DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnet XIII: Addressed To Haydon
by John Keats

High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
Sundown
by John Charles McNeill

Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west;
Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly;
The star of peace at watch above the crest--
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
We know, O Lord, so little what is best;
Wingless, we move so lowly;
But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest--
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
At Vespers.
by Madison Julius Cawein

High up in the organ-story
A girl stands slim and fair;
And touched with the casement's glory
Gleams out her radiant hair.
The young priest kneels at the altar,
Then lifts the Host above;
And the psalm intoned from the psalter
Is pure with patient love.
A sweet bell chimes; and a censer
Swings gleaming in the gloom;
The candles glimmer and denser
Rolls up the pale perfume.
Then high in the organ choir
A voice of crystal soars,
Of patience and soul's desire,
That suffers and adores.
And out of the altar's dimness
An answering voice doth swell,
Of passion that cries from the grimness
And anguish of its own hell.
High up in the organ-story
One kneels with a girlish grace;
And, touched with the vesper glory,
Lifts her madonna face.
One stands at the cloudy altar,
A form bowed down and thin;
The text of the psalm in the psalter
He reads, is sorrow and sin.
Remembered
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

His art was loving; Eres set his sign
Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew
The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.
Love feeds love's thirst as wine feeds love of wine;
Nor is there any potion from the vine
Which makes men drunken like the subtle brew
Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew
Inebriated with that draught divine.
Yet in his sober moments, when the sun
Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall,
And passion's sea had grown an ebbing tide,
From out the many, Memory singled one
Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all - 
The warm red mouth that mocked him and denied.
The Woodpecker.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

His bill an auger is,
His head, a cap and frill.
He laboreth at every tree, --
A worm his utmost goal.
Under the Stars and Stripes
by Madison Julius Cawein

High on the world did our fathers of old,
Under the stars and stripes,
Blazon the name that we now must uphold,
Under the stars and stripes.
Vast in the past they have builded an arch
Over which Freedom has lighted her torch.
Follow it! Follow it! Come, let us march
Under the stars and stripes!
We in whose bodies the blood of them runs,
Under the stars and stripes,
We will acquit us as sons of their sons,
Under the stars and stripes.
Ever for justice, our heel upon wrong,
We in the light of our vengeance thrice strong!
Rally together! Come tramping along
Under the stars and stripes!
Out of our strength and a nation's great need,
Under the stars and stripes,
Heroes again as of old we shall breed,
Under the stars and stripes.
Broad to the winds be our banner unfurled!
Straight in Spain's face let defiance be hurled!
God on our side, we will battle the world
Under the stars and stripes!
For The Burns Centennial Celebration
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

January 25, 1859
His birthday. - Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating, - 
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating!
We come in one tumultuous tide, - 
One surge of wild emotion, - 
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean;
As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each storied river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
With sea green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll, - 
The past becomes the present, - 
And face to face, and soul to soul,
We greet the monarch-peasant.
While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
With Corydon and Phillis, - 
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights
To snatch the Bourbon lilies, - 
Who heard the wailing infant's cry,
The babe beneath the sheeliug,
Whose song to-night in every sky
Will shake earth's starry ceiling, - 
Whose passion-breathing voice ascends
And floats like incense o'er us,
Whose ringing lay of friendship blends
With labor's anvil chorus?
We love him, not for sweetest song,
Though never tone so tender;
We love him, even in his wrong, - 
His wasteful self-surrender.
We praise him, not for gifts divine, - 
His Muse was born of woman, - 
His manhood breathes in every line, - 
Was ever heart more human?
We love him, praise him, just for this
In every form and feature,
Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss,
He saw his fellow-creature!
No soul could sink beneath his love, - 
Not even angel blasted;
No mortal power could soar above
The pride that all outlasted!
Ay! Heaven had set one living man
Beyond the pedant's tether, - 
His virtues, frailties, HE may scan,
Who weighs them all together!
I fling my pebble on the cairn
Of him, though dead, undying;
Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn
Beneath her daisies lying.
The waning suns, the wasting globe,
Shall spare the minstrel's story, - 
The centuries weave his purple robe,
The mountain-mist of glory!
Fragment. Written Shortly After The Marriage Of Miss Chaworth. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

