DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Atlas; Or, The Minister Of State[1]
by Jonathan Swift

TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD
1710
Atlas, we read in ancient song,
Was so exceeding tall and strong,
He bore the skies upon his back,
Just as the pedler does his pack;
But, as the pedler overpress'd
Unloads upon a stall to rest,
Or, when he can no longer stand
Desires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, lest the ponderous spheres
Should sink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might sit and rest awhile.
Yet Hercules was not so strong,
Nor could have borne it half so long.
Great statesmen are in this condition;
And Atlas is a politician,
A premier minister of state;
Alcides one of second rate.
Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise;
Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his single shoulders,
Sink down he must, or find upholders.
Poland
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Augurs that watched archaic birds
Such plum'd prodigies might read,
The eagles that were double-faced,
The eagle that was black indeed;
And when the battle-birds went down
And in their track the vultures come,
We know what pardon and what peace
Will keep our little masters dumb.
The men that sell what others make,
As vultures eat what others slay,
Will prove in matching plume with plume
That naught is black and all is grey;
Grey as those dingy doves that once,
By money-changers palmed and priced,
Amid the crash of tables flapped
And huddled from the wrath of Christ.
But raised for ever for a sign
Since God made anger glorious,
Where eagles black and vultures grey
Flocked back about the heroic house,
Where war is holier than peace,
Where hate is holier than love,
Shone terrible as the Holy Ghost
An eagle whiter than a dove.
Mentana: First Anniversary
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

At the time when the stars are grey,
And the gold of the molten moon
Fades, and the twilight is thinned,
And the sun leaps up, and the wind,
A light rose, not of the day,
A stronger light than of noon.
As the light of a face much loved
Was the face of the light that clomb;
As a mother's whitened with woes
Her adorable head that arose;
As the sound of a God that is moved,
Her voice went forth upon Rome.
At her lips it fluttered and failed
Twice, and sobbed into song,
And sank as a flame sinks under;
Then spake, and the speech was thunder,
And the cheek as he heard it paled
Of the wrongdoer grown grey with the wrong.
'Is it time, is it time appointed,
Angel of time, is it near?
For the spent night aches into day
When the kings shall slay not or pray,
And the high-priest, accursed and anointed,
Sickens to deathward with fear.
'For the bones of my slain are stirred,
And the seed of my earth in her womb
Moves as the heart of a bud
Beating with odorous blood
To the tune of the loud first bird
Burns and yearns into bloom.
'I lay my hand on her bosom,
My hand on the heart of my earth,
And I feel as with shiver and sob
The triumphant heart in her throb,
The dead petals dilate into blossom,
The divine blood beat into birth.
'O my earth, are the springs in thee dry?
O sweet, is thy body a tomb?
Nay, springs out of springs derive,
And summers from summers alive,
And the living from them that die;
No tomb is here, but a womb.
'O manifold womb and divine,
Give me fruit of my children, give!
I have given thee my dew for thy root,
Give thou me for my mouth of thy fruit;
Thine are the dead that are mine,
And mine are thy sons that live.
'O goodly children, O strong
Italian spirits, that wear
My glories as garments about you,
Could time or the world misdoubt you,
Behold, in disproof of the wrong,
The field of the grave-pits there.
'And ye that fell upon sleep,
We have you too with us yet.
Fairer than life or than youth
Is this, to die for the truth:
No death can sink you so deep
As their graves whom their brethren forget.
'Were not your pains as my pains?
As my name are your names not divine?
Was not the light in your eyes
Mine, the light of my skies,
And the sweet shed blood of your veins,
O my beautiful martyrs, mine?
'Of mine earth were your dear limbs made,
Of mine air was your sweet life's breath;
At the breasts of my love ye were fed,
O my children, my chosen, my dead,
At my breasts where again ye are laid,
At the old mother's bosom, in death.
'But ye that live, O their brothers,
Be ye to me as they were;
Give me, my children that live,
What these dead grudged not to give,
Who alive were sons of your mother's,
Whose lips drew breath of your air.
'Till darkness by dawn be cloven,
Let youth's self mourn and abstain;
And love's self find not an hour,
And spring's self wear not a flower,
And Lycoris, with hair unenwoven,
Hail back to the banquet in vain.
'So sooner and surer the glory
That is not with us shall be,
And stronger the hands that smite
The heads of the sons of night,
And the sound throughout earth of our story
Give all men heart to be free.'
Atonement Evening Prayer
by Morris Rosenfeld

