DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Little Hero.
by James McIntyre

'Mong silver hills of Nevada
There is many a wild bravado,
Who oft indulge in lawless vice,
And there are pearls of great price.
Rough hearts, but true at the core,
There is the genuine silver ore,
But it needs skill of the refiner
To find pure gems in the miner.
Far from their home two children stray,
Among the mountains far away,
The eldest of these travellers bold,
Jack Smith he was but six years old.
So far poor children went abroad,
That both at last they lost their road,
But their good dog the trusty Rover,
By scent and search doth them discover.
Their friends they search for them in vain,
Dark night comes on and heavy rain;
And savage wolves around them howl,
But they fear Rover's bark and growl.
On the third day the searchers hark
For sounds and they hear Rover's bark,
Joyous that boys were alive,
And that though feeble they survive.
Miners they left their silver ore,
And for more precious pearls explore,
And when the children they discover,
'Tis unbounded then their pleasure.
The eldest little hero bold
Had stripped his coat to keep the cold
From little brother three years old,
A worthy deed should be extolled.
From home they were many a league,
And weak with hunger and fatigue,
Each clung upon a miner's back,
On their way home down mountain track.
Nursery Rhyme. CXXVI. Scholastic.
by Unknown

Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And mussels all a row.
Rousseau.
by Friedrich Schiller

Monument of our own age's shame,
On thy country casting endless blame,
Rousseau's grave, how dear thou art to me
Calm repose be to thy ashes blest!
In thy life thou vainly sought'st for rest,
But at length 'twas here obtained by thee!
When will ancient wounds be covered o'er?
Wise men died in heathen days of yore;
Now 'tis lighter yet they die again.
Socrates was killed by sophists vile,
Rousseau meets his death through Christians' wile,
Rousseau who would fain make Christians men!
Advertisement.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Missing or lost, last Sunday night,
A Waterloo coin whereon was traced
The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright,
Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.
The metal thereof is rough and hard,
And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;
But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,
And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.
How it was lost God only knows,
But certain City thieves, they say,
Broke in on the owner's evening doze,
And filched this "gift of gods" away!
One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,
If we hadn't that evening chanced to see,
At the robbed man's door a Mare elect
With an ass to keep her company.
Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,
Is begged to state all facts about it,
As the owner can't well face his foes,
Nor even his friends just now without it.
And if Sir Clod will bring it back,
Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,
He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]
That's left in old King George's stable.
The Headliner and the Breadliner
by Robert William Service

Moko, the Educated Ape is here,
The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say,
And every night the gaping people pay
To see him in his panoply appear;
To see him pad his paunch with dainty cheer,
Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, and sway
Just like a gentleman, yet all in play,
Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.
And as to-night, with noble knowledge crammed,
I 'mid this human compost take my place,
I, once a poet, now so dead and damned,
The woeful tears half freezing on my face:
"O God!" I cry, "let me but take his shape,
Moko's, the Blest, the Educated Ape."
Upon Bunce. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Money thou ow'st me; prethee fix a day
For payment promis'd, though thou never pay:
Let it be Dooms-day; nay, take longer scope;
Pay when th'art honest; let me have some hope.
Restoration Of Malmesbury Abbey.[201]
by William Lisle Bowles

Monastic and time-consecrated fane!
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung;
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order go;
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,
As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light;
Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows,
Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose,
Amid the silent sanctity of death,
Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the holy pile,
Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?
O mightiest Master! thy immortal strains
These roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow,
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.
And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chant
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?
More softly now, imploring litanies,
Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs
Of penitence from yon altar rise;
Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings - 
"Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"
Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime;
Reckless alike of injuries or time;
Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied and shalt defy!
The temple of our Sion so shall mock
The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,
Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!
To Her Father With Some Verses
by Anne Bradstreet

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,
If worth in me, or ought I do appear,
Who can of right better demand the same?
Then may your worthy self from whom it came.
The principle might yield a greater sum,
Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crum,
My stock's so small, I know not how to pay,
My Bond remains in force unto this day;
Yet for part payment take this simple mite.
Where nothing's to be had Kings loose their right
Such is my debt, I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I'le pay it while I live:
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,
Yet paying is not payd until I dye.
To Electra.
by Robert Herrick

