DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Servian Legend
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Long, long ago, ere yet our race began,
When earth was empty, waiting still for man,
Before the breath of life to him was given
The angels fell into a strife in heaven.
At length one furious demon grasped the sun
And sped away as fast as he could run,
And with a ringing laugh of fiendish mirth,
He leaped the battlements and fell to earth.
Dark was it then in heaven, but light below;
For there the demon wandered to and fro,
Tilting aloft upon a slender pole
The orb of day - the pilfering old soul.
The angels wept and wailed; but through the dark
The Great Creator's voice cried sternly: "Hark!
Who will restore to me the orb of Light,
Him will I honour in all heaven's sight."
Then over the battlements there dropped another.
(A shrewder angel well there could not be.)
Quoth he: "Behold my love for thee, my brother,
For I have left all heaven to stay with thee.
"Thy loneliness and wanderings I will share,
Thy heavy burden I will help thee bear."
"Well said," the demon answered, "and well done,
But I'll not tax you with this heavy sun.
"Your company will cheer me, it is true,
And I could never think of burdening you."
Idly they wandered onward, side by side,
Till, by and by, they neared a silvery tide.
"Let's bathe," the angel suddenly suggested.
"Agreed," the demon answered.    "I'll go last,
Because I needs must leave quite unmolested
This tiresome sun, which I will now make fast.
He set the pole well in the sandy turf,
And called a jackdaw near to watch the place.
Meanwhile the angel paddled in the surf,
And playfully dared his brother to a race.
They swam around together for a while,
The demon always keeping near his prize,
Till presently the angel, with a smile,
Proposed a healthful diving exercise.
The demon hesitated.    "But," thought he,
"The jackdaw will inform me with a cry
If this good brother tries deceiving me;
I will not be outdone by him - not I!"
Down, down they went.    The angel in a trice
Rose up again, and swift to shore he sped.
The jackdaw shrieked, but lo! a mile of ice
The demon found had frozen o'er his head.
He swore an oath, and gathered all his force,
And broke the ice, to see the sun, of course,
Held firmly in the radiant angel's hand,
Who sailed away toward the heavenly land.
He gave pursuit.    Wrath lent speed to his chase;
All heaven leaned down to watch the exciting race.
On, on they came, and still the Evil One
Gained on the angel burdened with the sun.
With bated breath and faces white as ghosts,
Over the walls leaned heaven's affrighted hosts.
Up, up, still up, the angel almost spent,
Threw one foot forward o'er the battlement.
The demon seized the other with a shout;
So fierce his clutch he pulled the bottom out,
As the good angel, fainting, laid the sun
Down by the throne of God, who cried: "Well done!
Thy great misfortune shall be made divine:
Man will I create with a foot like thine!"
The Warrior's Prayer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
"Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!"
I know not if I play the Pharisee,
And if my brother after all be right;
But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee--
Strength for the fight.
I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
Strength for the fight!
When foes upon me press, let me not quail
Nor think to turn me into coward flight.
I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,
Strength for the fight!
Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,
Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;
And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,
Strength for the fight!
And when, at eventide, the fray is done,
My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,
And give me, be the field or lost or won,
Rest from the fight!
Divine Compassion
by John Greenleaf Whittier

"Long since, a dream of heaven I had,
And still the vision haunts me oft;
I see the saints in white robes clad,
The martyrs with their palms aloft;
But hearing still, in middle song,
The ceaseless dissonance of wrong;
And shrinking, with hid faces, from the strain
Of sad, beseeching eyes, full of remorse and pain.
The glad song falters to a wail,
The harping sinks to low lament;
Before the still unlifted veil
I see the crowned foreheads bent,
Making more sweet the heavenly air,
With breathings of unselfish prayer;
And a Voice saith: "O Pity which is pain,
O Love that weeps, fill up my sufferings which remain!
"Shall souls redeemed by me refuse
To share my sorrow in their turn?
Or, sin-forgiven, my gift abuse
Of peace with selfish unconcern?
Has saintly ease no pitying care?
Has faith no work, and love no prayer?
While sin remains, and souls in darkness dwell,
Can heaven itself be heaven, and look unmoved on hell?"
Then through the Gates of Pain, I dream,
A wind of heaven blows coolly in;
Fainter the awful discords seem,
The smoke of torment grows more thin,
Tears quench the burning soil, and thence
Spring sweet, pale flowers of penitence
And through the dreary realm of man's despair,
Star-crowned an angel walks, and to! God's hope is there!
Is it a dream? Is heaven so high
That pity cannot breathe its air?
Its happy eyes forever dry,
Its holy lips without a prayer!
My God! my God! if thither led
By Thy free grace unmerited,
No crown nor palm be mine, but let me keep
A heart that still can feel, and eyes that still can weep
The Vision
by Virna Sheard

Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine,
With the empty chapel, cold and grey,
Telling her beads, while grief with marring line
And bitter tear stole all her youth away.
Outcast was she from what Life holdeth dear;
Banished from joy that other souls might win;
And from the dark beyond she turned with fear,
Being so branded by the mark of sin.
Yet when at last she raised her troubled face,
Haunted by sorrow, whitened by alarms,
Mary leaned down from out the pictured place,
And laid the little Christ within her arms.
Rosy and warm she held Him to her heart,
She - the abandoned one - the thing apart.
Long I Thought That Knowledge
by Walt Whitman

Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice me - O if I could but obtain knowledge!
Then my lands engrossed me - Lands of the prairies, Ohio's land, the southern savannas, engrossed me - For them I would live - I would be their orator;
Then I met the examples of old and new heroes - I heard of warriors, sailors, and all dauntless persons - And it seemed to me that I too had it in me to be as dauntless as any - and would be so;
And then, to enclose all, it came to me to strike up the songs of the
New World - And then I believed my life must be spent in singing;
But now take notice, land of the prairies, land of the south savannas, Ohio's land,
Take notice, you Kanuck woods - and you Lake Huron - and all that with you roll toward Niagara - and you Niagara also,
And you, Californian mountains - That you each and all find somebody else to be your singer of songs,
For I can be your singer of songs no longer - One who loves me is jealous of me, and withdraws me from all but love,
With the rest I dispense - I sever from what I thought would suffice me, for it does not - it is now empty and tasteless to me,
I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the example of heroes, no more,
I am indifferent to my own songs - I will go with him I love,
It is to be enough for us that we are together - We never separate again.
A Former Life
by Charles Baudelaire

Long since, I lived beneath vast porticoes,
By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired,
Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows,
Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.
The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies
Mingled its music, turbulent and rich,
Solemn and mystic, with the colours which
The setting sun reflected in my eyes.
And there I lived amid voluptuous calms,
In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave,
Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,
Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms.
They were my slaves - the only care they had
To know what secret grief had made me sad.
Old And New.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,
Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine.
Why should the old monopolize all praise?
Then let the new claim mine.
Give me strong new friends when the old prove weak
Or fail me in my darkest hour of need;
Why perish with the ship that springs a leak
Or lean upon a reed?
Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,
When all the grace and beauty leave the old;
When like a rose it withers at my feet,
Or like a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,
In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;
I hold a sunlit present far more dear,
And worthy of my praise.
When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through,
And all too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful, and whole!
Sonnet LII.
by Anna Seward

Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,
And wrapt the hush'd horizon. - All around,
In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,
Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene
Slumbers; - but creeps, with pale and starting mien,
Benighted SUPERSTITION. - Fancy-found,
The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet green
And festering, burst from his incumbent mound,
Roams! - and the Slave of Terror thinks he hears
A mutter'd groan! - sees the sunk eye, that glares
As shoots the Meteor. - But no more forlorn
He strays; - the Spectre sinks into his tomb!
For now the jocund Herald of the Morn
Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].
1: "It faded at the crowing of the cock." HAMLET.
Address Of Beelzebub To The President Of The Highland Society.
by Robert Burns

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes, as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and A----s were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up among the lakes and seas
They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin';
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed,
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d----d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tattered gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come, Your humble rervant,
BEELZEBUB.
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.
To Paganini
by Thomas Oldham

Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame,
O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name;
Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,
And swell the general chorus of thy praise.
Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee
Of all the favour'd sons of harmony,
Who, with one full consent, admiring own     }
Thee as their master monarch thee alone; }
And humbly bow before thee on thy throne.    }
O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;
Thou hast created for thyself an art.
As, in the natural world, around the sun
The planets their career of brightness run,
Each moving in an orbit of its own,
And all obeying laws to science known.
Musicians thus, each blest with his degree
Of talent by the God of harmony,
Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,
While every one the rules of art obeys.
We calculate the merits of their name,
And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.
Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;
Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,
Like comet, blazing in its bold career,
That leaves behind the planetary sphere,
And rushes towards the centre of the sun
Till with Apollo's self it seems but one.
A Genius, an Original, art thou,
Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.
When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand
What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?
Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;
Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;
With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,
Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;
Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,
From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?
Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,
Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.
The Dead Joke And The Funny Man
by James Whitcomb Riley

Long years ago, a funny man,
Flushed with a strange delight,
Sat down and wrote a funny thing
All in the solemn night;
And as he wrote he clapped his hands
And laughed with all his might.
For it was such a funny thing,
O, such a very funny thing,
This wonderfully funny thing,
He
Laughed
Outright.
And so it was this funny man
Printed this funny thing -
Forgot it, too, nor ever thought
It worth remembering,
Till but a day or two ago.
(Ah! what may changes bring!)
He found this selfsame funny thing
In an exchange - "O, funny thing!"
He cried, "You dear old funny thing!"
And
Sobbed
Outright.
A New Simile
by Oliver Goldsmith

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT
Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison, proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air;
And here my simile unites,
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Filled with a snake-encircl'd wand;
By classic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses.
To wit most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But ev'n this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
Ebb-Tide.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Long reaches of wet grasses sway
Where ran the sea but yesterday,
And white-winged boats at sunset drew
To anchor in the crimsoning blue.
The boats lie on the grassy plain,
Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;
Their errand done, their impulse spent,
Chained by an alien element,
With sails unset they idly lie,
Though morning beckons brave and nigh;
Like wounded birds, their flight denied,
They lie, and long and wait the tide.
About their keels, within the net
Of tough grass fibres green and wet,
A myriad thirsty creatures, pent
In sorrowful imprisonment,
Await the beat, distinct and sweet,
Of the white waves' returning feet.
My soul their vigil joins, and shares
A nobler discontent than theirs;
Athirst like them, I patiently
Sit listening beside the sea,
And still the waters outward glide:
When is the turning of the tide?
Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill!
We wait thy coming,--and we will.
The world is vast, and very far
Its utmost verge and boundaries are;
But thou hast kept thy word to-day
In India and in dim Cathay,
And the same mighty care shall reach
Each humblest rock-pool of this beach.
The gasping fish, the stranded keel,
This dull dry soul of mine, shall feel
Thy freshening touch, and, satisfied,
Shall drink the fulness of the tide.
Wall Street At Night
by Lola Ridge

Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....
Lidless windows
Glazed with a flashy luster
From some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow.
And down among iron guts
Piled silver
Throwing gray spatter of light... pale without heat...
Like the pallor of dead bodies.
Dream Song I
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Long years ago, within a distant clime,
Ere Love had touched me with his wand sublime,
I dreamed of one to make my life's calm May
The panting passion of a summer's day.
And ever since, in almost sad suspense,
I have been waiting with a soul intense
To greet and take unto myself the beams,
Of her, my star, the lady of my dreams.
O Love, still longed and looked for, come to me,
Be thy far home by mountain, vale, or sea.
My yearning heart may never find its rest
Until thou liest rapt upon my breast.
The wind may bring its perfume from the south,
Is it so sweet as breath from my love's mouth?
Oh, naught that surely is, and naught that seems
May turn me from the lady of my dreams.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - VIII. - Near Rome, In Sight Of St. Peter's
by William Wordsworth

Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn:
O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon
Is shed, the languor of approaching noon;
To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn
Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn,
Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat,
Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note,
Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn.
Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve
Shrinks from the note as from a mistimed thing,
Oft for a holy warning may it serve,
Charged with remembrance of 'his' sudden sting,
His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair
And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.
Nursery Rhyme. CCX. Riddles.
by Unknown

[Pair of tongs.]
Long legs, crooked thighs,
Little head and no eyes.
An Account Of The Greatest English Poets
by Joseph Addison

Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, 
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine; 
Till Chaucer first, the merry bard, arose, 
And many a story told in rhyme and prose. 
But age has rusted what the poet writ, 
Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit; 
In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain, 
And tries to make his readers laugh, in vain. 
Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage, 
In ancient tales amus'd a barb'rous age; 
An age that yet uncultivate and rude, 
Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursu'd 
Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, 
To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. 
But now the mystic tale, that pleas'd of yore, 
Can charm an understanding age no more; 
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow. 
While the dull moral lies too plain below. 
We view well-pleas'd at distance all the sights 
Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, 
And damsels in distress, and courteous knights; 
But when we look too near, the shades decay, 
And all the pleasing landscape fades away. 
Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote, 
O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought: 
His turns too closely on the reader press; 
He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less, 
One glitt'ring thought no sooner strikes our eyes 
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise; 
As in the milky-way a shining white 
O'er-flows the heavn's with one continu'd light, 
That not a single star can show his rays, 
Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze. 
Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name 
Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame; 
Thy fault is only wit in its excess, 
But wit like thine in any shape will please. 
What muse but thine can equal hints inspire, 
And fit the deep-mouth'd Pindar to thy lyre; 
Pindar, whom others, in a labour'd strain 
And forc'd expression, imitate in vain? 
Well-pleas'd in thee he soars with new delight, 
And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight.
The Mogul's Dream.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Long since, a Mogul saw, in dream,
A vizier in Elysian bliss;
No higher joy could be or seem,
Or purer, than was ever his.
Elsewhere was dream'd of by the same
A wretched hermit wrapp'd in flame,
Whose lot e'en touch'd, so pain'd was he,
The partners of his misery.
Was Minos[2] mock'd? or had these ghosts,
By some mistake, exchanged their posts?
Surprise at this the vision broke;
The dreamer suddenly awoke.
Some mystery suspecting in it,
He got a wise one to explain it.
Replied the sage interpreter,
'Let not the thing a marvel seem:
There is a meaning in your dream:
If I have aught of knowledge, sir,
It covers counsel from the gods.
While tenanting these clay abodes,
This vizier sometimes gladly sought
The solitude that favours thought;
Whereas, the hermit, in his cot,
Had longings for a vizier's lot.'
To this interpretation dared I add,
The love of solitude I would inspire.
It satisfies the heart's desire
With unencumber'd gifts and glad - 
Heaven-planted joys, of stingless sweet,
Aye springing up beneath our feet.
O Solitude! whose secret charms I know - 
Retreats that I have loved - when shall I go
To taste, far from a world of din and noise,
Your shades so fresh, where silence has a voice?
When shall their soothing gloom my refuge be?
When shall the sacred Nine, from courts afar,
And cities with all solitude at war,
Engross entire, and teach their votary
The stealthy movements of the spangled nights,
The names and virtues of those errant lights
Which rule o'er human character and fate?
Or, if not born to purposes so great,
The streams, at least, shall win my heartfelt thanks,
While, in my verse, I paint their flowery banks.
Fate shall not weave my life with golden thread,
Nor, 'neath rich fret-work, on a purple bed,
Shall I repose, full late, my care-worn head.
But will my sleep be less a treasure?
Less deep, thereby, and full of pleasure?
I vow it, sweet and gentle as the dew,
Within those deserts sacrifices new;
And when the time shall come to yield my breath,
Without remorse I'll join the ranks of Death.
Resignation
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Long had I grieved at what I deemed abuse;
But now I am as grain within the mill.
If so be thou must crush me for thy use,
Grind on, O potent God, and do thy will!