DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
July
by Madison Julius Cawein

Now 'tis the time when, tall,
The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam
Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream,
In many a fragrant ball,
Blooms of the button-bush fall.
Let us go forth and seek
Woods where the wild plums redden and the beech
Plumps its packed burs; and, swelling, just in reach,
The pawpaw, emerald sleek,
Ripens along the creek.
Now 'tis the time when ways
Of glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumes
Of the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,
A blur of orange rays,
The butterfly-blossoms blaze.
Let us go forth and hear
The spiral music that the locusts beat,
And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,
Dear to a country ear,
The cricket's summer cheer.
Now golden celandine
Is hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds,
And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads,
Beneath the fox-grape vine,
The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.
Let us go forth and see
The dragon- and the butterfly, like gems,
Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,
Weighed down by many a bee,
Nodding mellifluously.
Now morns are full of song;
The catbird and the redbird and the jay
Upon the hilltops rouse the rosy day,
Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,
Lures their wild wings along.
Now noons are full of dreams;
The clouds of heaven and the wandering breeze
Follow a vision; and the flowers and trees,
The hills and fields and streams,
Are lapped in mystic gleams.
The nights are full of love;
The stars and moon take up the golden tale
Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,
Mixing their fires above,
Grow eloquent thereof.
Such days are like a sigh
That beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:
Such nights are like the sweetness of a kiss
On lips that half deny,
The warm lips of July.
Virgin Youth
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Now and again
All my body springs alive,
And the life that is polarised in my eyes,
That quivers between my eyes and mouth,
Flies like a wild thing across my body,
Leaving my eyes half-empty, and clamorous,
Filling my still breasts with a flush and a flame,
Gathering the soft ripples below my breasts
Into urgent, passionate waves,
And my soft, slumbering belly
Quivering awake with one impulse of desire,
Gathers itself fiercely together;
And my docile, fluent arms
Knotting themselves with wild strength
To clasp what they have never clasped.
Then I tremble, and go trembling
Under the wild, strange tyranny of my body,
Till it has spent itself,
And the relentless nodality of my eyes reasserts itself,
Till the bursten flood of life ebbs back to my eyes,
Back from my beautiful, lonely body
Tired and unsatisfied.
November
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice. Psalm 5:11.
November is so drear and chill
Whilst making leafless branch and tree,
Whilst sweeping over vale and hill
With all her doleful minstrelsy.
November wails the summer's death
In such a melancholy voice,
She has a withering, blighting breath;
She does not bid the heart rejoice.
Yet why repine, thou stricken one?
Grief is the common fate of all.
This the refrain beneath the sun:
Mortals must die, and leaves must fall.
They'll live again, the leaves and flowers,
When spring returns to bless the earth;
They'll waken 'neath her sunny hours
Through nature's touch to beauteous birth.
Hope in decay and do not moan
That God has taken one we love:
Why should our hearts be turned to stone
When he is safe in heaven above?
Redeemed through Christ, who was his trust,
With him in realms of joy on high;
For though down here "'tis dust to dust,"
The Christian lives beyond the sky.
Then in the autumn's woe rejoice, 
Rejoice in calm, rejoice in storm;
In either hear God's tender voice,
For both his holy will perform.
The Opal Month
by Virna Sheard

Now cometh October - a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
Hath taken the king's highway!
On the world she smiles - but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
Or memories of the May.
Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by - 
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her breast
A belated butterfly.
The crickets sing no more to the stars - 
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there - both at night and at morn - 
A lonely robin still sings.
A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Orient
And they weave o'er her a spell,
For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet - 
And while mists like incense curl at her feet,
She lingers her beads to tell.
Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
by Alfred Edward Housman

Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
And fall of eve is drear,
And cold the poor man lies at night,
And so goes out the year.
Little is the luck I've had,
And oh, 'tis comfort small
To think that many another lad
Has had no luck at all.
Now Art Has Lost Its Mental Charms
by William Blake

`Now Art has lost its mental charms
France shall subdue the world in arms.'
So spoke an Angel at my birth;
Then said `Descend thou upon earth,
Renew the Arts on Britain's shore,
And France shall fall down and adore.
With works of art their armies meet
And War shall sink beneath thy feet.
But if thy nation Arts refuse,
And if they scorn the immortal Muse,
France shall the arts of peace restore
And save thee from the ungrateful shore.'
Spirit who lov'st Britannia's Isle
Round which the fiends of commerce smile
The Jingo and the Minstrel
by Vachel Lindsay

