DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Calef In Boston, 1692
by John Greenleaf Whittier

In the solemn days of old,
Two men met in Boston town,
One a tradesman frank and bold,
One a preacher of renown.
Cried the last, in bitter tone:
"Poisoner of the wells of truth!
Satan's hireling, thou hast sown
With his tares the heart of youth!"
Spake the simple tradesman then,
"God be judge 'twixt thee and me;
All thou knowed of truth hath been
Once a lie to men like thee.
"Falsehoods which we spurn to-day
Were the truths of long ago;
Let the dead boughs fall away,
Fresher shall the living grow.
"God is good and God is light,
In this faith I rest secure;
Evil can but serve the right,
Over all shall love endure.
"Of your spectral puppet play
I have traced the cunning wires;
Come what will, I needs must say,
God is true, and ye are liars."
When the thought of man is free,
Error fears its lightest tones;
So the priest cried, "Sadducee!"
And the people took up stones.
In the ancient burying-ground,
Side by side the twain now lie;
One with humble grassy mound,
One with marbles pale and high,
But the Lord hath blest the seed
Which that tradesman scattered then,
And the preacher's spectral creed
Chills no more the blood of men.
Let us trust, to one is known
Perfect love which casts out fear,
While the other's joys atone
For the wrong he suffered here
August Moon
by John Collings Squire, Sir

(To F. S.)
In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon
And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection.
Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored
After the heat of the day, and await the dark.
And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river
At the gap where barges load and horses drink,
There are no horses.    And the river is full
And the water stands by the shore and does not lap.
And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island,
The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe
And his wife by the cabin stirs.    Behind me voices pass.
Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected.
And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers,
The ash-white spots of umbelliferous flowers,
And the yellow clay of its bank, the barge's brown sails
That are furled up the mast and then make a lean triangle
To the end of the hoisted boom, and the high dark slips
Where they used to build vessels, and now build them no more.
All in the river reflected in quiet colours.
Beyond the river sweeps round in a bend, and is vast,
A wide grey level under the motionless sky
And the waxing moon, clean cut in the mole-grey sky.
Silence.    Time is suspended; that the light fails
One would not know were it not for the moon in the sky,
And the broken moon in the water, whose fractures tell
Of slow broad ripples that otherwise do not show,
Maturing imperceptibly from a pale to a deeper gold,
A golden half moon in the sky, and broken gold in the water.
In the water, tranquilly severing, joining, gold:
Three or four little plates of gold on the river:
A little motion of gold between the dark images
Of two tall posts that stand in the grey water.
There are voices passing, a murmur of quiet voices,
A woman's laugh, and children going home.
A whispering couple, leaning over the railings,
And, somewhere, a little splash as a dog goes in.
I have always known all this, it has always been,
There is no change anywhere, nothing will ever change.
I heard a story, a crazy and tiresome myth.
Listen! behind the twilight a deep low sound
Like the constant shutting of very distant doors,
Doors that are letting people over there
Out to some other place beyond the end of the sky.
Caritas
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

In the suburb, in the town,
On the railway, in the square,
Came a beam of goodness down
Doubling daylight everywhere:
Peace now each for malice takes,
Beauty for his sinful weeds,
For the angel Hope aye makes
Him an angel whom she leads.
Summer Night, Riverside
by Sara Teasdale

In the wild soft summer darkness
How many and many a night we two together
Sat in the park and watched the Hudson
Wearing her lights like golden spangles
Glinting on black satin.
The rail along the curving pathway
Was low in a happy place to let us cross,
And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom
Sheltered us,
While your kisses and the flowers,
Falling, falling,
Tangled in my hair....
The frail white stars moved slowly over the sky.
And now, far off
In the fragrant darkness
The tree is tremulous again with bloom
For June comes back.
To-night what girl
Dreamily before her mirror shakes from her hair
This year's blossoms, clinging to its coils?
The Lighted Window
by Sara Teasdale

