DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Fairest Land.
by Marietta Holley

'Twas a bleak dull moor that stretched before
The low stone porch of the cottage door,
And standing there was youth and maid,
He for long journeying seemed arrayed,
And the sunset flamed in the burnished west,
And a proud throb beat in the young man's breast,
As he whispered, "Sweet, will you come to me
In that fairer land beyond the sea?"
"The wonderful western land; in dreams
I have seen its prairies green, and gleams
Of its shining waterfalls, valleys fair,
And a voice in my dreams has called me there
Where man is a man, and not a clod,
And must bend the knee to none but God.
A home will I make for thee and me
In that fairer land beyond the sea."
"But the cruel seas where the fated ships
Go down to their doom" - But he kissed the lips - 
The trembling lips, till they smiled again,
And his bright hopes cheered her heart's dull pain,
And she laid her head on his hopeful breast,
And looked with him to the glowing west,
And said, "I will come, I will come to thee
To that fairer land beyond the seas."
And the crimson light changed to daffodil - 
To ashen gray, but they stood there still,
And high o'er the west shone the evening star
As still he pictured that home afar - 
"The peace and the bliss our own at last
When this dreary parting all is past,
When my heart's dear love, you come to me
In that fairer land beyond the sea."
So he sailed; but saddest 'tis alway
Not for those who go, but for those who stay;
And her sweet eyes gathered a shadow dim
As days went by with no news of him,
And weeks and months, but at last it came,
As the gray moor shone with the sunset flame
Her quick eyes glanced the strange lines o'er,
Then she fell like dead on the cottage floor.
'Twas a stranded ship on a rocky coast,
One true heart brave, when hope was lost,
How he toiled till all the shore had gained,
And only a baby form remained
On ship, how he breasted the surging tide
With Death a-wrestling side by side,
How he lifted the child to its mother's knee,
As a great wave washed him out to sea.
And for days the maid in the cottage door
Sat and looked o'er the dreary moor,
Her cheeks grew white 'neath her blinding tears,
And the sunset rays seemed cruel spears
That pierced her heart; and ashen gray
Turned the earth and sky, the night, the day;
But at last a star shone high above - 
The tender star of the heavenly love.
For as her life ebbed day by day,
The High Countrie, the Fair alway,
Rose 'fore her eyes, the safe, sweet home,
And she seemed to hear, "Love, will you come?"
And so one eve when a bridge of gold
Seemed spanning the last sea dim and cold,
She went to him, for aye to be
In the fairest land beyond the sea.
Midway
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Turn back, my Soul, no longer set
Thy peace upon the years to come
Turn back, the land of thy regret
Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb.
There are the voices, there the scenes
That make thy life in living truth
A tale of heroes and of queens,
Fairer than all the hopes of youth.
Pussy Cat's Doing.
by Clara Doty Bates

By Susan Hartley
'Twas a good little lady fairy,
Who saddled her wee white mouse,
And rode away to the village,
Long miles from her snug, wee house;
She tied her steed to a flower stalk airy,
And left him there--this most careless fairy!
In Fairyland no dreadful pussies
Do prowl, and do growl and slay--
In Fairyland the mice have honor,
And draw the queen's carriage gay;
And the little lady ne'er thought of danger
Because on the fence sat a green-eyed stranger,
But hurried away in a twinkling
Down a dark and gloomy street,
Where daily the charm of her presence
Made the children's dreams more sweet;
Then Pussy Cat sprang as quick as magic!
One squeal (as I've heard the story tragic)
And down his throat went steed and saddle,
So swiftly; and O, dear me!
'Stead of her gallant mouse, the lady
Discovered, where he should be,
A monster with blood on his whiskers showing,
And dreadful looks in his eyes so knowing!
Back to Fairyland she must walk, then;
In winter no butterfly
Is sailing that way, nor a rose-leaf,
For fairies to travel by;
She reached there at length, but with feet aching
And her little heart with fear most breaking.
And the dreadful story, spreading
Through Elfland circles, may be
The reason why never a fairy
In these later years we see,
While children in all the old, old stories
Found them as plenty as morning glories!
Arms And The Man. - The Splendid Three.
by James Barron Hope