Atonement Day--evening pray'r--sadness profound.
The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around.
The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;
The people are faint, e'en the basso is weak.
The choristers pine for the hour of repose.
Just one--two chants more, and the pray'r book we close!
And now ev'ry Jew's supplication is ended,
And Nilah* approaching, and twilight descended.
The blast of the New Year is blown on the horn,
All go; by the Ark I am standing forlorn,
And thinking: "How shall it be with us anon,
When closed is the temple, and ev'ryone gone!"
Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.
by John Hartley

At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack,
No daat yo knew him weel;
His cheeks wor red, his een wor black,
His limbs wor strong as steel.
His curly hair wor black as jet,
His spirits gay an glad,
An monny a lass her heart had set
On Jack the Wibsey lad.
Sal Simmons kept a little shop,
An bacca seld, an spice,
An traitle drink, an ginger pop,
An other things as nice.
Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair,
An allus neat an trim;
An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her;
An shoo wor sweet on him.
But other lasses thowt they had
A claim on Jack's regard;
A widow to win sich a lad,
They thowt wor very hard;
They called her a designin jade,
An one an all cried "Shame!"
But Sally kept on wi her trade,
An Jack went just the same.
One neet when commin hooam throo wark,
They stopt him on his way,
An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark,
To say what they'd to say.
They sed they thowt a widow should
Let lasses have a share,
An net get ivvery man shoo could;
They didn't think it fair,
Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat,
His face wor burnin red;
His heart wor touched, - noa daat o' that,
But this wor what he sed.
"Awd like to wed yo ivvery one,
An but for th' law aw wod,
But weel yo know if th' job wor done,
They'd put me into quod."
"As aw can mak but one mi wife, - 
Sal Simmons suits me weel;
For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life,
An dooan't know ha awst feel.
But if aw wed a widow, an
Aw fail mi pairt to play;
Shoo'll varry likely understand,
An put me into th' way.
Th' Next Mornin'.
by John Hartley

Aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar,
It's th' last time is this, an that's trew,--
For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar,
Throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe.
An mi skin, it's all cover'd wi' marks,
Some's blue, an some's black, an some's red;
Yo connot think ha mi heead warks,
An it feels just as heavy as lead.
Aw connot tell ha' aw gate fresh,
For aw didn't sup ovver mich drink,--
It's mi stummack 'at's weakly, aw guess,
It couldn't be nowt else aw' think,
For aw'd nobbut a gallon o' beer,
A couple o' whiskeys,--a rum,--
Happen two--for awm net varry clear
Hah monny--aw knaw aw hed some.
That's all, tho' aw'd happen a drop
Lat on, 'at aw knaw nowt abaat;
For th' lanlord he tell'd mi to stop,
When th' brass i' mi pocket runn'd aght,
Aw remember beein chuckt into th' street
At cloisin time, nothin noa mooar,--
An mi mates set mi up o' mi feet,
An propt me agean a hasse door.
All th' rest o' last neet is a blank,
Aw wonder who put mi to bed?
Awm sewer aw dooant knaw who to thank,
An aw connot reet think, for mi head--
Besides aw feel terrible sick,--
This drinkin, it isn't all bliss;
Aw expect aw'st be seedy a wick,
It's towt mi a lesson 'as this.
Aght o' Wark.
by John Hartley

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,
An aw can't get a day's wark to do!
Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick
An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.
Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam,
An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high time aw should come,
An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.
A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an bare;
When want's stamped o' ivvery face,
An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.
Today as aw walked into th' street,
Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;
An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet,
For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.
Them horses, aw knew varry weel,
Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,
Had nivver known th' want of a meal,
Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.
Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare,
Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;
But ther maisters forget they should care
For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.
They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet,
An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar,
An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet,
But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.
I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,
Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;
An unless we can get it o'th' strap,
We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.
But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs
To them three little lambs an ther dam; - 
Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,
For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.
But they say ther is One 'at can see,
An has promised to guide us safe throo;
Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,
He'll find a chap summat to do.
The Falling Of The Leaves
by William Butler Yeats

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us patt, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
A Jolly Beggar.
by John Hartley

Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw havn't a meg,
But awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg;
Aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent,
But still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content,
Aw live, an awm jolly,
An if it is folly,
Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.
Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor,
An at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor,
An a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop,
Wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top;
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak,
Unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back;
An if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see,
They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me ith rooad
An get aght oth gate as if fear'd ov a tooad;
But aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell,
For th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Tho philosiphers tawk, an church parsons may praich,
An tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich;
Yet aw nivver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise,
For he's nowt to be fear'd on at's nowt he can loise.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Mi Old Slippers.
by John Hartley

