DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Lady Valletort, On Hearing Her Sing "Gloria In Excelsis," With Three Other Young Ladies, At Lacock Abbey, October 1831.
by William Lisle Bowles

Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneath
Whose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death,
Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays,
Thy gentleness, thy grace, thy virtue praise!
Be mine to breathe one prayer; when all rejoice,
One parting prayer, still mindful of that voice,
And musing on the sacred song which stole,
Sweet as the spell of peace, upon the soul;
In those same scenes, where once the chapel dim
Echoed the cloistered sisters' vesper hymn: - 
Live long! live happy! tranquil through the strife
And the loud stir of this tumultuous life!
Live long, live happy! and when many a day
Hath passed in the heart's harmony away;
When Eve's pale hand the gates of life shall close,
And hush the landscape to its last repose;
May sister seraphs meet with welcome song,
And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?
The Crystal Spring.
by Theodore Harding Rand

I.
Fair spirit of the plaining sea,
Thou heard'st Apollo's lyre! - 
Now folded are thy silver wings
Thee sunward bore,
A dream and a desire.
Ranging the upper azure deeps,
The sunlight on thy wings,
How blanched thy purpose as there fell
The lightning's stroke,
And darkness on all things!
In agony of rain and hail,
And phantom dance of snow,
The chastening angels of the air
To mountain bleak
Consigned thee far below.
There in the arms of heartless frost,
And burdened with thy train,
The keen stars watched thy ageful way,
Till breast of earth
Warmed thee to life again.
And in thy course thou wert God's plow,
Thy furrow deep the valley
Of wooded walls and flowers to be, - 
The circling sun
Keeps slow and sure the tally.
Reborn, thou waitedst not far down
The sunless caves to speed - 
(Thy twin, lade with unfabled spoils,
Did build the plain,
Or green the expectant mead,
And weave the fabric, forge the plow,
Bear inland steam and sail) - 
Or serv'dst, in mines and nether realms
Of shadowland,
The gnomes and genii pale.
II.
O fontal wealth of hasting life,
By stressful toil made sweet,
Stay now thy journey - here oft come
Wild sylvan things,
Here tender lovers meet.
By day the traveller spies the path
To thy o'erbending shade,
Drinks deep the brimming, cooling wave,
A living draught,
And wends his way, remade.
At night the one shy Pleiad drops
Her veil to look within
Thy clear, green-haloed deeps, and sees
Herself more fair
Than all her shining kin.
And, fair with labor's healthy toil,
Each face of yon dear home
Thou'st set within the pearly blue,
Or crocus glow,
Of overarching dome.
And when return world-wandering feet,
Elate, or slow with sorrow,
Thy pencil paints the changing form;
And here clasp hands
The yester year and morrow.
O bright reincarnation, thou!
Though long thy heart, like fire,
Burned to mount upward and away
To sun and sky,
A dream and a desire,
Here, here thy place and service too, - 
'Tis heaven by thee to sup,
To see the great red sun drop down,
The stars swim out, - 
O Nature's loving cup!
III.
And here the crystal spring abides - 
Yet passes to the sea,
There to renew the broken task
Of long ago,
Now joyous task and free.
Fair spirit of the bourneless waves,
Glad voice in their sad choir,
Sweeter 'mid sorrow's dirge to blend
The note of cheer,
Than list Apollo's lyre!
The sunbeams kiss the plaining deep,
Wreathe with innumerous smiles
The sounding waters as they meet, - 
While sister sprites
Wake laughter round the isles.
And ever as the rolling moon
The unanchored sea forth-swings,
The poet's ear may catch anew
The gladsome notes,
Notes of the crystal springs.
And when he sits this spring beside,
Worn with the journey's strife,
He cannot help but think of HIM
Of Jacob's well,
FOUNT of the deathless life.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XXV. - After Leaving Italy
by William Wordsworth

Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame,
Part from thee without pity dyed in shame:
I could not while from Venice we withdrew,
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view
Within its depths, and to the shore we came
Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name,
Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw,
Italia! on the surface of thy spirit,
(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake)
Shall a few partial breezes only creep?
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit
Of the world's hopes, dare to fullfil; awake,
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!
The Child's Funeral.
by William Cullen Bryant

Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.
Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire,
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.
Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue,
Heap her green breast when April suns are bright,
Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.
Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.
Yet even here, as under harsher climes,
Tears for the loved and early lost are shed;
That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes,
Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.
Here once a child, a smiling playful one,
All the day long caressing and caressed,
Died when its little tongue had just begun
To lisp the names of those it loved the best.
The father strove his struggling grief to quell,
The mother wept as mothers use to weep,
Two little sisters wearied them to tell
When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.
Within an inner room his couch they spread,
His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love,
They laid a crown of roses on his head,
And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above."
They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet,
Laburnum's strings of sunny-coloured gems,
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet,
And orange blossoms on their dark green stems.
And now the hour is come, the priest is there;
Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go,
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer,
To lay the little corpse in earth below.
The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry;
Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play;
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try
To climb the bed on which the infant lay.
And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white,
And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes
From long deep slumbers at the morning light.
Sonnet - To Zante
by Edgar Allan Poe

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more, no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more,
Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enameled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
The Holy Swan
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Fair journey, O holy swan with gold wings;
O holy swan that I love, fair journey!
Carry this letter for me to the new land,
The place where my lover labours.
If it rains fly low beneath the trees,
If the sun is hot fly in the forest shadows;
If any ask you where you are going
Do not answer.
You who rise for so long a journey,
Avoid the roofs at the hour when the sun is red.
Carry this letter to the new land of my lover.
If he is faithful, give it to him;
If he has forgotten, read it to him only
And let the lightning burn it afterwards.
Song of the Love Nights of Laos.
A Song Of The English
by Rudyard Kipling

Fair is our lot, O goodly is our heritage!
(Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
For the Lord our God Most High
He hath made the deep as dry,
He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!
Yea, though we sinned, and our rulers went from righteousness,
Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.
Oh be ye not dismayed,
Though we stumbled and we strayed,
We were led by evil counsellors, the Lord shall deal with them!
Hold ye the Faith, the Faith our Fathers sealed us;
Whoring not with visions, overwise and overstale.
Except ye pay the Lord
Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!
Keep ye the Law, be swift in all obedience,
Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
Make ye sure to each his own
That he reap where he hath sown;
By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!
. . . . .
Hear now a song, a song of broken interludes,
A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
Through the naked words and mean
May ye see the truth between
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!
A Song Of Republics
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Fair Freedom's ship, too long adrift -
Of every wind the sport -
Now rigged and manned, her course well planned,
Sails proudly out of port;
And fluttering gaily from the mast
This motto is unfurled,
Let all men heed its truth who read:
"Republics rule the World!"
The universe is high as God!
Good is the final goal;
The world revolves and man evolves
A purpose and a soul.
No church can bind, no crown forbid
Thought's mighty upward course -
Let kings give way before its sway,
For God inspires its force.
The hero of a vanished age
Was one who bathed in gore;
Who best could fight was noblest knight
In savage days of yore;
Now warrior chiefs are out of date,
The times have changed.    To-day
We call men great who arbitrate
And keep war's hounds at bay.
The world no longer looks to priest
Or prince to know its needs;
Earth's human throng has grown too strong
To rule with courts and creeds.
We want no kings but kings of toil -
No crowns but crowns of deeds;
Not royal birth but sterling worth
Must mark the man who leads.
Proud monarchies are out of step
With modern thought to-day,
For Brotherhood is understood,
And thrones may pass away.
Men dare to think.    Concerted thought
Contains more power than swords:
The force that binds united minds
Defeats mere savage hordes.
Man needs no arbitrary hand
To keep him in control;
He feels the power grow hour by hour
Of his expanding soul:
In God's stupendous scheme of worlds
He knows he has a place;
He is no slave to cringe, and crave
Some worthless monarch's grace.
As ocean billows undermine
The haughty shores each hour,
Time's sea has brought its waves of thought
To crumble thrones of power;
And one by one shall kingdoms fall
Like leaves before the blast,
As man with man combines to plan
Republics formed to last.
Columbia baulked a tyrant king,
And built upon a rock,
In Freedom's name, a shrine whose fame
Outlived the century's shock.
Now France within our port has set
Her symbol of re-birth;
Her lifted hand tells sea and land
Republics light the earth.
One mighty church for all the world
Would make men far more kind;
One government would bring content
To many a restless mind.
Sail on, fair ship of Freedom, sail
The wide sea's breadth and length.
'Till worlds unite to make the might
Of "One Republic's" strength.
The Braes Of Kirtle Or Ellen Irwin
by William Wordsworth

