DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Canzone IX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Gentil mia donna, i' veggio.
IN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: THEY LEAD HIM TO CONTEMPLATE THE PATH OF LIFE.
Lady, in your bright eyes
Soft glancing round, I mark a holy light,
Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;
And to my practised sight,
From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,
Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.
This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,
And urges me to seek the glorious goal;
This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,
Nor can the human tongue
Tell how those orbs divine o'er all my soul
Exert their sweet control,
Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,
And when the year puts on his youth again,
Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain.
Oh! if in that high sphere,
From whence the Eternal Ruler of the stars
In this excelling work declared his might,
All be as fair and bright,
Loose me from forth my darksome prison here,
That to so glorious life the passage bars;
Then, in the wonted tumult of my breast,
I hail boon Nature, and the genial day
That gave me being, and a fate so blest,
And her who bade hope beam
Upon my soul; for till then burthensome
Was life itself become:
But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,
High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,
Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes.
No joy so exquisite
Did Love or fickle Fortune ere devise,
In partial mood, for favour'd votaries,
But I would barter it
For one dear glance of those angelic eyes,
Whence springs my peace as from its living root.
O vivid lustre! of power absolute
O'er all my being--source of that delight,
By which consumed I sink, a willing prey.
As fades each lesser ray
Before your splendour more intense and bright,
So to my raptured heart,
When your surpassing sweetness you impart,
No other thought of feeling may remain
Where you, with Love himself, despotic reign.
All sweet emotions e'er
By happy lovers felt in every clime,
Together all, may not with mine compare,
When, as from time to time,
I catch from that dark radiance rich and deep
A ray in which, disporting, Love is seen;
And I believe that from my cradled sleep,
By Heaven provided this resource hath been,
'Gainst adverse fortune, and my nature frail.
Wrong'd am I by that veil,
And the fair hand which oft the light eclipse,
That all my bliss hath wrought;
And whence the passion struggling on my lips,
Both day and night, to vent the breast o'erfraught,
Still varying as I read her varying thought.
For that (with pain I find)
Not Nature's poor endowments may alone
Render me worthy of a look so kind,
I strive to raise my mind
To match with the exalted hopes I own,
And fires, though all engrossing, pure as mine.
If prone to good, averse to all things base,
Contemner of what worldlings covet most,
I may become by long self-discipline.
Haply this humble boast
May win me in her fair esteem a place;
For sure the end and aim
Of all my tears, my sorrowing heart's sole claim,
Were the soft trembling of relenting eyes,
The generous lover's last, best, dearest prize.
My lay, thy sister-song is gone before.
And now another in my teeming brain
Prepares itself: whence I resume the strain.
DACRE.
To The Picture Of A Lady.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,
With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air,
And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,
Which once to see, is never to forget!
But for short space I gazed, with soul intent
Upon thee; and the limner's art divine,
Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.
But once I gazed, then on my way I went:
And thou art still before me.    Like a dream
Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,
Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never
May be so blest as to behold thee more,
That one short look has stamped thee in my heart,
Of my intensest life a living part,
Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er.
Sonnets. IX
by John Milton

Lady that in the prime of earliest youth,
Wisely hath shun'd the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the Hill of heav'nly Truth,
The better part with Mary and with Ruth,
Chosen thou hast, and they that overween,
And at thy growing vertues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fixt and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light,
And Hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastfull friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.
Carmen.
by Madison Julius Cawein

