DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A March In The Ranks, Hard-Prest
by Walt Whitman

A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown;
A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness;
Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating;
Till after midnight glimmer upon us, the lights of a dim-lighted
building;
We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted
building;
'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads--'tis now an impromptu
hospital;
--Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures
and poems ever made:
Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and
lamps,
And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and
clouds of smoke;
By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some
in the pews laid down;
At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of
bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen;)
I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a
lily;)
Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene, fain to absorb
it all;
Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,
some of them dead;
Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,
the odor of blood;
The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers--the yard
outside also fill'd;
Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the
death-spasm sweating;
An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls;
The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the
torches;
These I resume as I chant--I see again the forms, I smell the
odor;
Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, Fall in;
But first I bend to the dying lad--his eyes open--a half-smile gives
he me;
Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness,
Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
The unknown road still marching.
A Man Young And Old:- The Mermaid
by William Butler Yeats

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.
The Hunter's Carol.
by George Pope Morris

A merry life does the hunter lead!
He wakes with the dawn of day;
He whistles his dog--he mounts his steed,
And scuds to he woods away!
The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark,
As they troop in herds along;
And his rifle startles the cheerful lark
As he carols his morning song!
The hunter's life is the life for me!--
That is the life for a man!
Let others sing of a home on the sea,
But match me the woods if you can!
Then give me a gun--I've an eye to mark
The deer as they bound along!--
My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark
To carol my morning song!
Spinosa.
by Friedrich Schiller

A mighty oak here ruined lies,
Its top was wont to kiss the skies,
Why is it now o'erthrown?
The peasants needed, so they said,
Its wood wherewith to build a shed,
And so they've cut it down.
A Satisfactory Reform
by Ellis Parker Butler

A merry burgomaster
In a burgh upon the Rhine
Said, 'Our burghers all are
Far too fond of drinking wine.'
So the merry burgomaster,
When the burgomasters met,
Bade them look into the matter
Ere the thing went farther yet.
And the merry burgomasters
Did decide the only way
To alleviate the evil
Without worry or delay
Would be just to call a meeting
Of the burghers, great and small,
And then open every wine cask
And proceed to drink it all.
'For,' they said, 'when we have swallowed
Every drop that's in the land,
There can be no more of drinking,
It is plain to understand.'
So they called a monster meeting,
And the burghers, small and great,
Drank and drank until they were too
Tipsy to perambulate.
But there still was wine in plenty,
So, in sooth, the only way
Was to call another meeting;
So they called it for next day.
Thus from day to day the burghers
Met and swallowed seas of wine,
And they vowed the reformation
Was a mission quite divine.
And today the worthy burghers
In that burgh upon the Rhine
Still continue their great mission,
And still swallow seas of wine.
And they vow they will not falter
In their great reforming task
Till the last drop has been emptied
From the very last wine cask.
An Oath. (From 'Troy Town'.)
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

