DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Whistler
by Virna Sheard

Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way - 
Oh high and low, and gay and sweet,
The melody rang down the street,
Till all the weary, old, and grey,
Smiled at their work, or stopped to say,
"Now God be thanked that youth is fair,
And light of heart, and free from care."
What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by - 
Then clarion clear on every side
The song was scattered far and wide;
Like birds above a storm that fly
The silver notes soared to the sky,
"O soul, whose courage does not fail
But with a song can meet the gale."
And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he passed - 
A little tune the whole world knew,
A song of love, of love most true;
On through the mist it came at last
To one by sorrow overcast,
"Dear Christ," she said, "by night and day
They serve who praise, as well as pray."
Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night - 
The sky was spangled all with gold,
The bitter wind was keen and cold,
Yet, gay musician, out of sight,
You still put wintry thoughts to flight,
For summer follows where you fare,
0 Whistler, so debonair.
And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way - 
The little children in his train
With rosy lips caught up the strain.
Then I, to hear what he might say,
Followed with them, that sombre day.
"Is it for joy of life," quoth I,
"Good sir, you go awhistling by?"
He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head,
"I cheer my own sad heart," he said.
The Fishes And The Shepherd Who Played The Flute.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Thrysis - who for his Annette dear
Made music with his flute and voice,
Which might have roused the dead to hear,
And in their silent graves rejoice - 
Sang once the livelong day,
In the flowery month of May,
Up and down a meadow brook,
While Annette fish'd with line and hook.
But ne'er a fish would bite;
So the shepherdess's bait
Drew not a fish to its fate,
From morning dawn till night.
The shepherd, who, by his charming songs,
Had drawn savage beasts to him in throngs,
And done with them as he pleased to,
Thought that he could serve the fish so.
'O citizens,' he sang, 'of this water,
Leave your Naiad in her grot profound;
Come and see the blue sky's lovely daughter,
Who a thousand times more will charm you;
Fear not that her prison will harm you,
Though there you should chance to get bound.
'Tis only to us men she is cruel:
You she will treat kindly;
A snug little pond she'll find ye,
Clearer than a crystal jewel,
Where you may all live and do well;
Or, if by chance some few
Should find their fate
Conceal'd in the bait,
The happier still are you;
For envied is the death that's met
At the hands of sweet Annette.'
This eloquence not effecting
The object of his wishes,
Since it failed in collecting
The deaf and dumb fishes, - 
His sweet preaching wasted,
His honey'd talk untasted,
A net the shepherd seized, and, pouncing
With a fell scoop at the scaly fry,
He caught them; and now, madly flouncing,
At the feet of his Annette they lie!
O ye shepherds, whose sheep men are,
To trust in reason never dare.
The arts of eloquence sublime
Are not within your calling;
Your fish were caught, from oldest time,
By dint of nets and hauling.
Romance
by Madison Julius Cawein

Thus have I pictured her: - In Arden old
A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye,
Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold,
Teaching her hawks to fly.
Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat,
In huntsman green, sounding the hunt's wild prize,
Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet
The spear-pierced monster dies.
Or in Br'c'liand, on some high tower,
Clad white in samite, last of her lost race,
My soul beholds her, lovelier than a flower,
Gazing with pensive face.
Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore,
Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair,
Riding through realms of legend evermore,
And ever young and fair.
Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just,
In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn,
At giant castles, dens of demon lust,
Winding her bugle-horn.
Another Una; and in chastity
A second Britomart; in beauty far
O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry
And Paynim lands to war....
Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers, - 
'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons
Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers
Sigh faint and fragrant tunes, - 
Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes
Of sunset, shows me, - mile on misty mile
Of purple precipice, - all the haunted capes
Of her enchanted isle.
Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine,
Upon a headland breasting violet seas,
Her castle towers, like a dream divine,
With stairs and galleries.
And at her casement, Circe-beautiful,
Above the surgeless reaches of the deep,
She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull
The perfumed wind asleep.
Or, round her brow a diadem of spars,
She leans and hearkens, from her raven height,
The nightingales that, choiring to the stars,
Take with wild song the night.
Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves,
To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled,
Wrought of huge shells and labyrinthine caves,
Ribbed pale with pearl and gold.
There doth she wait forever; and the kings
Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares
For none but him, the Love, that dreams and sings,
That sings and dreams and dares.
June.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Throw open wide your golden gates,
O poet-landed month of June,
And waft me, on your spicy breath,
The melody of birds in tune.
O fairest palace of the three,
Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,
I gaze upon your leafy courts
From out the vestibule of May.
I fain would tread your garden walks,
Or in your shady bowers recline;
Then open wide your golden gates,
And make them mine, and make them mine.
Chinese Lanterns.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Through the windows on the park
Float the waltzes, weirdly sweet;
In the light, and in the dark,
Rings the chime of dancing feet.
Mid the branches, all a-row,
Fiery jewels gleam and glow;
Dreamingly we walk beneath, 
Ah, so slow!
All the air is full of love;
Misty shadows wrap us round;
Light below and dark above,
Filled with softly-surging sound.
See the forehead of the Night
Garlanded with flowers of light,
And her goblet crowned with wine,
Golden bright.
Ah! those deep, alluring eyes,
Quiet as a haunted lake;
In their depths the passion lies
Half in slumber, half awake.
Lay thy warm, white hand in mine
Let the fingers clasp and twine,
While my eager, panting heart
Beats 'gainst thine.
Bring thy velvet lips a-near,
Mine are hungry for a kiss,
Gladly will I sate them, dear;
Closer, closer, this, and this.
On thy lips love's seal I lay,
Nevermore to pass away; 
That was all last night, you know,
But to-day 
Chinese lanterns hung in strings,
Painted paper, penny dips, 
Filled with roasted moths and things
Greasy with the tallow drips;
Wet and torn, with rusty wire,
Blackened by the dying fire;
Withered flowers, trampled deep
In the mire.
Chinese lanterns, Bernstein's band,
Belladonna, lily white,
These made up the fairy-land
Where I wandered all last night;
Ruled in all its rosy glow
By a merry Queen, you know
Jolly, dancing, laughing, witching,
Veuve Cliquot.
The Man That Pleased None
by Walter Crane