Turned back my gaze, on Spain's romantic shore
I see Gaul bending by the grave of Moore,
And later, when the page of Fame I scan
I see brave France at deadly Inkerman,
While on red Balaklava's field I hear
Gallia's applause swell Albion's ringing cheer,
England and France, as Allies, side by side
Fought on the Pieho's melancholy tide,
And there, brave Tattnall, ere the fight was done,
Stirred English hearts as far as shone the sun,
Or tides and billows in their courses run.
That day, 'mid the dark Pieho's slaughter
He said: "Blood is thicker than water!"
And your true man though "brayed in a mortar"
At feast, or at fray
Will still feel it and say
As he said: "Blood is thicker than water!"
And full homely is the saying but this story always starts
An answer from ten thousand times ten thousand kindred hearts.
Then let us pray that as the sun shines ever on the sea
Fair Peace forevermore may smile upon the Splendid Three!
May happy France see purple grapes a-glow on all her hills,
And England breast-deep in her corn laugh back the laugh of rills!
May this fair land to which all roads lead as the roads of Rome
Led to th' eternal city's gates still offer Man a home - 
A home of peace and plenty, and of freedom and of ease,
With all before him where to choose between the shining seas!
May the war-cries of the Captains yield to happy reapers shouts,
And the clover whiten bastions and the olive shade redoubts!
Turn, O Libertad
by Walt Whitman

Turn, O Libertad, for the war is over,
(From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, sweeping the world,)
Turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the past;
From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past;
From the chants of the feudal world, the triumphs of kings, slavery, caste;
Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come, give up that backward world;
Leave to the singers of hitherto, give them the trailing past;
But what remains, remains for singers for you, wars to come are for you;
(Lo! how the wars of the past have duly inured to you, and the wars of the present also inure:)
Then turn, and be not alarm'd, O Libertad, turn your undying face,
To where the future, greater than all the past,
Is swiftly, surely preparing for you.
Campaspe
by Henry Kendall

Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name
She is fairer than flowers of the fire she is brighter than brightness of flame.
As a song that strikes swift to the heart with the beat of the blood of the South,
And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth.
Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun,
But turn from the steps of Campaspe a Woman to look at and shun!
Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware
Of the trap in the droop in the raiment the snare in the folds of the hair!
She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet,
But fly from the face of the girl there is death in the fall of her feet!
Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at wait
To pounce on thy soul for her pastime a leopard for love or for hate.
Woman of shadow and furnace! She biteth her lips to restrain
Speech that springs out when she sleepeth, by the stirs and the starts of her pain.
As music half-shapen of sorrow, with its wants and its infinite wail,
Is the voice of Campaspe, the beauty at bay with her passion dead-pale.
Go out from the courts of her loving, nor tempt the fierce dance of desire
Where thy life would be shrivelled like stubble in the stress and the fervour of fire!
I know of one, gentle as moonlight she is sad as the shine of the moon,
But touching the ways of her eyes are: she comes to my soul like a tune
Like a tune that is filled with faint voices of the loved and the lost and the lone,
Doth this stranger abide with my silence: like a tune with a tremulous tone.
The leopard, we call her, Campaspe! I pluck at a rose and I stir
To think of this sweet-hearted maiden what name is too tender for her?
At The Gill-Nets
by Duncan Campbell Scott

Tug at the net,
Haul at the net,
Strip off the quivering fish;
Hid in the mist
The winds whist,
Is like my heart's wish.
What is your wish,
Your heart's wish?
Is it for home on the hills?
Strip off the fish,
The silver fish,
Caught by their rosy gills.
How can I know,
I love you so,
Each little thought I get
Is held so,
It dies you know,
Caught in your heart's net.
Tug at your net,
Your heart's net,
Strip off my silver fancies;
Keep them in rhyme,
For a dull time,
Fragile as frost pansies.
Johanna
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,
In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,
When from out the quiet woodland
Sounds of rustling leaves came only - 
Leaves that floated softly earthward - 
And the streamlets had a murmur
Such as wanders through our visions
In the hushed and starry midnight - 
Low, soft murmur, full of music.
With the small hand of her darling
Clasped in her's, there came a mother
To an Artist - fondly asking
For the picture of her pet-lamb - 
Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,
Full of merry, ringing laughter - 
Laughter that went up unceasing
Like the happy chime of streamlets
Singing thro' some mountain valley, - 
Like the bird-song in the forest
In the time of early roses, - 
Like the tinkle of sweet waters
Dripping o'er a marble fountain.
And the child's glad eyes grew brighter
As she saw her own sweet image
From its little case look smiling
Back upon her radiant features - 
Saw the clustering curls fall softly
Round the peach-blow neck and bosom, - 
Saw the lips, two tiny rose-buds,
And the scarce-shown pearls that edged them, - 
And the quivering, laughing lashes
Of the eager eyes were lifted
In glad wonder, as she murmured
"Oh, it's pretty! - ain't it, ma ma?"
Came another day in Autumn - 
Gloomy, sad, tempestuous Autumn - 
And from out the moaning forest
Came the sound of rushing tempests
As they dashed the sere leaves downward
From the darkly tossing branches, - 
And the turbid streams were chafing
With the rush of swollen waters
That, in tones all hoarse and angry,
To the rude winds made replying.
With the hot hand of her darling
Clasped in hers, that same fond mother
O'er a little couch was bending,
Where her little lamb lay moaning
In unquiet fevered slumbers.
Oft the blue-veined lids would tremble
O'er the half-veiled eyes, and sadly - 
Painfully the lips would quiver,
As the sobbing breath came slowly
From the scarcely heaving bosom
Ah! that little lamb was treading
'Mid the shadows of the valley! - 
And her spirit-ear, affrighted,
Just had caught the nearer murmur
Of the death-stream cold and sullen
Haply, wond'ring at the darkness
That was slowly settling round her.
But it passed, and o'er those features
Slowly broke a smile, so holy
That we deemed the angels gathered
Round her in the gloomy valley.
Then the life-light gently faded
From those eyes, as fades the sunset
From the peaceful summer heavens, - 
Stiller grew the little bosom, - 
And the sobbing breath grew fainter, - 
And the fading smile more sweetly
Played around those lips, till slumber - 
Strange, deep slumber slowly settled
In its marble stillness o'er her.
Ah! - that little tear-stained image
Now, is all that's left thee, mother,
Of thy little, dark-eyed daughter!
Ever, as it smiles upon thee
From its tiny case, how keenly
Will thy heart-strings thrill with anguish.
As that voice again comes to thee,
And again those sweet lips murmur - 
"Oh it's pretty! - ain't it, ma-ma?"
Truth.
by Robert Herrick