Aw'm wearily trudgin throo mire an weet,
For aw've finished another day's wark;
An welcome to me is that flickerin leet,
'At shines throo mi winder i'th' dark.
Aw know ther's mi drinkin just ready o'th' hob,
An a hearthstun as cleean as can be,
For that old wife o' mine allus maks it her job,
To have ivverything gradely for me.
It isn't mich time aw can spend wi' th' old lass,
For aw'm tewin throo early till lat,
An its all aw can do just to get as mich brass
As we need, an sometimes hardly that.
But we keep aght o' debt, soa mi heart's allus leet,
An aw sweeten mi wark wi' a song;
An we try to mak th' best ov what trubbles we meet,
An contentedly struggle along.
Two trusty old friends anent th' foir are set,
They are waitin thear ivvery neet;
They're nobbut a pair o' old slippers, but yet,
They give comfort an rest to mi feet.
Like misen an mi wife, they're fast wearin away, - 
They've been shabby for monny a year;
They have been a hansum pair once, aw can say,
Yet to me they wor nivver mooar dear.
Aw hooap they may last wol aw'm summon'd away,
An this life's journey peacefully ends;
For to part wod feel hard, for at this time o'th' day,
It's too lat to be makkin new friends.
Aw know varry weel 'at ther end must be near,
For aw see ha they're worn daan at th' heel;
But they've sarved me reight weel, an aw'st ha nowt to fear,
If aw've sarved His purpose as weel
The Avon
by William Wordsworth

Avon, a precious, an immortal name!
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear
Like this contented, though unknown to Fame:
For great and sacred is the modest claim
Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;
And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.
But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,
Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,
Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:
Never for like distinction may the good
Shrink from 'thy' name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears.
Cash V. Cupid.
by John Hartley

Aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face,
Wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee; - 
An aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace,
An aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy.
An ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair,
An a temptinly dimpled chin,
An one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair,
But shoo wod'nt be easy to win.
Ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet,
An ther's one 'at seems allus sad;
Yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet, - 
Just a sum mat aw wish aw had.
But somha aw connot mak up mi mind,
Which one to seek for a wife;
An its wise to be careful if love is blind,
For a weddin oft lasts for a life.
Ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit, - 
Just a plain lukkin, sensible lass;
But shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit, - 
An that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass.
An beauty will fade an een will grow dim,
Ther's noa lovin care can help that;
An th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim,
May i' time grow booath clumsy an fat.
Soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by,
For a workin chap must be a crank,
'At sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye,
Nor in a snug sum in a bank.
Some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this,
An its nowt but her brass 'at aw want,
Well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss,
If they can, - why, they may, - but aw cant.
"We're All Australians Now"
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.
From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.
The man who used to "hump his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.
The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.
The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more,
We're all Australians now!
Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,
Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!
The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.
The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.
With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.
Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!
So now we'll toast the Third Brigade
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.
Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.
And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle-bough
To symbolise our unity,
We're all Australians now.
Australia
by Edward Dyson

Australia, my native land,
A stirring whisper in your ear,
'Tis time for you to understand
Your rating now is A1, dear.
You've done some rousing things of late.
That lift you from the simple state
In which you chose to vegetate.
The persons so superior,
Whose patronage no more endures,
Now have to fire a salvo for
The glory that is fairly yours.
At length you need no sort of crutch,
You stand alone, you're voted 'much',
Get busy and behave as such.
No man from Oskosh, or from Hull,
Or any other chosen place
Can rise with a distended skull,
And cast aspersions in your face.
You're given all the world to know
Your proper standing as a foe,
And hats are off, and rightly so.
You furnished heroes for the fray,
Your sterling merit's widely blown
To all men's satisfaction say,
Now have you proved it to your own?
Now have you strength to stand and shine
In your own light and say, 'Divine
The thing is that I do. It's mine!'
The cannon's stroke throws customs down
The black and bottomless abyss,
And quaking are the gilded crown
And palsied feet of prejudice.
The guns have killed, but it is true
They bring to life things good and new.
God grant they have awakened you!
My ears are greedy for the toast
Of confidence before our guest,
The loyal song, the manly boast
Your splendid faith to manifest.
In works of art and livelihood
Shirk not the creed, 'What's ours is good,'
Dread not to have it understood.
Australia, lift your royal brow,
And have the courage of our pride,
Audacity becomes you now,
Be splendidly self-satisfied,
No land from lowliness and dearth
Has won to eminence on earth
That was not conscious of its worth.
A Bad Sooart.
by John Hartley

