, Adorneth, doubleth joy: Ill used, it will destroy, In perfect time and measure With a face of golden pleasure Elegantly destroy.
Environment	The Wind is sewing with needles of rain. With shining needles of rain It stitches into the thin Cloth of earth. In, In, in, in. Oh, the wind has often sewed with me. One, two, three.Spring must have fine things To wear like other springs. Of silken green the grass must be Embroidered. One and two and three. Then every
Environment	The world below the brine,Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf,Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light
Environment	There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled. Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his
Environment	There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound— And that was why it whispered and did
Environment	These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brownAnd slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went downWill show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore,No place to dream, but a place to die,— The bottom
Environment	They heard the South wind sighing A murmur of the rain
Environment	This is not a poem about sex, or evenabout fish or the genitals of fish,So if you are a fisherman or someone interestedprimarily in sex, this would be as good a time As any to put another worm on your hook
Environment	This is the moment when you see again the red berries of the mountain ash and in the dark sky the birds' night migrations.It grieves me to think the dead won't see them— these things we depend on, they disappear.What will the soul do for solace then? I tell myself maybe it won't need these pleasures anymore;maybe
Environment	This little bowl is like a mossy pool In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow Nodding in chequered sunshine of the
Environment	This morning a hawk plunges straight for the squirrel at my feeder and leaves only its signature: blood on the snow.All morning it circled the yard, then dove, stunning itself on the glass sky of my window,and in minutes returned, braving the thin, perilous channel between hedgerow and house. I was watching its path as it fell, its persistence,and
Environment	This painting of a barn and barnyard near sundown May be enough to suggest we don’t have to turn From the visible world to the invisible In order to grasp the truth of things. We don’t always have to distrust appearances. Not if we’re patient. Not if we’re willing To wait for the sun to reach
Environment	To-day we make the poet's words our own,And utter them in plaintive undertone;Nor to the living only be they said,But to the other living called the dead,Whose dear, paternal images appearNot wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;Whose simple lives, complete and without
Environment	Too green the springing April grass,Too blue the silver-speckled sky,For me to linger here, alas,While happy winds go laughing by,Wasting the golden hours indoors,Washing windows and scrubbing floors. Too wonderful the April night,Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,The stars too gloriously bright,
Environment	Under Mirabeau Bridge the river slips awayAnd loversMust I be reminded Joy came always after pain The night is a clock chimingThe days go by not
Environment	Venom erupted from the trees when the vital system of the brook reset its serum stem. Can suspended snakes compose a more careless music? Do two detached wings count as an exoskeletal gesture? A hiss is the sound the sky would make if these leaves revived their flight.
Environment	We two, how long we were fool’d,Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,We browse,
Environment	Welcome, all hail to thee! Welcome, young Spring!Thy sun-ray is bright On the butterfly’s wing.Beauty shines forth In the blossom-robed trees;Perfume floats by On the soft southern breeze.Music, sweet music, Sounds over the earth;One glad choral song Greets the primrose’s birth;The lark soars above, With its shrill matin strain;The shepherd
Environment	What do I carethat the stream is trampled,the sand on the stream-bankstill holds the print of your foot:the heel is cut deep.I see another markon the grass ridge of the bank—it points toward the wood-path.I have lost the thirdin the packed earth.
Environment	What I meant is that when the child shook the branch,the beetles, quiet, somnolent, darkly, fell and again felllike plums. Once woken, they bzzzed towardsthe street lamps, loving each light well, thwackingagainst them until they landed face down or faceup, trying to find their feet, reminding me of Eve’s faceas
Environment	What is red and singing on the inside, gray and moaning on the outside? (The opera house)What is green, damp, and stuck between the forest's teeth?(The doctor)What drags on the floor and catches fire?What reveals the girl's legs while destroying them?(The afternoon sun) What grows tall, blocks the
Environment	What still grows in winter? Fingernails of witches and femmes, green moss on river rocks, lit with secrets... I let myself go near the river but not the railroad: this is my bargain. Water boils in a kettle in the woods and I can hear the train grow louder but I also can’t, you know? Then I’m shaving in
Environment	What things for dream there are when spectre-like, Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, I enter alone upon the stubble field, From which the laborers’ voices late have died, And in the antiphony of afterglow And rising full moon, sit me down Upon the full moon’s side of the first haycock And lose myself amid so many
Environment	When foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I'll build.But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands.And you may grope for
Environment	When I go up through the mowing field,The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path.And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of
Environment	When I was young, I hid under the porch with a star in my throat. When I got a little older, my mother opened the cupboard to let the fire out. I should’ve known the cliffs meant a coming blankness. We should’ve noticed the competition growing deadly between the masts and the
Environment	When I was young, we dwelt in a valeBy a misty fen that rang all night, And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments trailAcross the reeds to a window light.The fen had every kind of bloom,
Environment	When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit;Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth
Environment	when life is quite through with and leaves say alas, much is to do for the swallow,that closes a flight in the blue;when love's had his tears out, perhaps shall pass a million years (while a bee dozes on the poppies,the dears;when all's done and said,and under the grass lies her head by oaks and roses deliberated.)
Environment	When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grassThe little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;And the sight of their white play among the grassIs like a little robin’s song, winsome,Or as two white butterflies settle
Environment	Where an ash bush grows in the lakea ring of stones has broken coverin this summer's drought.Not high enough to be an island,it holds a disc of stiller waterin the riffled lake. Trees have reclaimed the railway line behind us;behind that, the road goes
Environment	where the sea circles around the island in a star pattern – where in the center of grieving we are disoriented, skinless – where I wade into the field . . . the scent of sun on wheat – where the horses bow in & out, kick up a hoof,
Environment	Who would decry instruments— when grasses ever so fragile, provide strings stout enough for insect moods to glide up and down in glissandos of toes along wires or finger-tips on zithers—thoughthe mere soundsbe theirs, not ours—theirs, not ours,the first inspiration—discord
Environment	Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so high, It
Environment	Woman, I wish I didn't know your name. What could you be? Silence in my house& the front yard where the dogwoodwouldn't make up its mind about flowers.Aren't you Nature? A stem cringing, half- shadowed beneath a torque of rain.I too am leaving. I too am
Environment	Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak.Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath
Environment	You come to fetch me from my work to-night When supper's on the table, and we'll see If I can leave off burying the white Soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) And go along with you ere you lose
Environment	You see them through water and glass, (both liquids) and through air with plenty of liquid in it —water is moving through the air— you see the large dolphins animated, unfractious in their nativedrink, going back and forth interacting with some sort of rings—in a minute-long video— in a loop, we see these dolphins again and again looping through