A month ago Lysander pray'd
To Jove, to Cupid, and to Venus,
That he might die if he betray'd
A single vow that pass'd between us.
Ah, careless gods, to hear so ill
And cheat a maid on you relying!
For false Lysander's thriving still,
And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying.
The Ass Loaded With Sponges, And The Ass Loaded With Salt.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A man, whom I shall call an ass-eteer,
His sceptre like some Roman emperor bearing,
Drove on two coursers of protracted ear,
The one, with sponges laden, briskly faring;
The other lifting legs
As if he trod on eggs,
With constant need of goading,
And bags of salt for loading.
O'er hill and dale our merry pilgrims pass'd,
Till, coming to a river's ford at last,
They stopp'd quite puzzled on the shore.
Our asseteer had cross'd the stream before;
So, on the lighter beast astride,
He drives the other, spite of dread,
Which, loath indeed to go ahead,
Into a deep hole turns aside,
And, facing right about,
Where he went in, comes out;
For duckings two or three
Had power the salt to melt,
So that the creature felt
His burden'd shoulders free.
The sponger, like a sequent sheep,
Pursuing through the water deep,
Into the same hole plunges
Himself, his rider, and the sponges.
All three drank deeply: asseteer and ass
For boon companions of their load might pass;
Which last became so sore a weight,
The ass fell down,
Belike to drown,
His rider risking equal fate.
A helper came, no matter who.
The moral needs no more ado - 
That all can't act alike, - 
The point I wish'd to strike.
The Urban Rat And The Suburban Rat
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A metropolitan rat invited
His country cousin in town to dine:
The country cousin replied, "Delighted."
And signed himself, "Sincerely thine."
The town rat treated the country cousin
To half a dozen
Kinds of wine.
He served him terrapin, kidneys devilled,
And roasted partridge, and candied fruit;
In Little Neck Clams at first they revelled,
And then in Pommery, sec and brut;
The country cousin exclaimed: "Such feeding
Proclaims your breeding
Beyond dispute!"
But just as, another bottle broaching,
They came to chicken en casserole
A ravenous cat was heard approaching,
And, passing his guest a finger-bowl,
The town rat murmured, "The feast is ended."
And then descended
The nearest hole.
His cousin followed him, helter-skelter,
And, pausing beneath the pantry floor,
He glanced around at their dusty shelter
And muttered, "This is a beastly bore.
My place as an epicure resigning,
I'll try this dining
In town no more.
"You must dine some night at my rustic cottage;
I'll warn you now that it's simple fare:
A radish or two, a bowl of pottage,
And the wine that's known as ordinaire,
But for holes I haven't to make a bee-line,
No prowling feline
Molests me there.
"You smile at the lot of a mere commuter,
You think that my life is hard, mayhap,
But I'm sure than you I am far acuter:
I ain't afraid of no cat nor trap."
The city rat could but meekly stammer,
"Don't use such grammar,
My worthy chap."
He dined next night with his poor relation,
And caught dyspepsia, and lost his train,
He waited an hour in the lonely station,
And said some things that were quite profane.
"I'll never," he cried, in tones complaining,
"Try entertaining
That rat again."
It's easy to make a memorandum
About THE MORAL these verses teach:
De gustibus non est dispuiandum;
The meaning of which Etruscan speech
Is wheresoever you're hunger quelling
Pray keep your dwelling
In easy reach.
Cold
by Madison Julius Cawein

A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook
Minutest frosty fire in the air.
All night the wind was still as lonely Care
Who sighs before her shivering ingle-nook.
The face of Winter wore a crueler look
Than when he shakes the icicles from his hair,
And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stare
Freeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.
He is the despot now who sits and dreams
Of Desolation and Despair, and smiles
At Poverty, who hath no place to rest,
Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles,
And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams,
And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
Baby Darling.
by James McIntyre

A miner in California mine,
For his distant home he did repine,
In a far off Eastern state,
Where did live his own dear mate.
And one great source of all his joy,
His little darling baby boy,
One night to drive his cares away
To concert hall his footsteps stray.
And loud resounding o'er the hall,
He heard a little boy squall,
The sweetest music he e'er heard,
Sweeter far than singing bird.
For his thoughts it caused to roam,
To his distant eastern home,
Near to the mine there were no trace
Of baby dear or woman's face.
When violinist with his bow
Did make exquisite music flow,
The miner he did loudly bawl
Stop fiddle and let baby squall.
My sad heart his cries doth cheer,
Reminding me of my own dear,
For sooner I would him behold,
Than if I found a mine of gold.
For what are all the joys of life,
So far away from child and wife,
But few more months I will stay here
Then join my wife and baby dear.
Hide Their Scars!
by Joseph Horatio Chant

A painter, high in worldy fame,
Was sought to reproduce by art
A likeness of the man whose name
Sent darts of anguish through the heart
Of mighty monarchs in his day;
For he by arms subdued the world.
Kingdoms and empires owned his sway
And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.
But Alexander bore a scar,
Deep marked upon his royal brow;
To paint him thus would greatly mar
The monarch's beauty; as a slough
Would mar the beauty of a lawn,
Where queenly feet are wont to tread;
Or like the cloud at early dawn,
Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.
To leave it out would not be true,
For Alexander bore the scar;
The painter this resolved to do,
Which would be true, yet would not mar:
To paint the monarch's head reclined,
With his fore-finger on his brow;
And thus much grace with art combined,
Like ornament on vessel's prow.
The finger rested on the scar,
As if mere chance had placed it there;
And hid from sight this fruit of war,
And left a likeness true and fair.
So let us try, as best we can,
To cover o'er each ugly scar
Upon the brow of mortal man,
So none may see it, near nor far.
A Nursery Darling
by Lewis Carroll