Truth is best found out by the time and eyes;
Falsehood wins credit by uncertainties.
Pansies
by R. C. Lehmann

Tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art
Here, where the paving-stones are set apart,
Alert and gay and innocent of guile,
The little pansies nod their heads and smile.
With what a whispering and a lulling sound
They watch the children sport about the ground,
Longing, it seems, to join the pretty play
That laughs and runs the light-winged hours away.
And other children long ago there were
Who shone and played and made the garden fair,
To whom the pansies in their robes of white
And gold and purple gave a welcome bright.
Gone are those voices, but the others came.
Joyous and free, whose spirit was the same;
And other pansies, robed as those of old,
Peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold.
For pansies are, I think, the little gleams
Of children's visions from a world of dreams,
Jewels of innocence and joy and mirth,
Alight with laughter as they fall to earth.
Below, the ancient guardian, it may hap,
The kindly mother, takes them in her lap,
Decks them with glowing petals and replaces
In the glad air the friendly pansy-faces.
So tread not rashly, children, lest you crush
A part of childhood in a thoughtless rush.
Would you not treat them gently if you knew
Pansies are little bits of children too?
The Thread of Truth
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there
In small bright specks upon the visible side
Of our strange being's party-coloured web.
How rich the converse! 'Tis a vein of ore
Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast,
But flowing full below. Like islands set
At distant intervals on Ocean's face,
We see it on our course; but in the depths
The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps
Its faithful way, invisible but sure.
Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men
Pass by so many marks, so little heeding?
Death Of The Old Sea King.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

'Twas a fearful night - the tempest raved
With loud and wrathful pride,
The storm-king harnessed his lightning steeds,
And rode on the raging tide.
The sea-king lay on his bed of death,
Pale mourners around him bent;
They knew the wild and fitful life
Of their chief was almost spent.
His ear was growing dull in death
When the angry storm he heard,
The sluggish blood in the old man's veins
With sudden vigor stirred.
"I hear them call," cried the dying man,
His eyes grew full of light;
"Now bring me here my warrior robes,
My sword and armor bright.
"In the tempest's lull I heard a voice,
I knew 'twas Odin's call.
The Valkyrs are gathering round my bed
To lead me unto his hall.
"Bear me unto my noblest ship,
Light up a funeral pyre;
I'll walk to the palace of the braves
Through a path of flame and fire."
Oh! wild and bright was the stormy light
That flashed from the old man's eye,
As they bore him from the couch of death
To his battle-ship to die,
And lit with many a mournful torch
The sea-king's dying bed,
And like a banner fair and bright
The flames around him spread.
But they heard no cry of anguish
Break through that fiery wall,
With rigid brow and silent lips
He was seeking Odin's hall.
Through a path of fearful splendor,
While strong men held their breath,
The brave old man went boldly forth
And calmly talked with death.
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought,
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Counsel.
by Robert Herrick

'Twas C'sar's saying: Kings no less conquerors are
By their wise counsel, than they be by war.
Fragment, Or The Triumph Of Conscience.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

'Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling,
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low, -
Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe!
'Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky,
Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by. -
My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar
Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke,
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear,
This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear,
But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke.
'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing,
The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode,
Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. -
I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!
Bessie Brown, M.D.
by Samuel Minturn Peck