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin at mi heead;
Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps,
Whearivver they may leead;
Aw'd rayther ventur in a den,
An stail a lion's cub;
Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub.
Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.
A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim.
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An leeav all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An spare yo when they've past.
Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Mak poverty yo're friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair.
He leads yo on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend;
He get's yo once within his coils,
An crushes yo i'th' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght,
An seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.
On Seeing The Ladies Crux-Easton Walk In The Woods By The Grotto.
by Alexander Pope

Authors the world and their dull brains have traced
To fix the ground where Paradise was placed;
Mind not their learned whims and idle talk;
Here, here's the place where these bright angels walk.
Freedom On The Wallaby
by Henry Lawson

Australia's a big country
An' Freedom's humping bluey,
An' Freedom's on the wallaby
Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey?
She's just begun to boomerang,
She'll knock the tyrants silly,
She's goin' to light another fire
And boil another billy.
Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While loafers thrived beside 'em,
But food to eat and clothes to wear,
Their native land denied 'em.
An' so they left their native land
In spite of their devotion,
An' so they came, or if they stole,
Were sent across the ocean.
Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare
O' Royalty's regalia,
She left the loafers where they were,
An' came out to Australia.
But now across the mighty main
The chains have come ter bind her,
She little thought to see again
The wrongs she left behind her.
Our parents toil'd to make a home,
Hard grubbin 'twas an' clearin',
They wasn't crowded much with lords
When they was pioneering.
But now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old Greed must crook 'is dirty hand
And come ter take it from us.
So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in rebel chorus.
We'll make the tyrants feel the sting
O' those that they would throttle;
They needn't say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!
Verlaine.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond,
With quest too furious for the graal he would have won,
He flung himself at the eternal sky, as one
Wrenching his chains but impotent to burst the bond.
Yet under the revolt, the revel, the despond,
What pools of innocence, what crystal benison!
As through a riven mist that glowers in the sun,
A stretch of God's blue calm glassed in a virgin pond.
Prowler of obscene streets that riot reek along,
And aisles with incense numb and gardens mad with rose,
Monastic cells and dreams of dim brocaded lawns,
Death, which has set the calm of Time upon his song,
Surely upon his soul has kissed the same repose
In some fair heaven the Christ has set apart for Fauns.
Autumn
by John Clare

Autumn comes laden with her ripened load
Of fruitage and so scatters them abroad
That each fern-smothered heath and mole-hill waste
Are black with bramble berries--where in haste
The chubby urchins from the village hie
To feast them there, stained with the purple dye;
While painted woods around my rambles be
In draperies worthy of eternity.
Yet will the leaves soon patter on the ground,
And death's deaf voice awake at every sound:
One drops--then others--and the last that fell
Rings for those left behind their passing bell.
Thus memory every where her tidings brings
How sad death robs us of life's dearest things.
To The River Avon
by Walter Savage Landor

Avon! why runnest thou away so fast?
Rest thee before that Chancel where repose
The bones of him whose spirit moves the world.
I have beheld thy birthplace, I have seen
Thy tiny ripples where they play amid
The golden cups and ever-waving blades.
I have seen mighty rivers, I have seen
Padus, recovered from his fiery wound,
And Tiber, prouder than them all to bear
Upon his tawny bosom men who crusht
The world they trod on, heeding not the cries
Of culprit kings and nations many-tongued.
What are to me these rivers, once adorn'd
With crowns they would not wear but swept away?
Worthier art thou of worship, and I bend
My knees upon thy bank, and call thy name,
And hear, or think I hear, thy voice reply.
Written In November.
by John Clare

Autumn, I love thy parting look to view
In cold November's day, so bleak and bare,
When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro',
With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare,
Thou, like an old man, bidd'st the world adieu.
I love thee well: and often, when a child,
Have roam'd the bare brown heath a flower to find;
And in the moss-clad vale, and wood-bank wild
Have cropt the little bell-flowers, pearly blue,
That trembling peep the shelt'ring bush behind.
When winnowing north-winds cold and bleaky blew,
How have I joy'd, with dithering hands, to find,
Each fading flower; and still how sweet the blast,
Would bleak November's hour restore the joy that's past.