La Gitanilla! tall dragoons
In Andalusian afternoons,
With ogling eye and compliment
Smiled on you, as along you went
Some sleepy street of old Seville;
Twirled with a military skill
Moustaches; buttoned uniforms
Of Spanish yellow bowed your charms.
Proud, wicked head and hair blue-black!
Whence your mantilla, half thrown back,
Discovered shoulders and bold breast
Bohemian brown: and you were dressed - 
In some short skirt of gipsy red
Of smuggled stuff; thence stockings dead
White silk exposed with many a hole
Thro' which your plump legs roguish stole
A fleshly look; and tiny toes
In red morocco shoes with bows
Of scarlet ribbons. Daintily
You walked by me and I did see
Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip,
That gnawed the rose you once did flip
At bashful Jose's nose while loud
Laughed the guant guards among the crowd.
And, in your brazen chemise thrust,
Heaved with the swelling of your bust,
That bunch of white acacia blooms
Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes.
As in a cool neveria
I ate an ice with M'rim'e,
Dark Carmencita, you passed gay,
All holiday bedizen'd,
A new mantilla on your head;
A crimson dress bespangled fierce;
And crescent gold, hung in your ears,
Shone wrought Morisco; and each shoe
Cordovan leather, spangled blue,
Glanced merriment; and from large arms
To well-turned ancles all your charms
Blew flutterings and glitterings
Of satin bands and beaded strings;
And 'round each arm's fair thigh one fold,
And graceful wrists, a twisted gold
Coiled serpents, tails fixed in the head,
Convulsive-jeweled glossy red.
In flowers and trimmings to the jar
Of mandolin and low guitar
You in the grated patio
Danced; the curled coxcombs' flirting row
Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance,
With wily motion and glad glance
Voluptuous, the wild romalis,
Where every movement was a kiss
Of elegance delicious, wound
In your Basque tambourine's dull sound.
Or as the ebon castanets
Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets,
Saw angry Jose thro' the grate
Glare on us a pale face of hate,
When some indecent colonel there
Presumed too lewdly for his ear.
Some still night in Seville; the street,
Candilejo; two shadows meet - 
Flash sabres; crossed within the moon, - 
Clash rapidly - a dead dragoon.
Lady Alice
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text of this little ballad is given from Bell's Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England.
It should be compared with Lord Lovel.
LADY ALICE
1.
Lady Alice was sitting in her bower-window,
At midnight mending her quoif,
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.
2.
'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'
3.
'O lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow, when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.
4.
'And bury me in Saint Mary's church,
All for my love so true,
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'
5.
Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west,
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.
6.
The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain;
Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again.
The Blue Closet
by William Morris

THE DAMOZELS.
Lady Alice, lady Louise,
Between the wash of the tumbling seas
We are ready to sing, if so ye please;
So lay your long hands on the keys;
Sing, Laudate pueri.
And ever the great bell overhead
Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,
Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.
LADY LOUISE.
Sister, let the measure swell
Not too loud; for you sing not well
If you drown the faint boom of the bell;
He is weary, so am I.
And ever the chevron overhead
Flapped on the banner of the dead;
(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)
LADY ALICE.
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
Two damozels wearing purple and green,
Four lone ladies dwelling here
From day to day and year to year;
And there is none to let us go;
To break the locks of the doors below,
Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;
And when we die no man will know
That we are dead; but they give us leave,
Once every year on Christmas-eve,
To sing in the Closet Blue one song;
And we should be so long, so long,
If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,
They float on in a happy stream;
Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,
Float from the open'd lips of Louise;
But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through
The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;
And ever the great bell overhead
Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,
The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.
They sing all together.
How long ago was it, how long ago,
He came to this tower with hands full of snow?
Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,
Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry,
I am so feeble now, would I might die.
And in truth the great bell overhead
Left off his pealing for the dead,
Perchance, because the wind was dead.
Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
Through the floor shot up a lily red,
With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
For he was strong in the land of the dead.
What matter that his cheeks were pale,
His kind kiss'd lips all grey?
O, love Louise, have you waited long?
O, my lord Arthur, yea.
What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.
O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?
And ever the great bell overhead,
And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead.
The Rose And The Fern
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn,
Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower
High overhead the trellised roses burn;
Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern, - 
A leaf without a flower.
What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet,
And have been lovely in their beauteous prime,
While the bare frond seems ever to repeat,
"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet
The joyous flowering time!"
Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread
And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows;
Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed,
But while its petals still are burning red
Gather life's full-blown rose!
Imogen
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(A Lady of Tender Age)
Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing,
Where were they glancing yester-night?
Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing,
Imogen dancing all in white?
Laughed she not with a pure delight,
Laughed she not with a joy serene,
Stepped she not with a grace entrancing,
Slenderly girt in silken sheen?
All through the night from dusk to daytime
Under her feet the hours were swift,
Under her feet the hours of play-time
Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift:
Music set her adrift, adrift,
Music eddying towards the day
Swept her along as brooks in May-time
Carry the freshly falling May.
Ladies, life is a changing measure,
Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;
Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure
Twilight follows the longest noon.
Nay, but here is a lasting boon,
Life for hearts that are old and chill,
Youth undying for hearts that treasure
Imogen dancing, dancing still.
Zest.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Labor not in the murky dell,
But till your harvest hill at morn;
Stoop to no words that, rank and fell,
Grow faster than the rustling corn.
With gladdening eyes go greet the sun,
Who lifts his brow in varied light;
Bring light where'er your feet may run:
So bring a day to sorrow's night.
Approaching Thirty (Lauds And Matins)
by Paul Cameron Brown