A Mother's breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
see how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm, an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King
In Love: for Love is Rest.
A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, the message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
The Prairie States
by Walt Whitman

A newer garden of creation, no primal solitude,
Dense, joyous, modern, populous millions, cities and farms,
With iron interlaced, composite, tied, many in one,
By all the world contributed freedom's and law's and thrift's society,
The crown and teeming paradise, so far, of time's accumulations,
To justify the past.
A Noiseless Patient Spider
by Walt Whitman

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.
Washington's Monument.
by George Pope Morris

A monument to Washington?
A tablet graven with his name?--
Green be the mound it stands upon,
And everlasting as his fame!
His glory fills the land--the plain,
The moor, the mountain, and the mart!
More firm than column, urn, or fane,
His monument--the human heart.
The Christian--patriot--hero--sage!
The chief from heaven in mercy sent;
His deeds are written on the age--
His country is his monument.
"The sword of Gideon and the Lord"
Was mighty in his mighty hand--
The God who guided he adored,
And with His blessing freed the land.
The first in war--the first in peace--
The first in hearts that freeman own;
Unparalleled till time shall cease--
He lives immortal and alone.
Yet let the rock-hewn tower arise,
High to the pathway of the sun,
And speak to the approving skies
Our gratitude to Washington.
The Cry Of The Women
by Helen Leah Reed

A new year dawning on a warring world!
And many fight, and many pray for peace;
But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
Still man against his brother man is hurled.
So we who wait - we women in our woe,
Who wait and work - who wait, and work, and weep - 
For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow,
Across those dreary fields where far away
Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die,
We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky - 
Dawns there no hope upon this New Year's day?
1915
Maytime In Midwinter
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

A new year gleams on us, tearful
And troubled and smiling dim
As the smile on a lip still fearful,
As glances of eyes that swim:
But the bird of my heart makes cheerful
The days that are bright for him.
Child, how may a man's love merit
The grace you shed as you stand,
The gift that is yours to inherit?
Through you are the bleak days bland;
Your voice is a light to my spirit;
You bring the sun in your hand.
The year's wing shows not a feather
As yet of the plumes to be;
Yet here in the shrill grey weather
The spring's self stands at my knee,
And laughs as we commune together,
And lightens the world we see.
The rains are as dews for the christening
Of dawns that the nights benumb:
The spring's voice answers me listening
For speech of a child to come,
While promise of music is glistening
On lips that delight keeps dumb.
The mists and the storms receding
At sight of you smile and die:
Your eyes held wide on me reading
Shed summer across the sky:
Your heart shines clear for me, heeding
No more of the world than I.
The world, what is it to you, dear,
And me, if its face be grey,
And the new-born year be a shrewd year
For flowers that the fierce winds fray?
You smile, and the sky seems blue, dear;
You laugh, and the month turns May.
Love cares not for care, he has daffed her
Aside as a mate for guile:
The sight that my soul yearns after
Feeds full my sense for awhile;
Your sweet little sun-faced laughter,
Your good little glad grave smile.
Your hands through the bookshelves flutter;
Scott, Shakespeare, Dickens, are caught;
Blake's visions, that lighten and mutter;
Moli're and his smile has nought
Left on it of sorrow, to utter
The secret things of his thought.
No grim thing written or graven
But grows, if you gaze on it, bright;
A lark's note rings from the raven,
And tragedy's robe turns white;
And shipwrecks drift into haven;
And darkness laughs, and is light.
Grief seems but a vision of madness;
Life's key-note peals from above
With nought in it more of sadness
Than broods on the heart of a dove:
At sight of you, thought grows gladness,
And life, through love of you, love.
A Pastoral Dialogue.
by Jonathan Swift

DERMOT, SHEELAH
A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]
While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,
That raised between the stones their daily shoots;
As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
DERMOT
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.
SHEELAH
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.
DERMOT
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
SHEELAH
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.
DERMOT
At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;
A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.
SHEELAH
In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.
DERMOT
When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?
SHEELAH
When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.
DERMOT
If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide;
Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!
SHEELAH
Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding knife - and thee!
DERMOT
O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass!
But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes - 
Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.
The Humane Mikado.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