First published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56
1.
Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,
Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd,
How the northern Tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted Shade!
2.
Now no more, the Hours beguiling,
Former favourite Haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling,
Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me.
High Waving Heather 'neath Stormy Blasts Bending
by Emily Bronte

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars,
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain sides wild forests lending
One mighty voice to the life-giving wind,
Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wider and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.
Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
Changing forever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
Dead In The Sierras
by Joaquin Miller

His footprints have failed us,
Where berries are red,
And madro'os are rankest,
The hunter is dead!
The grizzly may pass
By his half-open door;
May pass and repass
On his path, as of yore;
The panther may crouch
In the leaves on his limb;
May scream and may scream,
It is nothing to him.
Prone, bearded, and breasted
Like columns of stone;
And tall as a pine
As a pine overthrown!
His camp fires gone,
What else can be done
Than let him sleep on
Till the light of the sun?
Ay, tombless! what of it?
Marble is dust,
Cold and repellent;
And iron is rust.
Verses Left With A Silver Standish On The Dean Of St. Patrick's Desk, On His Birth-Day. By Dr. Delany
by Jonathan Swift

Hither from Mexico I came,
To serve a proud Iernian dame:
Was long submitted to her will;
At length she lost me at quadrille.
Through various shapes I often pass'd,
Still hoping to have rest at last;
And still ambitious to obtain
Admittance to the patriot Dean;
And sometimes got within his door,
But soon turn'd out to serve the poor:[1]
Not strolling Idleness to aid,
But honest Industry decay'd.
At length an artist purchased me,
And wrought me to the shape you see.
This done, to Hermes I applied:
"O Hermes! gratify my pride;
Be it my fate to serve a sage,
The greatest genius of his age;
That matchless pen let me supply,
Whose living lines will never die!"
"I grant your suit," the God replied,
And here he left me to reside.
Winter.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

His thundering car
Is heard from afar,
And his trumpet notes sound
All the country around;
Stop your ears as you will,
That loud blast and shrill
Is heard by you still.
Borne along by the gale,
In his frost coat of mail,
Midst snow, sleet, and hail,
He comes without fail,
And drives all before him,
Though men beg and implore him
Just to let them take breath,
Or he'll drive them to death.
But he comes in great state,
And for none will he wait,
Though he sees their distress
Yet he spares them no less,
For the cold stiff limb
Is nothing to him;
And o'er countless blue noses,
His hard heart he closes.
His own children fear him
And dare not come near him;
E'en his favorite child[4]
Has been known to run wild
At his too near approach,
Her fear of him such,
And to shriek and to howl
And return scowl for scowl.
Indeed few dare him face,
And all shun his embrace;
For though pleasant his smile,
Yet one thinks all the while
Of that terrible frown,
Which the hardiest clown,
Though a stout hearted man,
Will avoid if he can.
And though many maintain
That he gives needless pain,
I confess I admire
This venerable sire.
True his language is harsh,
And his conduct oft rash,
And we know well enough,
That his manners are rough;
Yet still in the main,
We've no right to complain,
For if we prepare for him,
And show that we care for him,
We may in him find
A true friend and kind.
With us he will stay
Three months to a day,
So let us prepare
The snug elbow chair,
Which placed by the fire
For the hoary-head sire,
May comfort impart
And cheer his old heart.
Though he seems so unkind,
Yet always you'll find
That his cold heart will warm,
And he'll do you no harm
If your own can but feel
For your poor neighbor's weal;
And with pity o'erflowing,
Your free alms bestowing,
Never closing your door
On the suffering poor;
But clothe, feed, and warm them,
And see that none harm them.
E'en to others just do
As you'd wish them by you.
Let's adopt but this plan,
To do good when we can,
And the dark stormy day
Will full quick pass away,
And we never complain
Of cold weather again,
Or of tedious long hours,
That are spent within doors;
For when winter winds blow,
And we're hedged up by snow,
We shall find full employment,
And lack no enjoyment.
Thus prepared, let him come,
He will find us at home;
Bring wind, hail, or snow,
Blow high, or blow low,
We're prepared for him now.
Then come winter, come,
You'll find us at home.
Nov. 5, 1852.
There is within this heart of mine,
An aching void earth ne'er can fill;
I've tried its joys, its friendships proved,
But felt that aching void there still.
Thy love alone, my Saviour God,
True satisfaction can impart;
Can fill this aching void I feel,
And give contentment to my heart.
Oh! cheer me by thy presence, Lord,
Increase my faith an hundred fold;
Be thy name on my forehead found,
Mine in thy book of life enrolled.
Dec. 19, 1862.
Kaa's Hunting
by Rudyard Kipling