Laconic tears or Botticelli's Venus
holding the years
like tresses
in a wistful pose.
Tenebrous youth accosted
by callow Time
bleeds the heart
with spring aloes.
No comfortable shibboleths
to restrain the wriggling polyps
in the skin or nestling hair.
Gerundive in movement,
each particled whimper
of the clock surrounds
a cloistered second
poised about the bearded target.
As far as you know, nothing unusual.
A total of eight hundred months
but grammar school sums,
spiel & mileage
to drift across a lifetime.
At thirty, the best half of the potage
is gruel hand drawn from
the sabulous pot.
Lads an Lasses.
by John Hartley

Lads an lasses lend yor ears
Unto an old man's rhyme,
Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers,
It's all a waste o' time.
Some little wisdom yo may gain,
Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget:
Soa blame me net for spaikin plain,
Yo'll find it's better net.
For yo, life's journey may be long,
Or it may end to-day;
Deeath gethers in the young an strong,
Along wi' th' old an gray.
Then nivver do an unkind thing,
Which yo will sure regret,
Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting, - 
Yo'll find it's better net.
If yo've a duty to get throo,
Goa at it with a will,
Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do,
That mak's it harder still.
Dooant think to-morn is time enuff
For what to-day is set,
Nor trust to others for ther help,
Yo'll find it's better net.
If little wealth falls to yor share,
Try nivver to repine;
But struggle on wi' thrift an' care, - 
Some day the sun will shine.
It's better to be livin poor,
Than running into debt,
An bavin duns coom to yor door; - 
Yo'll find it's better net.
When tempted bi some jolly friend,
To join him in a spree,
Remember sich things sometimes end
I' pain an misery.
Be firm an let temptations pass
As if they'd ne'er been met,
An nivver drain the sparklin glass; - 
Yo'll find it's better net.
Mak trewth an honesty yor guide,
Tho' some may laff an rail,
Fear net, whativver ills betide,
At last yo must prevail.
Contented wi' yor portion be
Nor let yor heart be set,
On things below 'at fade an dee, - 
Yo'll find it's better net.
April On Waggon Hill
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Lad, and can you rest now,
There beneath your hill!
Your hands are on your breast now,
But is your heart so still?
'Twas the right death to die, lad,
A gift without regret,
But unless truth's a lie, lad,
You dream of Devon yet.
Ay, ay, the year's awaking,
The fire's among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
The curlew's on the wing;
Primroses are out, lad,
On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad;
From Brendon to the sea.
I know what's in your heart, lad,---
The mare he used to hunt---
And her blue market-cart, lad,
With posies tied in front---
We miss them from the moor road,
They're getting old to roam,
The road they're on's a sure road
And nearer, lad, to home.
Your name, the name they cherish?
'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:
But stone and all may perish
With little loss to you.
While fame's fame you're Devon, lad,
The Glory of the West;
Till the roll's called in heaven, lad,
You may well take your rest.
Au Lecteur (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

La sottise, l'erreur, le p'ch', la l'sine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos p'ch's sont t'tus, nos repentirs sont l'ches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trism'giste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchant',
Et le riche m'tal de notre volont'
Est tout vaporis' par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets r'pugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, ' travers des t'n'bres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un d'bauch' pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyris' d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serr', fourmillant comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de d'mons,
Et quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encore brod' de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre 'me, h'las! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panth'res, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la m'nagerie inf'me de nos vices,
Il en est un plus laid, plus m'chant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes, ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un d'bris
Et dans un b'illement avalerait le monde.
C'est l'Ennui!'L'oeil charg' d'un pleur involontaire,
Il r've d''chafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre d'licat,
'Hypocrite lecteur, 'mon semblable, 'mon fr're!
Pierrot's Song
by Sara Teasdale