Through the town this good Man & his Son
Strove to ride as to please everyone:
Self, Son, or both tried,
Then the Ass had a ride;
While the world, at their efforts, poked fun.
You Cannot Hope To Please All--Don't Try
A Wasted Illness
by Thomas Hardy

Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
To dire distress.
And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
As on I went.
"Where lies the end
To this foul way?" I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend -
The door to death.
It loomed more clear:
"At last!" I cried. "The all-delivering door!"
And then, I knew not how, it grew less near
Than theretofore.
And back slid I
Along the galleries by which I came,
And tediously the day returned, and sky,
And life - the same.
And all was well:
Old circumstance resumed its former show,
And on my head the dews of comfort fell
As ere my woe.
I roam anew,
Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet
Those backward steps through pain I cannot view
Without regret.
For that dire train
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,
And those grim aisles, must be traversed again
To reach that door.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXXVII - Congratulation
by William Wordsworth

Thus all things lead to Charity secured
By them who blessed the soft and happy gale
That landward urged the great Deliverer's sail,
Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored!
Propitious hour! had we, like them, endured
Sore stress of apprehension, with a mind
Sickened by injuries, dreading worse designed,
From month to month trembling and unassured,
How had we then rejoiced! But we have felt,
As a loved substance, their futurity:
Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seen;
A State whose generous will through earth is dealt;
A State which, balancing herself between
License and slavish order, dares be free.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XVI - Wars Of York And Lancaster
by William Wordsworth

Thus is the storm abated by the craft
Of a shrewd Counselor, eager to protect
The Church, whose power hath recently been checked,
Whose monstrous riches threatened. So the shaft
Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed
In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers
Pride to be washed away by bitter tears!
For deep as Hell itself, the avenging draught
Of civil slaughter. Yet, while temporal power
Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual truth
Maintains the else endangered gift of life;
Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth;
And, under cover of this woeful strife,
Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour.
This Crosstree
by Robert Herrick

This   crosstree   here
Doth    Jesus      bear,
Who   sweet'ned   first
The   death   accurs'd.
Here all things ready are, make haste, make haste away;
For long this  work will be,  and very short  this day.
Why then,  go on to  act:  here's  wonders to be  done
Before the last  least sand of  Thy ninth  hour be run;
Or ere dark  clouds do dull  or dead the mid-day's sun.
Act  when   Thou  wilt,
Blood  will  be  spilt;
Pure  balm, that  shall
Bring  health  to  all.
Why     then,    begin
To   pour   first   in
Some   drops  of  wine,
Instead    of    brine,
To   search  the  wound
So    long     unsound:
And,  when that's done,
Let   oil   next   run
To   cure   the   sore
Sin    made     before.
And   O!  dear  Christ,
E'en   as  Thou  di'st,
Look   down,  and   see
Us   weep   for   Thee.
And  tho', love  knows,
Thy    dreadful   woes
We    cannot     ease,
Yet  do   Thou  please,
Who      mercy     art,
T'  accept  each  heart
That    gladly    would
Help   if   it   could.
Meanwhile   let     me,
Beneath   this    tree,
This    honour    have,
To   make   my   grave.
The Beatific Vision
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Through what fierce incarnations, furled
In fire and darkness, did I go,
Ere I was worthy in the world
To see a dandelion grow?
Well, if in any woes or wars
I bought my naked right to be,
Grew worthy of the grass, nor gave
The wren, my brother, shame for me.
But what shall God not ask of him
In the last time when all is told,
Who saw her stand beside the hearth,
The firelight garbing her in gold?
The Female Phaeton
by Matthew Prior