An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese People
Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty:    Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most beautiful mountain.
# The minstrel speaks. #
"Now do you know of Avalon
That sailors call Japan?
She holds as rare a chivalry
As ever bled for man.
King Arthur sleeps at Nikko hill
Where Iyeyasu lies,
And there the broad Pendragon flag
In deathless splendor flies."
# The jingo answers. #
"Nay, minstrel, but the great ships come
From out the sunset sea.
We cannot greet the souls they bring
With welcome high and free.
How can the Nippon nondescripts
That weird and dreadful band
Be aught but what we find them here: - 
The blasters of the land?"
# The minstrel replies. #
"First race, first men from anywhere
To face you, eye to eye.
For that do you curse Avalon
And raise a hue and cry?
These toilers cannot kiss your hand,
Or fawn with hearts bowed down.
Be glad for them, and Avalon,
And Arthur's ghostly crown.
"No doubt your guests, with sage debate
In grave things gentlemen
Will let your trade and farms alone
And turn them back again.
But why should brawling braggarts rise
With hasty words of shame
To drive them back like dogs and swine
Who in due honor came?"
# The jingo answers. #
"We cannot give them honor, sir.
We give them scorn for scorn.
And Rumor steals around the world
All white-skinned men to warn
Against this sleek silk-merchant here
And viler coolie-man
And wrath within the courts of war
Brews on against Japan!"
# The minstrel replies. #
"Must Avalon, with hope forlorn,
Her back against the wall,
Have lived her brilliant life in vain
While ruder tribes take all?
Must Arthur stand with Asian Celts,
A ghost with spear and crown,
Behind the great Pendragon flag
And be again cut down?
"Tho Europe's self shall move against
High Jimmu Tenno's throne
The Forty-seven Ronin Men
Will not be found alone.
For Percival and Bedivere
And Nogi side by side
Will stand, - with mourning Merlin there,
Tho all go down in pride.
"But has the world the envious dream - 
Ah, such things cannot be, - 
To tear their fairy-land like silk
And toss it in the sea?
Must venom rob the future day
The ultimate world-man
Of rare Bushido, code of codes,
The fair heart of Japan?
"Go, be the guest of Avalon.
Believe me, it lies there
Behind the mighty gray sea-wall
Where heathen bend in prayer:
Where peasants lift adoring eyes
To Fuji's crown of snow.
King Arthur's knights will be your hosts,
So cleanse your heart, and go.
"And you will find but gardens sweet
Prepared beyond the seas,
And you will find but gentlefolk
Beneath the cherry-trees.
So walk you worthy of your Christ
Tho church bells do not sound,
And weave the bands of brotherhood
On Jimmu Tenno's ground."
Like Summer.
by Hattie Howard

November? 'tis a summer's day!
For tropic airs are blowing
As soft as whispered roundelay
From unseen lips that seem to say
To feathered songsters going
To sunnier, southern climes afar,
"Stay where you are - stay where you are!"
And other tokens glad as these
Declare that Summer lingers:
Round latent buds still hum the bees,
Slow fades the green from forest trees
Ere Autumn's artist fingers
Have touched the landscape, and instead
Brought out the amber, brown, and red.
The invalid may yet enjoy
His favorite recreation,
Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy
In outdoor sports the time employ,
And happy consummation
Of prudent plans the farmer know
Ere wintry breezes round him blow.
And they by poverty controlled - 
Good fortune shall betide them
As scenes of beauty they behold,
And seem to revel in the gold
Which Plutus has denied them;
For, ah! the poor from want's despair
Oft covet wealth they never share.
The Federal Bus Conductor And The Old Lady
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Now 'urry, Mrs New South Wales, and come along of us,
We're all a-goin' ridin' in the Federation 'bus.
A fam'ly party, don't you know, yes, Queenslans's comin', too,
You can't afford it! Go along! We've kep' box seat for you.
The very one of all the lot that can afford it best,
You'll only have to pay your share the same as all the rest.
You say your sons is workin' men, and can't afford to ride!
Well, all our sons is workin' men, a-smokin' up outside.
You think you might be drove to smash by some unskilful bloke!
Well, ain't we all got necks ourselves? And we don't want 'em broke.
You bet your lofe we're not such fools but what we'll do our best
To keep from harm, for harm to one is harm to all the rest.
Now, don't go trudgin' on alone, but get aboard the trap;
That basket, labeled "Capital",1 you take it in your lap!
It's nearly time we made a start, so let's 'ave no more talk:
You 'urry up and get aboard, or else stop out and walk.
We've got a flag; we've got a band; out 'orses travels fast;
Ho! Right away, Bill! Let 'em go! The old 'un's come at last!2
Mowgli's Brothers
by Rudyard Kipling

Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free,
The herds are shut in byre and hut,
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call! Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!
Perversities I
by John Frederick Freeman

I
Now come,
And I that moment will forget you.
Sit here
And in your eyes I shall not see you.
Speak, speak
That I no more may hear your music.
Into my arms,
Till I've forgotten I ever met you.
I shall not have you when I hold you
Body to body,
Though your firm flesh, though your strong fingers
Be knit to these.
On a wild hill I shall be chasing
The thought of you;
False will be those true things I told you:
I shall forget you.
No, do not come.
Where the wind hunts, there shall I find you.
In cool gray cloud
Where the sun slips through I shall see you,
Or where the trees
Are silenced, and darken in their branches.
Your coming would
Loosen, when my thought still would bind you.
Against my shoulder your warm shoulder
When last you leaned--
Think, were you nearer then and dearer,
Or I more glad?
O eternal love, your body brings you
No nearer.
Trust me, be bold, be even a little bolder
And do not come.
The Canoe Race.
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Now a light rustling wind from the South
shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters:
Up the dark-winding river DuLuth
follows fast in the wake of Tamd'ka.
On the slopes of the emerald shores
leafy woodlands and prairies alternate;
On the vine-tangled islands the flowers
peep timidly out at the white men;
In the dark-winding eddy the loon
sits warily watching and voiceless,
And the wild-goose, in reedy lagoon,
stills the prattle and play of her children.
The does and their sleek, dappled fawns
prick their ears and peer out from the thickets,
And the bison-calves play on the lawns,
and gambol like colts in the clover.
Up the still-flowing W'kpa Wak'n's
winding path through the groves and the meadows,
Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue
the swift-gliding bark of Tamd'ka;
And hardly the red braves out-do
the stout, steady oars of the white men.
Now they bend to their oars in the race 
the ten tawny braves of Tamd'ka;
And hard on their heels in the chase
ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.
In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth;
in the stern of his boat sits Tamd'ka,
And warily, cheerily, both urge
the oars of their men to the utmost.
Far-stretching away to the eyes,
winding blue in the midst of the meadows,
As a necklet of sapphires that lies
unclaspt in the lap of a virgin,
Here asleep in the lap of the plain
lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.
Like two flying coursers that strain,
on the track, neck and neck on the home-stretch,
With nostrils distended and mane froth-flecked,
and the neck and the shoulders,
Each urged to his best by the cry
and the whip and the rein of his rider,
Now they skim o'er the waters and fly,
side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows,
The blue heron flaps from the reeds,
and away wings her course up the river:
Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads,
but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.
See! the voyageurs bend to their oars
till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads;
And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours;
but in vain their Herculean labor;
For the oars of Tamd'ka are ten,
and but six are the oars of the Frenchman,
And the red warriors' burden of men
is matched by the voyageurs' luggage.
Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile,
still they strain their strong arms to the utmost,
Till rounding a willowy isle,
now ahead creeps the boat of Tamd'ka,
And the neighboring forests profound,
and the far-stretching plain of the meadows
To the whoop of the victors resound,
while the panting French rest on their paddles.
Cassillis' Banks.
by Robert Burns

I.
Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green,
An' scattered cowslips sweetly spring;
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream,
The birdies flit on wanton wing.
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's,
There wi' my Mary let me flee,
There catch her ilka glance of love,
The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!
II.
The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth
Is aften laird o' meikle care;
But Mary she is a' my ain
Ah! fortune canna gie me mair.
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks,
Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,
And catch her ilka glance o' love,
The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!
The Balance Of Europe.
by Alexander Pope