'Twas April when she came to town;
The birds had come; the bees were swarming.
Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown;
I saw at once that she was charming.
She took a cottage tinted green,
Where dewy roses loved to mingle;
And on the door, next day, was seen
A dainty little shingle.
Her hair was like an amber wreath;
Her hat was darker, to enhance it.
The violet eyes that glowed beneath
Were brighter than her keenest lancet,
The beauties of her glove and gown
The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.
Ere she had been a day in town
The town was in a flutter.
The gallants viewed her feet and hands,
And swore they never saw such wee things;
The gossips met in purring bands,
And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things.
The former drank the Doctor's health
With clinking cups, the gay carousers;
The latter watched her door by stealth,
Just like so many mousers.
But Doctor Bessie went her way,
Unmindful of the spiteful cronies,
And drove her buggy every day
Behind a dashing pair of ponies.
Her flower-like face so bright she bore
I hoped that time might never wilt her.
The way she tripped across the floor
Was better than a philter.
Her patients thronged the village street;
Her snowy slate was always quite full.
Some said her bitters tasted sweet,
And some pronounced her pills delightful.
'Twas strange, I knew not what it meant,
She seemed a nymph from Eldorado;
Where'er she came, where'er she went,
Grief lost its gloomy shadow.
Like all the rest I, too, grew ill;
My aching heart there was no quelling.
I tremble at my doctor's bill,
And lo! the items still are swelling.
The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear!
They've quite enriched the fair concocter,
And I'm a ruined man, I fear,
Unless, I wed the Doctor!
Lost Pleiad, The
by Arthur Reed Ropes AKA Adrian Ross

'Twas a pretty little maiden
In a garden gray and old,
Where the apple trees were laden
With the magic fruit of gold;
But she strayed beyond the portal
Of the garden of the Sun,
And she flirted with a mortal,
Which she oughtn't to have done!
For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother,
She was Merope or Sterope, the one or else the other;
And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich,
Of Merope or Sterope, I don't remember which!
Now the giant's daughters seven,
She among them, if you please,
Were translated to the heaven
As the starry Pleiades!
But amid their constellation
One alone was always dark,
For she shrank from observation
Or censorious remark.
She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter.
She was Merope or Sterope, the former or the latter;
So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call
On Merope or Sterope, I am not sure at all!
But the Dog-star, brightly shining
In the hottest of July,
Saw the pretty Pleiad pining
In the shadow of the sky,
And he courted her and kissed her
Till she kindled into light;
And the Pleiads' erring sister
Was the lady of the night!
So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned,
To Merope or Sterope, the first or else the second,
And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame
As Merope or Sterope, I can't recall her name!
A Derry On A Cove
by Henry Lawson

'Twas in the felon's dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;
His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;
He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap,
'It's orfal when the p'leece has got a derry on a chap.
'I am a honest workin' cove, as any bloke can see,
'It's just because the p'leece has got a derry, sir, on me;
'Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain't no joke,
'It's cruel when the p'leece has got a derry on a bloke.'
'Why don't you go to work?' he said (he muttered, 'Why don't you?').
'Yer honer knows as well as me there ain't no work to do.
'And when I try to find a job I'm shaddered by a trap,
'It's awful when the p'leece has got a derry on a chap.'
I sigh'd and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,
But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months' hard.
He only said, 'Beyond the grave you'll cop it hot, by Jove!
'There ain't no angel p'leece to get a derry on a cove.'
The Lass Of Ballochmyle.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."
I.
'Twas even, the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!
II.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
III.
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild;
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foil'd
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
IV.
O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain,
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle.
V.
Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine:
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep
Or downward seek the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And ev'ry day have joys divine
With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
Twenty Years Ago
by George Pope Morris

'Twas in the flush of summer-time,
Some twenty years or more,
When Ernest lost his way, and crossed
The threshold of our door.
I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet,
His brow of Alpine snow,
His manly grace of form and face,
Some twenty years ago.
The hand he asked I freely gave--
Mine was a happy lot,
In all my pride to be his bride
Within my father's cot.
The faith he spoke he never broke:
His faithful heart I know;
And well I vow I love him now
As twenty years ago.
The Shrieking Woman At Marblehead
by Helen Leah Reed

'Twas a Spanish galleon sailed the seas, - 
Two centuries since have rolled - 
Laden with silver and gems to please
Gay dames and gallants bold.
But villainous pirates seized the ship
As homeward she was bound;
Ah, she has made her last long trip
For they ran her soon aground.
From Oakum Bay into Marblehead
They brought one lady fair, - 
Her husband, alas, and his crew are dead,
And her they will not spare.
Loud, loud she shrieked in the pirates' arms,
"Oh, save me - Jesu, save!"
Cruel echo mocked at her wild alarms,
As they dug her a nameless grave.
Yet once a year when the night has come
That saw her dreadful death,
You can hear her above the ocean's boom
Shriek out with her dying breath.