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untamed,
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed.
Inflamed with rage at sad restraint
Which wise mamma ordain'd,
And sorely vex'd to play the saint
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd.
Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails, forsaken?
Kitty's for other things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.
Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
What has she better, pray, than I?
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?
Dearest mamma, for once let me
Unchain'd my fortune try:
I'll have my earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.
I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall:
They'll grieve I was not loosed before;
She I was loosed at all.
Fondness prevail'd, mamma gave way:
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
The Egret Hunter
by Madison Julius Cawein

Through woods the Spanish moss makes gray,
With deeps the daylight never reaches,
The water sluices slow its way,
And chokes with weeds its beaches.
'T was here, lost in this lone bayou,
Where poison brims each blossom's throat,
Last night I followed a firefly glow,
And oared a leaky boat.
The way was dark; and overhead
The wailing limpkin moaned and cried;
The moss, like cerements of the dead,
Waved wildly on each side.
The way was black, albeit the trees
Let here and there the moonlight through,
The shadows, 'mid the cypress-knees,
Seemed ominous of hue.
And then behold! a boat that oozed
Slow slime and trailed rank water-weeds,
Loomed on me: in which, interfused,
Great glow-worms glowed like beads.
And in its rotting hulk, upright,
His eyeless eyes fixed far before,
A dead man sat, and stared at night,
Grasping a rotting oar.
Slowly it passed; and fearfully
The moccasin slid in its wake;
The owl shrunk shrieking in its tree;
And in its hole the snake.
But I, who met it face to face,
I could not shrink or turn aside:
Within that dark and demon place
There was no place to hide.
Slowly it passed; for me too slow!
The grim Death, in the moon's faint shine,
Whose story, haply, none may know
Save th' owl that haunts the pine.
When He Comes
by Fay Inchfawn

"When He comes!
My sweetest 'When'!"
C. ROSSETTI.
Thus may it be (I thought) at some day's close,
Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose
Breathes forth its incense. May He find me there,
In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer,
In some sweet garden place,
To catch the first dear wonder of His Face!
Or, in my room above,
In silent meditation of His love,
My soul illumined with a rapture rare.
It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes
Might glimpse Him coming in the Eastern skies,
And be caught up to meet Him in the air.
But now! Ah, now, the days
Rush by their hurrying ways!
No longer know I vague imaginings,
For every hour has wings.
Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I say,
All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day,
Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I am --
Tending my household; stirring gooseberry jam;
Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose,
With puzzled forehead patching some one's clothes;
Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and run,
From early dawn till setting of the sun."
And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go,
Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so.
The Silent Wheel.
by William McKendree Carleton

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
Through these broad streets do I fly - 
Furlongs and miles I defy,
Till the "magnificent distance"
Vanishes out of existence.
Let me with pencil prolong
Strains of the Bicycler's Song:
[The Silent Wheel.]
Good-morning, good Pedestrian - I'm glad to see you out;
The day is full of healthfulness, the birds are all about;
There is a quiet breeziness in all the pleasant air - 
I hope this happy exercise will drive away your care.
For I am a pedestrian - 
A very good pedestrian - 
And all the glowing benefit of walking I can share;
Although I tread the atmosphere, and do not touch the ground,
I greet you as a brother, sir, wherever you are bound.
But my impatient lady-love in yonder town doth wait;
I wish you better company, and strike a swifter gait.
Good-morning, good Equestrian - a noble steed you ride;
I do not seem to frighten him, so here is by your side.
It is a feast of happiness to smoothly bound along,
With sturdy muscles under you, and footing swift and strong.
For I am an equestrian - 
A very fair equestrian - 
With bugle blast of melody and unassuming song;
And all the thrilling ecstacy of horsemanship I feel,
Although the nag I ride upon was bred of burnished steel.
But his impatience urges me to swifter gait than you,
And so I wish you pleasure, sir, and bid a kind adieu.
Good-morning, Mr. Racer, you've a trotter that is fine;
I never would disparage him, or say too much of mine;
Your horse is full of mettle, sir, and bravely draws his load;
It must be pure deliciousness to speed him on the road.
But I am quite a racing man - 
A modest, humble racing man - 
Though small is my solicitude upon the turf bestowed;
And if you have anxiety to try a little race,
I'll undertake, with courtesy, to give you second place;
But if the first you take from me, and it be fairly earned,
I'll hope that on some future day the tables may be turned.
Good-morning, Mr. Carriageer, you have an easy ride;
Those cushions are luxurious, and pleasantly you glide!
'Tis very good and fortunate, if one be tired or ill,
To calmly call his carriage out, and travel as he will.
But I, sir, keep my carriage, too - 
A very pleasant carriage, too - 
Though it is not the easy one that your desire would fill;
It carries me in comfort over many a pleasant mile,
And all my best acquaintances are suited with its style.
'Tis with a blithe economy establishments are run,
With driver, footman, passenger, and horses - all in one!
Good-morning, fellow Wheelmen; here's a warm, fraternal hand,
As with a rush of victory we sweep across the land!
If some may be dissatisfied to view the way we ride,
We only wish their majesties could wander by our side!
For we are good philanthropists - 
Unqualified philanthropists - 
And would not have our happiness to any one denied.
We claim a great utility that daily must increase;
We claim for inactivity a bright and grand release;
A constant mental, physical, and moral help we feel,
Which makes us turn enthusiasts, and bless the silent wheel!
Market-Day - Calcot. (Exhibition, 1807.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Through the wood's maze our eyes delighted stray,
To mark the rustics on the market-day.
Beneath the branches winds the long white road;
Here peeps the rustic cottager's abode;
There in the morning sun, the children play,
Or the crone creeps along the dusty way.
The Wheel
by William Butler Yeats