More white than whitest lilies far,
Or snow, or whitest swans you are:
More white than are the whitest creams,
Or moonlight tinselling the streams:
More white than pearls, or Juno's thigh,
Or Pelops' arm of ivory.
True, I confess, such whites as these
May me delight, not fully please;
Till like Ixion's cloud you be
White, warm, and soft to lie with me.
Morn
by Richard Le Gallienne

Morn hath a secret that she never tells:
'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes - 
I think it is the way to Paradise,
Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells.
The bee hath no such honey in her cells
Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies,
As in her garden of the budding skies
She walks among the silver asphodels.
He that is loveless and of heart forlorn,
Let him but leave behind his haunted bed,
And set his feet toward yonder singing star,
Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn;
She shall come running to him from afar,
And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.
The Boy And The Angel
by Robert Browning

Morning, evening, noon and night,
'Praise God!; sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he laboured, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell:
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, 'Praise God!'
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, 'Well done;
'I doubt not thou art heard, my son:
'As well as if thy voice to-day
'Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
'This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
'Praises God from Peter's dome.'
Said Theocrite, 'Would God that I
'Might praise him, that great way, and die!'
Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, 'Nor day nor night
'Now brings the voice of my delight.'
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;
And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling's hue:
The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:
And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)
God said, 'A praise is in mine ear;
'There is no doubt in it, no fear:
'So sing old worlds, and so
'New worlds that from my footstool go.
'Clearer loves sound other ways:
'I miss my little human praise.'
Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,
With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:
And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,
Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And rising from the sickness drear
He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.
'I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
'And set thee here; I did not well.
'Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
'Vain was thy dream of many a year.
'Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped,
'Creation's chorus stopped!
'Go back and praise again
'The early way, while I remain.
'With that weak voice of our disdain,
'Take up Creation's pausing strain.
'Back to the cell and poor employ:
'Resume the craftsman and the boy!'
Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.
The Old House
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

Mossy gray stands the House, four-square to the wind,
Embosomed in the hills. The garden old
Of yew and box and fishpond speaks her mind,
Sweet-ordered, quaint, recluse, fold within fold
Of quietness; but true and choice and kind--
A sober casket for a heart of gold.
Irish Poets.
by James McIntyre

Moore found the ballads of Green Isle
Were oft obscured beneath the soil,
As miner digging in a mine
Finds rubbish 'mong the gold so fine,
So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
And enshrined jewels in casket,
Where all may view each charming gem
In Ireland's grand old diadem.
In eastern lands his fame prevails
In wondrous oriental tales,
So full of gems his Lala Rookh,
Hindoos and Brahmins read his book,
And dark eyed Persian girls admire
The beauty of his magic lyre,
Glowing like pearls of great price
Those distant gleams of paradise.
He sang of Bryan Borohm's glory,
Renowned in ancient Irish story,
And shows the wide expanded walls
Which once encircled Tara's Halls,
When joyous harp did there resound
And Ireland's greatest king was crowned,
All wars and tumults then did cease,
Ireland did prosper great in peace.
He sung of meeting of the waters
And of Ireland's charming daughters,
Great minstrel from his harp both flows,
Ireland's triumphs and her woes,
Canada doth his fame prolong
While she doth sing his great boat song,
And his own countrymen adore
The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.
Upon Himself.
by Robert Herrick

Mop-eyed I am, as some have said,
Because I've lived so long a maid:
But grant that I should wedded be,
Should I a jot the better see?
No, I should think that marriage might,
Rather than mend, put out the light.
Morning.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("L'aurore s'allume.")
[XX. a, December, 1834.]
Morning glances hither,
Now the shade is past;
Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last;
Open eyes and roses
As the darkness closes;
And the sound that grows is
Nature walking fast.
Murmuring all and singing,
Hark! the news is stirred,
Roof and creepers clinging,
Smoke and nest of bird;
Winds to oak-trees bear it,
Streams and fountains hear it,
Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story,
Child resumes his play,
Hearth its ruddy glory,
Lute its lifted lay.
Wild or out of senses,
Through the world immense is
Sound as each commences
Schemes of yesterday.
W.M. HARDINGE.
Epilogue To "The Man Of Mode; Or, Sir Fopling Flutter;" By Sir George Etherege, 1676.
by John Dryden

Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,
They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be exposed to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and go to school
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,
These sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
Most Sweet It Is
by William Wordsworth

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveler lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
Epitaph
by Thomas Oldham

Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,
Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!
Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,
In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,
All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,
Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.
Mortal take heed! in awful silence think,
Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;
O listen to Religion's warning cry!
'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'
The Canadian Magpie
by William Henry Drummond

Mos' ev'ryman lak de robin
An' it's pleasan' for hear heem sing,
Affer de winter 's over
An' it 's comin' anoder spring.
De snow 's hardly off de mountain
An' it's cole too among de pine
But you know w'en he sing, de sout' win'
Is crowdin' heem close behin' .
An' mebbe you hear de grosbec
Sittin' above de nes',
An' you see by de wayhe 's goin'
De ole man 's doin' hees bes'
Makin' de wife an' baby
Happy as dey can be,
An' proud he was come de fader
Such fine leetle familee.
De gouglou of course he 's nicer
Dan many bird dat fly,
Dunno w'at we do widout heem,
But offen I wonder w'y
He can't stay quiet a minute
Lak res' of de small oiseaux
An' finish de song he's startin'
Till whish! an' away he go!
Got not'ing to say agen dem,
De gouglou an' all de res',
'Cept only dey lak de comfort,
An' come w'en it suit dem bes',
For soon as de summer 's passin'
An' leaf is begin to fall,
You'll w'lk t'roo de wood an' medder
An' never hear wan bird call.
But come wit' me on de winter
On place w'ere de beeg tree grow
De smoke of de log house chimley
Will tole you de way to go,
An' if you 're not too unlucky
De w'iskey jack dere you'll see
Flyin' aroun' de shaintee
An' dat was de bird for me.
You 'll mebbe not lak hees singin'
Dough it 's better dan not'ing too,
For affer he do hees bes', den
W'at more can poor Johnnie do?
It 's easy job sing on summer
De sam ' as de rossignol,
But out of door on de winter
Jus' try youse'f -dat 's all.
See heem dere, now he's comin'
Hoppin' an' hoppin' aroun'
W'en we start on de morning early
For work till de sun go down,
T'row heem hees piece of breakfas'
An' hear heem say "merci bien",
For he's fond on de pork, ba golly!
Sam ' as de Canayen.
De noise of de axe don't scare heem
He stay wit' us all de day,
An' w'en he was feelin' lak' it
Ride home wit' de horse an' sleigh.
Den affer we reach de shaintee
He 's waitin' to see us back
Jompin' upon de log dere
Good leetle w'iskey lack!
So here 's to de bird of winter
Wearin' de coonskin coat,
W'enever it 's bird election
You bet he can get ma vote,
Dat 's way I be feel about it,
Voyageurs let her go today!
W'iskey jack, get ready,we drink you
Toujours ' vot' bonne sant'!
Bapt'me!
Morning Is The Place For Dew,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Morning is the place for dew,
Corn is made at noon,
After dinner light for flowers,
Dukes for setting sun!
Guy
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mortal mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets nor rings.
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover;
In strange junctures, felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
That no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand.
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues.
Fearless Guy had never foes,
He did their weapons decompose.
Aimed at him, the blushing blade
Healed as fast the wounds it made.
If on the foeman fell his gaze,
Him it would straightway blind or craze,
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye 't was seeking found.
It seemed his Genius discreet
Worked on the Maker's own receipt,
And made each tide and element
Stewards of stipend and of rent;
So that the common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.
He had so sped his wise affairs
That he caught Nature in his snares.
Early or late, the falling rain
Arrived in time to swell his grain;
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind:
The siroc found it on its way,
To speed his sails, to dry his hay;
And the world's sun seemed to rise
To drudge all day for Guy the wise.
In his rich nurseries, timely skill
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum-trees vegetable gold;
And all the hours of the year
With their own harvest honored were.
There was no frost but welcome came,
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.
Belonged to wind and world the toil
And venture, and to Guy the oil.
Nursery Rhyme. LXXIX. Tales.
by Unknown