He said:
"In the winter dusk
When the pavements were gleaming with rain,
I walked thru a dingy street
Hurried, harassed,
Thinking of all my problems that never are solved.
Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet
Shone from a huddled shop.
I saw thru the bleary window
A mass of playthings:
False-faces hung on strings,
Valentines, paper and tinsel,
Tops of scarlet and green,
Candy, marbles, jacks
A confusion of color
Pathetically gaudy and cheap.
All of my boyhood
Rushed back.
Once more these things were treasures
Wildly desired.
With covetous eyes I looked again at the marbles,
The precious agates, the pee-wees, the chinies
Then I passed on.
In the winter dusk,
The pavements were gleaming with rain;
There in the lighted window
I left my boyhood."
In The Year That's Come And Gone
by William Ernest Henley

In the year that's come and gone, love, his flying feather
Stooping slowly, gave us heart, and bade us walk together.
In the year that's coming on, though many a troth be broken,
We at least will not forget aught that love hath spoken.
In the year that's come and gone, dear, we wove a tether
All of gracious words and thoughts, binding two together.
In the year that's coming on with its wealth of roses
We shall weave it stronger, yet, ere the circle closes.
In the year that's come and gone, in the golden weather,
Sweet, my sweet, we swore to keep the watch of life together.
In the year that's coming on, rich in joy and sorrow,
We shall light our lamp, and wait life's mysterious morrow.
1877
In The Vaulted Way
by Thomas Hardy

In the vaulted way, where the passage turned
To the shadowy corner that none could see,
You paused for our parting, - plaintively;
Though overnight had come words that burned
My fond frail happiness out of me.
And then I kissed you, - despite my thought
That our spell must end when reflection came
On what you had deemed me, whose one long aim
Had been to serve you; that what I sought
Lay not in a heart that could breathe such blame.
But yet I kissed you; whereon you again
As of old kissed me. Why, why was it so?
Do you cleave to me after that light-tongued blow?
If you scorned me at eventide, how love then?
The thing is dark, Dear. I do not know.
Unrest.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building,
When the green was showing on tree and hedge,
And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding
The world from zenith to outermost edge,
My soul grew sad and longingly lonely!
I sighed for the season of sun and rose,
And I said, "In the Summer and that time only
Lies sweet contentment and blest repose."
With bee and bird for her maids of honor
Came Princess Summer in robes of green.
And the King of day smiled down upon her
And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen.
Fruit of their union and true love's pledges,
Beautiful roses bloomed day by day,
And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges
Like royal children in sportive play.
My restless soul for a little season
Reveled in rapture of glow and bloom,
And then, like a subject who harbors treason,
Grew full of rebellion and gray with gloom.
And I said, "I am sick of the Summer's blisses,
Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more.
The full fruition my sad soul misses
That beauteous Fall time holds in store!"
But now when the colors are almost blinding,
Burning and blending on bush and tree,
And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding,
And the year is ripe as a year can be,
My soul complains in the same old fashion;
Crying aloud in my troubled breast
Is the same old longing, the same old passion.
O where is the treasure which men call rest?
The Threshold
by Rudyard Kipling

In their deepest caverns of limestone
They pictured the Gods of Food,
The Horse, the Elk, and the Bison
That the hunting might be good;
With the Gods of Death and Terror,
The Mammoth, Tiger, and Bear.
And the pictures moved in the torchlight
To show that the Gods were there!
But that was before Ionia,
(Or the Seven Holy Islands of Ionia)
Any of the Mountains of Ionia,
Had bared their peaks to the air.
The close years packed behind them,
As the glaciers bite and grind,
Filling the new-gouged valleys
With Gods of every kind.
Gods of all-reaching power,
Gods of all-searching eyes,
But each to be wooed by worship
And won by sacrifice.
Till, after many winters, rose Ionia,
(Strange men brooding in Ionia)
Crystal-eyed Sages of Ionia
Who said, "These tales are lies.
"We dream one Breath in all things,
"That blows all things between.
"We dream one Matter in all things,
"Eternal, changeless, unseen.
"'That the heart of the Matter is single
"Till the Breath shall bid it bring forth,
"By choosing or losing its neighbour,
"All things made upon Earth."
But Earth was wiser than Ionia
(Babylon and Egypt than Ionia)
And they overlaid the teaching of Ionia
And the Truth was choked at birth.
It died at the Gate of Knowledge,
The Key to the Gate in its hand,
And the anxious priests and wizards
Re-blinded the wakening land;
For they showed, by answering echoes,
And chasing clouds as they rose,
How shadows should stand for bulwarks
Between mankind and its woes.
It was then that men bethought them of Ionia
(The few that had not allforgot Ionia)
Or the Word that was whispered in Ionia;
And they turned from the shadows and the shows.
They found one Breath in all things,
That moves all things between.
They proved one Matter in all things,
Eternal, changeless, unseen;
That the heart of the Matter was single
Till the Breath should bid it bring forth,
Even as men whispered in Ionia,
(Resolute, unsatisfied Ionia)
Ere the Word was stifled in Ionia,
All things known upon earth!
The Millionaire.
by George Pope Morris