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.
But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkconnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn "Hie jacet"!
Fair Prime Of Life! Were It Enough To Gild
by William Wordsworth

Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild
With ready sunbeams every straggling shower;
And, if an unexpected cloud should lower,
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build
For Fancy's errands, then, from fields half-tilled
Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower,
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power,
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled.
Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due;
Fair Prime of life! arouse the deeper heart;
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim;
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.
To The River
by Edgar Allan Poe

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty, the unhidden heart,
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks,
Which glistens then, and trembles,
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshiper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies,
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
Winter Evening At Home
by William Lisle Bowles

Fair Moon, that at the chilly day's decline
Of sharp December through my cottage pane
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane!
In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze,
I think, around me in this twilight room,
I but remark mortality's sad gloom;
Whilst hope and joy cloudless and soft appear,
In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.
Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon
by Nicholas Breton

Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair,
There shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O bless'd hill!
Was never hill so bless'd),
There stood a man (was never man
For woman so distressed):
This man beheld a heavenly view,
Which did such virtue give
As clears the blind, and helps the lame,
And makes the dead man live.
This man had hap (O happy man!
More happy none than he);
For he had hap to see the hap
That none had hap to see.
This silly swain (and silly swains
Are men of meanest grace):
Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
To hap on such a face.
He pity cried, and pity came
And pitied so his pain,
As dying would not let him die
But gave him life again.
For joy whereof he made such mirth
As all the woods did ring;
And Pan with all his swains came forth
To hear the shepherd sing;
But such a song sung never was,
Nor shall be sung again,
Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,
And Corydon the swain.
Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,
(Was never such a queen as she,)
And Corydon her only swain
(Was never such a swain as he):
Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face
That ever eye did yet behold,
And Corydon the constant'st faith
That ever yet kept flock in fold;
Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet
That ever yet the earth did yield,
And Corydon the kindest swain
That ever yet kept lambs in field.
Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,
Though Corydon be he that caught her,
And Corydon doth hear her sing,
Though Phyllida be she that taught her:
Poor Corydon doth keep the fields
Though Phyllida be she that owes them,
And Phyllida doth walk the meads,
Though Corydon be he that mows them:
The little lambs are Phyllis' love,
Though Corydon is he that feeds them,
The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,
Though Corydon is he that weeds them.
Since then that Phyllis only is
The only shepherd's only queen;
And Corydon the only swain
That only hath her shepherd been, - 
Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,
Shall Corydon consume away?
No, shepherd, no, work out the week,
And Sunday shall be holiday.
To Zante
by Edgar Allan Poe