Moss was a little man, and a little mare did buy,
For kicking and for sprawling none her could come nigh;
She could trot, she could amble, and could canter here and there,
But one night she strayed away - so Moss lost his mare.
Moss got up next morning to catch her fast asleep,
And round about the frosty fields so nimbly he did creep.
Dead in a ditch he found her, and glad to find her there,
So I'll tell you by and bye, how Moss caught his mare.
Rise! stupid, rise! he thus to her did say;
Arise, you beast, you drowsy beast, get up without delay,
For I must ride you to the town, so don't lie sleeping there;
He put the halter round her neck - so Moss caught his mare.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXXII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Morpheus, the liuely sonne of deadly Sleepe,
Witnesse of life to them that liuing die,
A prophet oft, and oft an historie,
A poet eke, as humours fly or creepe;
Since thou in me so sure a pow'r dost keepe,
That neuer I with clos'd-vp sense do lie,
But by thy worke my Stella I descrie,
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe;
Vouchsafe, of all acquaintance, this to tell,
Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold,
To shew her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well?
Foole! answers he; no Indes such treasures hold;
But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee,
Sweet Stellas image I do steal to mee.
Morgan's Dog
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Morgan the drover explained,
As he drank from his battered quart-pot,
Many a slut I have trained;
This is the best of the lot.
Crossing these stringybark hills,
Hungry and rocky and steep
This is the country that kills
Weakly and sore-footed sheep.
Those that are healthy and strong
Battle away in the lead,
Carting the others along,
Eating the whole of the feed.
That's where this little red slut
Shows you what's bred in the bone;
Works it all out in her nut,
Handles it all on her own.
Backwards and forwards she'll track,
Gauging the line at a glance,
Keeping the stronger ones back,
Giving the tailers a chance.
Weary and hungry and lame,
Sticking all day to her job,
Thin as a rabbit, but game,
Working in front of the mob.
Tradesmen, I call 'em, the dogs,
Those that'll work in a yard;
Bark till they're hoarser than frogs,
Makin' 'em savage and hard.
Others will soldier and shirk
While there's a rabbit to hunt:
This is an artist at work;
Watch her, out there, in the front.
The Scarecrow
by Madison Julius Cawein

More than cakes or anything
I like tales of shivering.
Once a scarecrow on a hill
Tossed his ragged arms at me
That was when I went to see
Folks that live at Fisherville.
And my father said, "You know,
When it's dark that old scarecrow
Gets down, rags and sticks and all,
And, like some old tramp, he goes,
Straw-wisps sticking from his toes,
Down the road, right past this wall.
"Wobble-legged and loose of arm,
Slow he shambles by the farm:
And if children are not good,
Snug in bed at eight o'clock,
On the window he will knock
With long knuckled hands of wood.
"Then his empty face pressed flat
To the pane, his tattered hat
Flopping in the wind, he'll shake
His gaunt finger at them; and
Threaten them with head and hand,
And with teeth, too, like a rake.
"Then into the night he'll pack,
There to meet with bogie Jack,
Jack-o'-Lantern; and the two,
Arm in arm, will wander on,
Scaring folks until it's dawn,
As all goblin people do.
"You may see them through the pane
Passing in the night and rain:
When you hear the watch-dogs bark.
Then along the weedy side
Of some garden dim they glide,
Where they grab you in the dark."
Sometime, when I can, for fun
I am going to take my gun;
Creep up on that hill and blow
That old scarecrow into bits
Then he can't scare into fits
Any children more, I know.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Anonymous Plays
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

More yet and more, and yet we mark not all:
The Warning fain to bid fair women heed
Its hard brief note of deadly doom and deed;1
The verse that strewed too thick with flowers the hall
Whence Nero watched his fiery festival;2
That iron page wherein men's eyes who read
See, bruised and marred between two babes that bleed,
A mad red-handed husband's martyr fall;3
The scene which crossed and streaked with mirth the strife
Of Henry with his sons and witchlike wife;4
And that sweet pageant of the kindly fiend,
Who, seeing three friends in spirit and heart made one,
Crowned with good hap the true-love wiles he screened
In the pleached lanes of pleasant Edmonton.5
Songs Set To Music: 11. Set By Mr. De Fesch
by Matthew Prior

Morella, charming without art,
And kind without design,
Can never lose the smallest part
Of such a heart as mine.
Obliged a thousand several ways,
It ne'er can break her chains,
While passion which her beauties raise
My gratitude maintains.