In the upper circles
Moves a famous man
Who has had no equal
Since the world began.
He was once a broker
Down by the exchange;
He is now a nabob--
Don't you think it strange?
In his low back office,
Near the Bowling Green,
With his brother brokers
He was often seen;--
Shaving and discounting,
Dabbling in the stocks,
He achieved a fortune
Of a million ROCKS!'
Next he formed a marriage
With a lady fair,
And his splendid carriage
Bowled about THE square,
Where his spacious mansion
Like a palace stood,
Envied and admired
By the multitude.
Then he took the tour
Of the continent,
Bearer of dispatches
From the President:
A legation button
By permission wore,
And became that worthy,
An official bore.
Charmed with foreign countries,
Lots of coin to spend,
He a house in London
Took a the West End,
Where he dwelt a season,
And in grandeur shone,
But to all the beau monde
Utterly unknown.
England then was "foggy,
And society
Too aristocratic"
For his--pedigree:
So he crossed the channel
To escape the BLUES,
And became the idol
Of the parvenues.
"Dear, delightful Paris!"
He would often say:
"Every earthly pleasure
One can have for--pay.
Wealth gives high position;
But when money's tight,
Man is at a discount,
And it serves him right."
After years of study
How to cut a dash,
He came home embellished
With a huge--moustache!
Now he is a lion,
All the rage up town,
And gives gorgeous parties
Supervised by--Brown!
The almighty dollar
Is, no doubt, divine,
And he worships daily
At that noble shrine;
Fashion is his idol,
Money is his god,
And they both together
Rule him like a rod.
Books, and busts, and pictures,
Are with him a card--
While abroad he bought them
Cheaply--by the yard!
But his sumptuous dinners,
To a turn quite right,
With his boon companions,
Are his chief delight.
Thee his wit and wassail,
Like twin-currents flow
In his newest stories,
Published--long ago.
His enchanted hearers
Giggle till they weep,
As it is their duty
Till they--fall asleep.
*         *         *         *
On his carriage panel
Is a blazoned crest,
With a Latin motto
Given him--in jest.
His black coach and footman,
Dressed in livery,
Every day at Stewart's
Many crowd to see.
*         *         *         *
Well--in upper-ten-dom
Let him rest in peace,
And may his investments
Cent, per cent, increase:
Though on earth for no one
Cares the millionaire,
So does NOT exactly
His devoted--heir!
*         *         *         *
There's a useful moral
Woven with my rhyme,
Which may be considered
At--some other time:
Crockery is not porcelain--
It is merely delf--
And the kind most common
Is the man himself.
Lemoine.
by Marietta Holley