Environment

The three stood listening to a fresh accessOf wind that caught against the house a moment,Gulped snow, and then blew free again—the ColesDressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore.Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backwardOver his shoulder with his pipe-stem,

Environment

The tremulously mirrored clouds lie deep,Enchanted towers bosomed in the stream,And blossomed coronals of white-thorn gleamWithin the water where the willows sleep—Still-imaged willow-leaves whose shadows steepThe far-reflected sky in dark of dream;And glimpsed therein the sun-winged swallows seemAs fleeting memories to those who weep.

Environment

The ventriloquist’s vines fled to an address on the floor of a cumulus pond. The forest formed gills. The tentacles muttered. Eat a bee. Try to project the tiniest star deep beneath this fence. The ravaged shadows repaired in the shade. The numb panorama rewound.

Environment

The water understands Civilization well; It wets my foot, but prettily, It chills my life, but wittily, It is not disconcerted, It is not broken-hearted: Well used, it decketh joy, Adorneth, doubleth joy: Ill used, it will destroy, In perfect time and measure With a face of golden pleasure Elegantly destroy.

Environment

The Wind is sewing with needles of rain. With shining needles of rain It stitches into the thin Cloth of earth. In, In, in, in. Oh, the wind has often sewed with me. One, two, three.Spring must have fine things To wear like other springs. Of silken green the grass must be Embroidered. One and two and three. Then every

Environment

The world below the brine,Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle, openings, and pink turf,Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light

Environment

There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled. Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his

Environment

There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound— And that was why it whispered and did

Environment

These wet rocks where the tide has been, Barnacled white and weeded brownAnd slimed beneath to a beautiful green, These wet rocks where the tide went downWill show again when the tide is high Faint and perilous, far from shore,No place to dream, but a place to die,— The bottom

Environment

They heard the South wind sighing A murmur of the rain

Environment

This is not a poem about sex, or evenabout fish or the genitals of fish,So if you are a fisherman or someone interestedprimarily in sex, this would be as good a time As any to put another worm on your hook

Environment

This is the moment when you see again the red berries of the mountain ash and in the dark sky the birds' night migrations.It grieves me to think the dead won't see them— these things we depend on, they disappear.What will the soul do for solace then? I tell myself maybe it won't need these pleasures anymore;maybe

Environment

This little bowl is like a mossy pool In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow Nodding in chequered sunshine of the

Environment

This morning a hawk plunges straight for the squirrel at my feeder and leaves only its signature: blood on the snow.All morning it circled the yard, then dove, stunning itself on the glass sky of my window,and in minutes returned, braving the thin, perilous channel between hedgerow and house. I was watching its path as it fell, its persistence,and

Environment

This painting of a barn and barnyard near sundown May be enough to suggest we don’t have to turn From the visible world to the invisible In order to grasp the truth of things. We don’t always have to distrust appearances. Not if we’re patient. Not if we’re willing To wait for the sun to reach