Lady, light in the east hangs low,
Draw your veils of dream apart,
Under the casement stands Pierrot
Making a song to ease his heart.
(Yet do not break the song too soon
I love to sing in the paling moon.)
The petals are falling, heavy with dew,
The stars have fainted out of the sky,
Come to me, come, or else I too,
Faint with the weight of love will die.
(She comes'alas, I hoped to make
Another stanza for her sake!)
A Bucolic Betwixt Two: Lacon & Thyrsis
by Robert Herrick

LACON:    For a kiss or two, confess,
What doth cause this pensiveness,
Thou most lovely neat-herdess?
Why so lonely on the hill?
Why thy pipe by thee so still,
That erewhile was heard so shrill?
Tell me, do thy kine now fail
To fulfil the milking-pail?
Say, what is't that thou dost ail?
THYR:    None of these; but out, alas!
A mischance is come to pass,
And I'll tell thee what it was:
See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.
LACON.    Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.
THYR:    I have lost my lovely steer,
That to me was far more dear
Than these kine which I milk here;
Broad of forehead, large of eye,
Party-colour'd like a pye,
Smooth in each limb as a die;
Clear of hoof, and clear of horn,
Sharply pointed as a thorn;
With a neck by yoke unworn,
From the which hung down by strings,
Balls of cowslips, daisy rings,
Interplaced with ribbonings;
Faultless every way for shape;
Not a straw could him escape,
Ever gamesome as an ape,
But yet harmless as a sheep.
Pardon, Lacon, if I weep;
Tears will spring where woes are deep.
Now, ai me!    ai me!    Last night
Came a mad dog, and did bite,
Ay, and kill'd my dear delight.
LACON:    Alack, for grief!
THYR:    But I'll be brief.
Hence I must, for time doth call
Me, and my sad playmates all,
To his evening funeral.
Live long, Lacon; so adieu!
LACON: Mournful maid, farewell to you;
Earth afford ye flowers to strew!
Occasional Epilogue. Spoken By Mr. Cobby, In The Character Of Vapid, After The Play Of The Dramatist, At The Kilkenny Theatre.
by Thomas Moore

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time--oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate--alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name,
While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.
'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends
To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request.
Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;
Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make,
And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him even lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.
With such a manager we can't but please,
Tho' London sent us all her loud    O. P.'s,[2]
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Armed with a thousand fans, we'd    give them battle;
You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our    banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt--
In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.
Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!
Noel.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Envoye A M. Agassiz, La Veille De Noel 1864,
Avec Un Panier De Vins Divers
L'Academie en respect,
Nonobstant l'incorrection
A la faveur du sujet,
Ture-lure,
N'y fera point de rature;
Noel! ture-lure-lure.
-- Gui Barozai
Quand les astres de Noel
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,
Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,
Chantaient gaiment dans le givre,
"Bons amis,
Allons donc chez Agassiz!"
Ces illustres Pelerins
D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,
Se donnant des airs de pretre,
A l'envi se vantaient d'etre
"Bons amis,
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"
Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,
Sans reproche et sans pudeur,
Dans son patois de Bourgogne,
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,
"Bons amis,
J'ai danse chez Agassiz!"
Verzenay le Champenois,
Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois,
Mais des environs d'Avize,
Fredonne a mainte reprise,
"Bons amis,
J'ai chante chez Agassiz!"
A cote marchait un vieux
Hidalgo, mais non mousseux;
Dans le temps de Charlemagne
Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne!
"Bons amis,
J'ai dine chez Agassiz!"
Derriere eux un Bordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfume de poesie
Riait, chantait, plein de vie,
"Bons amis,
J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!"
Avec ce beau cadet roux,
Bras dessus et bras dessous,
Mine altiere et couleur terne,
Vint le Sire de Sauterne;
"Bons amis,
J'ai couche chez Agassiz!"
Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Etait un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,
"Benedictions sur le Juste!
Bons amis,
Benissons Pere Agassiz!"
Ils arrivent trois a trois,
Montent l'escalier de bois
Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme
Peut permettre ce vacarme,
Bons amis,
A la porte d'Agassiz!
"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur,
Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur;
Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes
Gens de bien et gentilshommes,
Bons amis
De la famille Agassiz!"
Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous!
C'en est trop de vos glouglous;
Epargnez aux Philosophes
Vos abominables strophes!
Bons amis,
Respectez mon Agassiz!