In the unquiet night,
With all her beauty bright,
She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;
Not twice of the same mind,
Sometimes unkind - unkind,
And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.
Such madness of mirth lies
In the haunting hazel eyes,
When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night;
Its glamour as of old
My charmed senses hold,
Forget I earth and heaven in the pleasures of sense and sight.
With sudden gay caprice
Quaint sonnets doth she seize,
Wedding them unto sweetness, falling from crimson lips;
Holding the broidered flowers
Of those enchanted hours,
When she wound my will with her silk round her white finger-tips.
Then doth she silent stand,
Lifting her slender hand,
On which gleams the ring I tore from his hand at Baywood;
The tiny opal hearts
Are broken in two parts,
And where the ruby burned there hangeth a drop of blood.
Then with my burning cheek,
Raising my head, I speak,
"Lemoine, Lemoine, my lost!    Oh, speak to me once, I pray!"
But no word will she deign,
Adown the shining lane,
The long and lustrous lane of the moonlight she glides away.
I fancy oft a stir,
Of wings seem following her,
Trailing a terrible gloom along the oaken floor,
As she walks to and fro;
Louder the strange sounds grow
To a nameless, dreadful horror, that floods the chamber o'er.
And then I raise my head
From terror-haunted bed,
And hush my breath, and my very pulses hush and hark;
But as I glance around,
The stir, the murmuring sound,
Dies away in the moonlight, lying there stiff and stark.
*    *    *    *    *
And thus you ever flee,
Elude and baffle me,
My lady you will not always so lightly glide away;
Though on the swiftest breeze,
You sail o'er farthest seas,
Remember, side by side we two will stand one day.
Though my dust feed the wind,
Yours be with prayer consigned
To the keeping of churchyard seraphs and marble saints;
Lemoine, we two shall meet,
And not then at my feet
Will you fetter a late repentance with wiles and tearful plaints.
Repentance and strong,
That would have found a tongue,
And shrieked the truth to heaven with madd'ning din;
The truth of that dread hour,
That black accursed hour,
When to free you from hated fetters, I plunged my soul in sin.
Whatever wise man thinks,
Sin forges strongest links,
You can break them never, although for a time you may hide
Buried in flowers and wine;
This chain of thine and mine,
At the last dread day of doom will draw us side by side.
If one, then both are cursed,
And come the best, the worst,
Forever and ever your fate and mine are entwined;
And though it be mad - mad,
Heaven knows the thought is glad,
I do not breed my thoughts, how can I help my mind.
*    *    *    *    *
So silent doth she come,
Standing here pale and dumb,
With her finger laid on her lips in a warning way;
Her dark eyes looking back,
As if upon her track
And mine, some phantom shape of impending evil lay.
But when I strive to see,
Of what she's warning me,
Cruelly calm, no sign will she deign to love or fears;
Unheeding vow or prayer,
As noiseless as the air,
She glideth into the pallid moonlight and disappears.
In An English Garden
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day
Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:
The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,
The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,
The waving branches with the wind at play,
The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,
Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean
Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.
Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows
And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.
But e'en among such soothing sights as these,
I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes.
Of all the longings that our hearts wot of,
There is no hunger like the want of love!
Ode To Apollo
by John Keats

1.
In thy western halls of gold
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told
Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,
With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,
Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.
2.
Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar:
But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.
3.
Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre:
The soul delighted on each accent dwells,
Enraptur'd dwells, not daring to respire,
The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.
4.
'Tis awful silence then again;
Expectant stand the spheres;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,
Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,
Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,
And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.
5.
Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand,
And quickly forward spring
The Passions a terrific band
And each vibrates the string
That with its tyrant temper best accords,
While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.
6.
A silver trumpet Spenser blows,
And, as its martial notes to silence flee,
From a virgin chorus flows
A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.
'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre
Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
7.
Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,
Calling youth from idle slumbers,
Rousing them from Pleasure's lair:
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
And melt the soul to pity and to love.
8.
But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:
Thy dying tones that fill the air,
And charm the ear of evening fair,
From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.
On The New Province "Alberta."
by John Campbell

[This Province was called after the Princess, one of whose Christian names is Alberta.]
In token of the love which thou hast shown
For this wide land of freedom, I have named
A province vast, and for its beauty famed,
By thy dear name to be hereafter known.
Alberta shall it be! Her fountains thrown
From alps unto three oceans, to all men
Shall vaunt her loveliness e'en now; and when,
Each little hamlet to a city grown,
And numberless as blades of prairie grass,
Or the thick leaves in distant forest bower,
Great peoples hear the giant currents pass,
Still shall the waters, bringing wealth and power,
Speak the loved name,--the land of silver springs--
Worthy the daughter of our English kings.
Invitation To A Young But Learned Friend To Abandon Archaeology For The Moment, And Play Once More With His Neglected Muse.
by James Elroy Flecker