A more humane Mikado never
Did in Japan exist,
To nobody second,
I'm certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist,
It is my very humane endeavor
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time 
To let the punishment fit the crime 
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four,
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villanies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud's waxwork.
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is blacked like a nigger
With permanent walnut juice.
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time 
To let the punishment fit the crime 
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearier
With tales of countless cures.
His teeth, I've enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs.
The music hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and "ops"
By Bach, interwoven
With Sophr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops.
The billiard sharp whom any one catches,
His doom's extremely hard 
He's made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that's always barred.
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue,
And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time 
To let the punishment fit the crime 
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
La Nuit Blanche
by Rudyard Kipling

A much-discerning Public hold
The Singer generally sings
And prints and sells his past for gold.
Whatever I may here disclaim,
The very clever folk I sing to
Will most indubitably cling to
Their pet delusion, just the same.
I had seen, as the dawn was breaking
And I staggered to my rest,
Tari Devi softly shaking
From the Cart Road to the crest.
I had seen the spurs of Jakko
Heave and quiver, swell and sink.
Was it Earthquake or tobacco,
Day of Doom, or Night of Drink?
In the full, fresh fragrant morning
I observed a camel crawl,
Laws of gravitation scorning,
On the ceiling and the wall;
Then I watched a fender walking,
And I heard grey leeches sing,
And a red-hot monkey talking
Did not seem the proper thing.
Then a Creature, skinned and crimson,
Ran about the floor and cried,
And they said that I had the "jims" on,
And they dosed me with bromide,
And they locked me in my bedroom,
Me and one wee Blood Red Mouse,
Though I said: "To give my head room
You had best unroof the house."
But my words were all unheeded,
Though I told the grave M.D.
That the treatment really needed
Was a dip in open sea
That was lapping just below me,
Smooth as silver, white as snow,
And it took three men to throw me
When I found I could not go.
Half the night I watched the Heavens
Fizz like '81 champagne,
Fly to sixes and to sevens,
Wheel and thunder back again;
And when all was peace and order
Save one planet nailed askew,
Much I wept because my warder
Would not let me sit it true.
After frenzied hours of wating,
When the Earth and Skies were dumb,
Pealed an awful voice dictating
An interminable sum,
Changing to a tangle story,
"What she said you said I said",
Till the Moon arose in glory,
And I found her . . . in my head;
Then a Face came, blind and weeping,
And It couldn't wipe its eyes,
And It muttered I was keeping
Back the moonlight from the skies;
So I patted it for pity,
But it whistled shrill with wrath,
And a huge black Devil City
Poured its peoples on my path.
So I fled with steps uncertain
On a thousand-year long race,
But the bellying of the curtain
Kept me always in one place;
While the tumult rose and maddened
To the roar of Earth on fire,
Ere it ebbed and sank and saddened
To a whisper tense as wire.
In tolerable stillness
Rose one little, little star,
And it chuckled at my illness,
And it mocked me from afar;
And its breathren came and eyed me,
Called the Universe to aid,
Till I lay, with naught to hide me,
'Neath' the Scorn of All Things Made.
Dun and saffron, robed and splendid,
Broke the solemn, pitying Day,
And I knew my pains were ended,
And I turned and tried to pray;
But my speech was shattered wholly,
And I wept as children weep.
Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly,
Brought to burning eyelids sleep.
Cyclopean
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A mountainous and mystic brute
No rein can curb, no arrow shoot,
Upon whose domed deformed back
I sweep the planets scorching track.
Old is the elf, and wise, men say,
His hair grows green as ours grows grey;
He mocks the stars with myriad hands.
High as that swinging forest stands.
But though in pigmy wanderings dull
I scour the deserts of his skull,
I never find the face, eyes, teeth.
Lowering or laughing underneath.
I met my foe in an empty dell,
His face in the sun was naked hell.
I thought, 'One silent, bloody blow.
No priest would curse, no crowd would know.'
Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,
Watched for the fame of that poor field;
And in that flower and suddenly
Earth opened its one eye on me.