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more, no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more,
Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
Happiness.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Fair Happiness, I've courted thee,
And used each cunning art and wile,
Which lovers use with maidens coy,
To win one tender glance or smile.
Thou hast been coy as any maid,
So lofty, distant, stern and cold,
And guarded from a touch of mine,
As miser guards his precious gold.
To win a smile from thee, did seem
A painful, fruitless thing to try,
Thy scornful, thin and cruel lips,
No pity gave thy steely eye.
Thy countenance, so sternly set,
Did seem to say how vain to knock
At thy heart's door, for all within
Was hard, as adamantine rock.
Thus unto me thy visage seem'd,
But faces do not always tell
The feelings of the heart within,
Or thoughts that underneath them dwell.
For e'en at times, I saw thy face
Relax, and look with pity down,
On struggling, weary mortals here,
Without one scornful glance or frown.
At times I've seen thy steely eye,
Sheath'd with a look of tender love,
As if thou saw our mortal woes,
And fain would help, but dare not move.
As if some higher power than thine,
Directed all things here below,
And for some wise and happy end,
Let struggling mortals suffer woe.
Except at times, when from thy face,
A cheerful light is shed on men,
And when, withdrawn within thyself,
We, hopeful, watch for it again.
Such is the happiness of earth, - 
A sudden light, a glancing beam,
Which cheers us in our lonely bark,
Upon times dark, relentless stream.
The stormy waves roll darkling on,
And with the current we must go,
Perchance to meet some cheerful beams
Of happiness, amid our woe.
But, if we guide our bark aright,
And guard the precious tenant there,
We soon shall reach a sea of light,
From this dark, troubl'd stream of care.
Then, may we never let the shade
Of bitter trouble and despair,
Hide from our eyes the happy gleams,
Which even we, at times, may share.
To ----
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Lines written after a summer day's excursion.
Fair Nature's priestesses! to whom,
In hieroglyph of bud and bloom,
Her mysteries are told;
Who, wise in lore of wood and mead,
The seasons' pictured scrolls can read,
In lessons manifold!
Thanks for the courtesy, and gay
Good-humor, which on Washing Day
Our ill-timed visit bore;
Thanks for your graceful oars, which broke
The morning dreams of Artichoke,
Along his wooded shore!
Varied as varying Nature's ways,
Sprites of the river, woodland fays,
Or mountain nymphs, ye seem;
Free-limbed Dianas on the green,
Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine,
Upon your favorite stream.
The forms of which the poets told,
The fair benignities of old,
Were doubtless such as you;
What more than Artichoke the rill
Of Helicon? Than Pipe-stave hill
Arcadia's mountain-view?
No sweeter bowers the bee delayed,
In wild Hymettus' scented shade,
Than those you dwell among;
Snow-flowered azaleas, intertwined
With roses, over banks inclined
With trembling harebells hung!
A charmed life unknown to death,
Immortal freshness Nature hath;
Her fabled fount and glen
Are now and here: Dodona's shrine
Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine,
All is that e'er hath been.
The Beauty which old Greece or Rome
Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home;
We need but eye and ear
In all our daily walks to trace
The outlines of incarnate grace,
The hymns of gods to hear
Sonnet IX.
by Robert Southey

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight
EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night
Ye Hours of happiness! ye speed along,
Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.
Requiescat
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Fair is her cottage in its place,
Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides.
It sees itself from thatch to base
Dream in the sliding tides.
And fairer she, but ah, how soon to die!
Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease.
Her peaceful being slowly passes by
To some more perfect peace.
Composed By The Sea-Side, Near Calais, August 1802
by William Wordsworth

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
Impromptu, To Miss Ainslie.
by Robert Burns

Fair maid, you need not take the hint,
Nor idle texts pursue:-
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,
Not angels such as you!
In Memoriam. - Miss Laura Kingsbury,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, July, 1861.
Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere,
How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!
One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,--
The next reposing with the silent dead.
No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;--
Yet hath she left a living transcript here,
Yon helpless orphans will remember her,[1]
And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;
And he who trusted in her from his birth,
As to a Mother's love,--and friends who saw
Her goodness seeking no applause from earth,
But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:
For she, like her of old, with listening ear
Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.
Fair Susan Did Her Wif-Hede Well Menteine - In Chaucer's Style
by Matthew Prior

Fair Susan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates assaulted sore by letchours tweine;
Now, and I read aright that auncient song,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.
Had thilke same tale in other guise been tolde;
Had they been young (pardie) and she been olde,
That, by St. Kit, had wrought much sorer tryal,
Full merveillous, I wrote, were swilk denyal.