Environment

To-day we make the poet's words our own,And utter them in plaintive undertone;Nor to the living only be they said,But to the other living called the dead,Whose dear, paternal images appearNot wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;Whose simple lives, complete and without

Environment

Too green the springing April grass,Too blue the silver-speckled sky,For me to linger here, alas,While happy winds go laughing by,Wasting the golden hours indoors,Washing windows and scrubbing floors. Too wonderful the April night,Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,The stars too gloriously bright,

Environment

Under Mirabeau Bridge the river slips awayAnd loversMust I be reminded Joy came always after pain The night is a clock chimingThe days go by not

Environment

Venom erupted from the trees when the vital system of the brook reset its serum stem. Can suspended snakes compose a more careless music? Do two detached wings count as an exoskeletal gesture? A hiss is the sound the sky would make if these leaves revived their flight.

Environment

We two, how long we were fool’d,Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,We browse,

Environment

Welcome, all hail to thee! Welcome, young Spring!Thy sun-ray is bright On the butterfly’s wing.Beauty shines forth In the blossom-robed trees;Perfume floats by On the soft southern breeze.Music, sweet music, Sounds over the earth;One glad choral song Greets the primrose’s birth;The lark soars above, With its shrill matin strain;The shepherd

Environment

What do I carethat the stream is trampled,the sand on the stream-bankstill holds the print of your foot:the heel is cut deep.I see another markon the grass ridge of the bank—it points toward the wood-path.I have lost the thirdin the packed earth.

Environment

What I meant is that when the child shook the branch,the beetles, quiet, somnolent, darkly, fell and again felllike plums. Once woken, they bzzzed towardsthe street lamps, loving each light well, thwackingagainst them until they landed face down or faceup, trying to find their feet, reminding me of Eve’s faceas

Environment

What is red and singing on the inside, gray and moaning on the outside? (The opera house)What is green, damp, and stuck between the forest's teeth?(The doctor)What drags on the floor and catches fire?What reveals the girl's legs while destroying them?(The afternoon sun) What grows tall, blocks the

Environment

What still grows in winter? Fingernails of witches and femmes, green moss on river rocks, lit with secrets... I let myself go near the river but not the railroad: this is my bargain. Water boils in a kettle in the woods and I can hear the train grow louder but I also can’t, you know? Then I’m shaving in

Environment

What things for dream there are when spectre-like, Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, I enter alone upon the stubble field, From which the laborers’ voices late have died, And in the antiphony of afterglow And rising full moon, sit me down Upon the full moon’s side of the first haycock And lose myself amid so many

Environment

When foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I'll build.But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands.And you may grope for

Environment

When I go up through the mowing field,The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path.And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of

Environment

When I was young, I hid under the porch with a star in my throat. When I got a little older, my mother opened the cupboard to let the fire out. I should’ve known the cliffs meant a coming blankness. We should’ve noticed the competition growing deadly between the masts and the

Environment

When I was young, we dwelt in a valeBy a misty fen that rang all night, And thus it was the maidens pale I knew so well, whose garments trailAcross the reeds to a window light.The fen had every kind of bloom,

Environment

When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit;Tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth

Environment

when life is quite through with and leaves say alas, much is to do for the swallow,that closes a flight in the blue;when love's had his tears out, perhaps shall pass a million years (while a bee dozes on the poppies,the dears;when all's done and said,and under the grass lies her head by oaks and roses deliberated.)

Environment

When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grassThe little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;And the sight of their white play among the grassIs like a little robin’s song, winsome,Or as two white butterflies settle

Environment

Where an ash bush grows in the lakea ring of stones has broken coverin this summer's drought.Not high enough to be an island,it holds a disc of stiller waterin the riffled lake. Trees have reclaimed the railway line behind us;behind that, the road goes

Environment

where the sea circles around the island in a star pattern – where in the center of grieving we are disoriented, skinless – where I wade into the field . . . the scent of sun on wheat – where the horses bow in & out, kick up a hoof,

Environment

Who would decry instruments— when grasses ever so fragile, provide strings stout enough for insect moods to glide up and down in glissandos of toes along wires or finger-tips on zithers—thoughthe mere soundsbe theirs, not ours—theirs, not ours,the first inspiration—discord

Environment

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so high, It

Environment

Woman, I wish I didn't know your name. What could you be? Silence in my house& the front yard where the dogwoodwouldn't make up its mind about flowers.Aren't you Nature? A stem cringing, half- shadowed beneath a torque of rain.I too am leaving. I too am

Environment

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak.Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath

Environment

You come to fetch me from my work to-night When supper's on the table, and we'll see If I can leave off burying the white Soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) And go along with you ere you lose

Environment

You see them through water and glass, (both liquids) and through air with plenty of liquid in it —water is moving through the air— you see the large dolphins animated, unfractious in their nativedrink, going back and forth interacting with some sort of rings—in a minute-long video— in a loop, we see these dolphins again and again looping through