In those good days when we were young and wise,
You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes,
And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hear
A young man's song arise so firm and clear.
Has Fancy died? The Morning Star gone cold?
Why are you silent? Have we grown so old?
Must I alone keep playing? Will not you,
Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew?
Lover of Greece, is this the richest store
You bring us,--withered leaves and dusty lore,
And broken vases widowed of their wine,
To brand you pedant while you stand divine?
Decorous words beseem the learned lip,
But Poets have the nicer scholarship.
In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow,
And all the Maenad melodies they know.
They hear strange voices in a London street,
And track the silver gleam of rushing feet;
And these are things that come not to the view
Of slippered dons who read a codex through.
O honeyed Poet, will you praise no more
The moonlit garden and the midnight shore?
Brother, have you forgotten how to sing
The story of that weak and cautious king
Who reigned two hundred years in Trebizond?
You who would ever strive to pierce beyond
Love's ecstacy, Life's vision, is it well
We should not know the tales you have to tell?
Upon A Wife That Died Mad With Jealousy.
by Robert Herrick

In this little vault she lies,
Here, with all her jealousies:
Quiet yet; but if ye make
Any noise they both will wake,
And such spirits raise 'twill then
Trouble death to lay again.
The Isle Of Sleep.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

In those dark mornings, deep in June,
When brooding birds stir in the nest,
And heavy dews slip down the leaves,
And drop into the rose's breast,
I woke and looked into the east,
And saw no sign of coming day,
The pale cold morning rolled in mist,
Slept on the hill-tops far away.
My window looked into the dawn,
The slumbering dawn that was so nigh,
The shadow of the hills was drawn
In waving lines against the sky.
But warmer hues began to tip
The edges of the mountain cloud
And morning's rosy cheek and lip
Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.
I turned and gazed into the west,
The river murmured in my ear
'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest,
Another day of toil is here.'
I would I had a fairy boat,
With every swift bright sail unfurled,
To fly beyond the west, and float
With night into the under world.
My head sank lower on my arm,
My eyes re-closed in sleepy bliss,
While fancy wove her subtle charm,
My dream did shape itself to this:--
Upon a shore whose sands of gold
Sloped down into a silver sea,
Her radiant pinions all unrolled,
A fairy boat did wait for me.
And Night with all her splendours pale
Did walk before me on the deep,
The stars looked through her azure veil,
And hand in hand with her went Sleep.
Beyond the hills, into the night
My boat went drifting like the wind,
The stars paled round us, and the light
Died on our pathway far behind.
And cloudy shapes with rippling hair
That shaded eyes of dreamy calm,
Formed and dissolved into the air
Which laved my brow with waves of balm.
Dusk arms upreaching from the sea,
And shadow-faces, seen and gone,
Toward an isle did beckon me,
Beyond the farthest gates of dawn.
We drew towards that lonely shore,
With still and measured motion slow,
I saw the hills lift evermore
Their massive foreheads crowned with snow,
And underneath, like moonlight fair,
I saw a hundred fathoms deep,
The crystal columns light as air
That undergird the Isle of Sleep.
And spire and dome and architrave,
And pictured window's rainbow gleams
Upshone from out the charmed wave,
Afloat upon a sea of dreams.
The sea-moss wove her braided locks
Along the beach in chains afar,
And lilies smiled among the rocks,
Peerless and perfect as a star.
A wood of asphodel below
Uprose as still and sweet as death,
And gliding shapes moved to and fro,--
I watched them with suspended breath.
Lost loved ones met and clasped me here;
I looked into their eyes serene,
They spake to me, and I did hear
As I were walking in a dream.
But even then a wind arose
That swept the morning mists away,
And showed, unfolding like a rose,
The bright flower of the perfect day:
And fading--faded like a cloud,
The hands I clasped, like wreaths of smoke,
While chanticleer crowed shrill and loud,
And wan and 'wildered I awoke.
Springfield Magical
by Vachel Lindsay

In this, the City of my Discontent,
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass,
"Romance, Romance - is here.    No Hindu town
Is quite so strange.    No Citadel of Brass
By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;
No picture-palace in a picture-book
Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"
In this, the City of my Discontent,
Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep
Wild legends new and old burn round my bed
While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts,
Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent;
And, for a day, fair Peace have given me
In this, the City of my Discontent!