Now Europe balanced, neither side prevails;
For nothing's left in either of the scales.
The Beginning Of Winter.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Now are the trees all ruefully bereft
Of their brave liveries of green and gold,
No shred of all their pleasant raiment left
To shield them from the wind and nipping cold.
Now is the grass all withered up and dead,
And shrouded in its cerement of the snow;
Now the enfeebled Sun goes soon to bed,
And rises late and carries his head low.
Now is the night magnificent to view
When the Queen Moon appears with cloudless brow;
Now are our spirits cleans'd and born anew
In the clear, quickening atmosphere; and now
We re-make home, and find our hearts' desire
In common talk before the cheerful fire.
Jones' Mare.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
Now Farmer Jones was noted for fast horses on his place,
And also as the father of a son with freckled face,
And hair so red it looked as if it had been dyed in blood,
And Ephraim was the "masher" of the country neighborhood.
II.
This Ephraim Jones' yellow mare, she was no nice and fleet
That all the girls for miles around on Eph. were very "sweet,"
In hopes to get a ride or two behind her on the road,
With sleigh-bells jingling 'round her neck, some day when it had snowed.
III.
Or else to spin along the pike, with buggy top let down,
And ribbons sailing out behind, when Eph. would drive to town,
The envy of the country boys, and many maidens fair
A-casting wistful glances at the youth with reddish hair.
IV.
This thing went on till finally our Ephraim fell in love
With Tildy Ann Serepty Brown--as gentle as a dove--
Of all the girls around about the reigning country bell,
Whose father was as rich as cream--he'd struck an oil well!
V.
About three nights in every week could Ephraim's yellow mare
Be found a-standing hitched outside, while he was courting there,
And so the boys, with envy mad and jealousy aroused,
To humble Eph. hit on a plan they heartily espoused.
VI.
If anything in all the world, beside sweet Tildy Ann,
Was dear to Ephraim's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan;
He boasted of her speed and looks, and of her pedigree--
Said more intelligence in a brute no man would ever see.
VII.
He kept her curried till her coat it shone like burnished gold--
With silver-mounted harness on, a beauty to behold.
A brand new buggy hitched to her, a-glinting in the sun,
She "took the cake" for speed and style from every other one.
VIII.
They heard that Eph. one night would call upon his Tildy Ann
To make arrangements all complete to carry out a plan:
It would be Sunday following, when all in style he'd go
With Tildy and the yellow mare to the country "bonnet-show."
IX.
Supplied with brushes, cans of paint of every shade and hue,
And to furnish light by which to work, a bull's-eye lantern, too,
At ten o'clock that night so dark you couldn't see a wink,
They striped his Fan with red and brown, and black and blue and pink.
X.
Next morning when he went to feed, and opened wide the door,
No zebra that was ever foaled could boast the stripes she wore;
Her ears were white, her legs were green, her tail was fiery red,
And as he gazed upon her then I can't tell what he said!
Elizabeth Speaks
by Duncan Campbell Scott