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come --
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.
Romance
by Madison Julius Cawein

Thus have I pictured her: In Arden old
A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye,
Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold,
Teaching her hawks to fly.
Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat,
In huntsman green, sounding the hunt's wild prize,
Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet
The spear-pierced monster dies.
Or in Br'c'liand, on some high tower,
Clad white in samite, last of her lost race,
My soul beholds her, lovelier than a flower,
Gazing with pensive face.
Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore,
Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair,
Riding through realms of legend evermore,
And ever young and fair.
Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just,
In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn,
At giant castles, dens of demon lust,
Winding her bugle-horn.
Another Una; and in chastity
A second Britomart; in beauty far
O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry
And Paynim lands to war....
Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers,
'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons
Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers
Sigh faint and fragrant tunes,
Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes
Of sunset, shows me, mile on misty mile
Of purple precipice, all the haunted capes
Of her enchanted isle.
Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine,
Upon a headland breasting violet seas,
Her castle towers, like a dream divine,
With stairs and galleries.
And at her casement, Circe-beautiful,
Above the surgeless reaches of the deep,
She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull
The perfumed wind asleep.
Or, round her brow a diadem of spars,
She leans and hearkens, from her raven height,
The nightingales that, choiring to the stars,
Take with wild song the night.
Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves,
To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled,
Wrought of huge shells and labyrinthine caves,
Ribbed pale with pearl and gold.
There doth she wait forever; and the kings
Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares
For none but him, the Love, that dreams and sings,
That sings and dreams and dares.
Sonnet XXVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Gi' fiammeggiava l' amorosa stella.
LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVES.
Throughout the orient now began to flame
The star of love; while o'er the northern sky
That, which has oft raised Juno's jealousy,
Pour'd forth its beauteous scintillating beam:
Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame,
Half-dress'd, and slipshod, 'gan her distaff ply:
And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh,
That wakes to tears the lover from his dream:
When my sweet hope unto my mind appear'd,
Not in the custom'd way unto my sight;
For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh'd;
Ah me, how changed that form by love endear'd!
"Why lose thy fortitude?" methought she said,
"These eyes not yet from thee withdraw their light."
NOTT.
Already in the east the amorous star
Illumined heaven, while from her northern height
Great Juno's rival through the dusky night
Her beamy radiance shot. Returning care
Had roused th' industrious hag, with footstep bare,
And loins ungirt, the sleeping fire to light;
And lovers thrill'd that season of despight,
Which wont renew their tears, and wake despair.
When my soul's hope, now on the verge of fate,
(Not by th' accustomed way; for that in sleep
Was closed, and moist with griefs,) attain'd my heart.
Alas, how changed! "Servant, no longer weep,"
She seem'd to say; "resume thy wonted state:
Not yet thine eyes from mine are doom'd to part."
CHARLEMONT.
Already, in the east, the star of love
Was flaming, and that other in the north,
Which Juno's jealousy is wont to move,
Its beautiful and lustrous rays shot forth;
Barefooted and half clad, the housewife old
Had stirr'd her fire, and set herself to weave;
Each tender heart the thoughtful time controll'd
Which evermore the lover wakes to grieve,
When my fond hope, already at life's last,
Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,
Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast--
Alas! how changed--and said, or seem'd to say,
"Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,
Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?"
MACGREGOR.