(Aetat Six)
Now every night we light the grate
And I sit up till really late;
My Father sits upon the right,
My Mother on the left, and I
Between them on an ancient chair,
That once belonged to my Great-Gran,
Before my Father was a man.
We sit without another light;
I really, truly never tire
Watching that space, as black as night,
That hangs behind the fire;
For there sometimes, you know,
The dearest, queerest little sparks,
Without a sound creep to and fro;
Sometimes they form in rings
Or lines that look like many things,
Like skipping ropes, or hoops, or swings:
Before you know what you're about,
They all go out!
My Father says that they are gnomes,
Beyond the grate they have their homes,
In a tall, black, and windy town,
Behind a door we cannot see.
Often when it's time for bed
The children run away instead,
Out through the door to see our fire,
Then their angry parents come
With every candle in the town,
The beadle with his lantern too,
And search and rummage up and down,
To catch the children as they play,
Between the rows of new-mown hay,
And bring them home;
(They must be, O, so very small,
How do they capture them at all?
But then they must be very dear);
When they can find no more
They blow a horn we cannot hear,
And march with the beadle at their head,
Right through the little open door,
Then close it tight and go to bed.
My Mother says that may be so;
(They both agree they're gnomes, you know).
She says, she thinks that every night,
The gnomes have had a fearful fight;
Their valiant General has been slain,
And all the soldiers leave the camp
To dig his grave upon the plain;
They drag the General on a gun;
Every bandsman has a lamp
And there's a torch for every one,
They dig his grave with bayonets
And wrap him grandly in his flag,
Then they gather in a ring,
The band plays very soft and low,
And all the soldiers sing.
(Of course we cannot hear, you know,)
Then some one calls "The enemy comes!"
They muffle up their pipes and drums;
Every soldier in a fright
Puts out his light.
Then hand in hand, and very still,
They clamber up the dark, dark hill
And hold their breath tight - tight.
(I'd like to know which tale is right.)
O! there is something I forgot!
Sometimes one little spark burns on
Long after the rest have gone.
My Father says that lamp is left
By a little crooked, crotchety man,
Who cannot find his wayward son;
When the horn begins to blow,
He has to drop his light and run.
Of course he limps so slow
He squeezes through the very last,
When he is gone the naughty scamp
Jumps up and puff! out goes the lamp.
My Mother says that is the light,
Borne by the very bravest knight;
He is so very, very brave,
He would not leave his General's grave,
And when the Enemy General tries
To make him tell where his General lies,
He answers boldly, "I - will - not!"
Then they shoot him on the spot,
And give a horrid, dreadful shout,
And then of course his light goes out.
I sit and think when they are through,
Which tale I like best of the two.
Sometimes I like the Father one;
It is such fun!
But then I love the Mother one,
That dear brave soldier and the rest: - 
Now which one do you like the best?
Christ Crucified
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Now ere I slept, my prayer had been that I might see my way
To do the will of Christ, our Lord and Master, day by day;
And with this prayer upon my lips, I knew not that I dreamed,
But suddenly the world of night a pandemonium seemed.
From forest, and from slaughter house, from bull ring, and from stall,
There rose an anguished cry of pain, a loud, appealing call;
As man - the dumb beast's next of kin - with gun, and whip, and knife,
Went pleasure-seeking through the earth, blood-bent on taking life.
From trap, and cage, and house, and zoo, and street, that awful strain
Of tortured creatures rose and swelled the orchestra of pain.
And then methought the gentle Christ appeared to me, and spoke:
'I called you, but ye answered not' - and in my fear I woke.
Then next I heard the roar of mills; and moving through the noise,
Like phantoms in an underworld, were little girls and boys.
Their backs were bent, their brows were pale, their eyes were sad and old;
But by the labour of their hands greed added gold to gold.
Again the Presence and the Voice:    'Behold the crimes I see,
As ye have done it unto these, so have ye done to me.'
Again I slept.    I seemed to climb a hard, ascending track;
And just behind me laboured one whose patient face was black.
I pitied him; but hour by hour he gained upon the path;
He stood beside me, stood upright - and then I turned in wrath.
'Go back!' I cried.    'What right have you to walk beside me here?
For you are black, and I am white.'    I paused, struck dumb with fear.
For lo! the black man was not there, but Christ stood in his place;
And oh! the pain, the pain, the pain that looked from that dear face.
Now when I woke, the air was rife with that sweet, rhythmic din
Which tells the world that Christ has come to save mankind from sin.
And through the open door of church and temple passed a throng,
To worship Him with bended knee, with sermon, and with song.
But over all I heard the cry of hunted, mangled things;
Those creatures which are part of God, though they have hoofs and wings.
I saw in mill, and mine, and shop, the little slaves of greed;
I heard the strife of race with race, all sprung from one God-seed.
And then I bowed my head in shame, and in contrition cried - 
'Lo, after nineteen hundred years, Christ still is Crucified.'
Morning Hymn.
by H. P. Nichols

Now again the yellow sun
Shines upon my window-pane;
Now anothor day's begun,
I can laugh and play again.
I must try to-day to be
Kind in all I say and do;
Then will God be pleased with me,
And mamma will love me too.
For she says that God above
Loves to see a little child
Sweet and gentle as the dove,
Like the pretty lamb so mild.