His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo's pride.
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide.
If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us: we knew it ten seasons before.
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother.
'There is none like to me!' says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill;
But the jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still.
Died Of Wounds
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

His wet, white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell
His troubled voice: he did the business well.
The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining,
And calling out for "Dickie." "Curse the Wood!
It's time to go; O Christ, and what's the good? - 
We'll never take it; and it's always raining."
I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout,
"They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don't go out" ...
I fell asleep ... next morning he was dead;
And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed.
Corny Bill
by Henry Lawson

His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
His hat pushed from his brow,
His dress best fitted for the South,
I think I see him now;
And when the city streets are still,
And sleep upon me comes,
I often dream that me an' Bill
Are humpin' of our drums.
I mind the time when first I came
A stranger to the land;
And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame
When Bill took me in hand.
Old Bill was what a chap would call
A friend in poverty,
And he was very kind to all,
And very good to me.
We'd camp beneath the lonely trees
And sit beside the blaze,
A-nursin' of our wearied knees,
A-smokin' of our clays.
Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,
An' clouds were in the skies,
We'd camp in some old shanty bar,
And sit a-tellin' lies.
Though time had writ upon his brow
And rubbed away his curls,
He always was, an' may be now,
A favourite with the girls;
I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall,
I've see'd 'em laugh until
They could not do their work at all,
Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pup
As ever you did see,
And often at some bush kick-up
They'd make old Bill M.C.
He'd make them dance and sing all night,
He'd make the music hum,
But he'd be gone at mornin' light
A-humpin' of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymes
Was not for Bill an' me,
I think we had some good old times
Out on the wallaby.
I took a wife and left off rum,
An' camped beneath a roof;
But Bill preferred to hump his drum
A-paddin' of the hoof.
The lazy, idle loafers what
In toney houses camp
Would call old Bill a drunken sot,
A loafer, or a tramp;
But if the dead should ever dance,
As poets say they will,
I think I'd rather take my chance
Along of Corny Bill.
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,
Its shades begin to fall;
He soon must mount his bluey for
The last long tramp of all;
I trust that when, in bush an' town,
He's lived and learnt his fill,
They'll let the golden slip-rails down
For poor old Corny Bill.
Franklin Hyde
by Hilaire Belloc

Who caroused in the Dirt and was corrected by His Uncle.
His Uncle came upon Franklin Hyde
Carousing in the Dirt.
He Shook him hard from Side to Side
And Hit him till it Hurt,
Exclaiming, with a Final Thud,
"Take that! Abandoned boy!
For Playing with Disgusting Mud
As though it were a Toy!"
Moral:
From Franklin Hyde's adventure, learn
To pass your Leisure Time
In Cleanly Merriment, and turn
From Mud and Ooze and Slime
And every form of Nastiness
But, on the other Hand,
Children in ordinary Dress
May always play with Sand.
The Poet's Recompense.
by Charles Sangster

His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice
From fairer vales than those of Araby,
Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice
Discriminating ear of Deity
Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume.
Man cannot know what starry lights illume
The soaring spirit of his brother man!
He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed;
His loftiest understanding cannot scan
The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed;
He cannot feel the chastened influence
Divine, that lights the Ideal atmosphere,
And never to his uninspir'd sense
Rolls the majestic hymn that inspirates the Seer.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XVII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

His mother deere, Cupid offended late,
Because that Mars, growne slacker in her loue,
With pricking shot he did not throughly moue
To keepe the place of their first louing state.
The boy refusde for fear of Marses hate,
Who threatned stripes if he his wrath did proue;
But she, in chafe, him from her lap did shoue,
Brake bowe, brake shafts, while Cupid weeping sate;
Till that his grandame Nature, pitying it,
Of Stellaes brows made him two better bowes,
And in her eyes of arrows infinit.
O how for ioy he leaps! O how he crowes!
And straight therewith, like wags new got to play,
Falls to shrewd turnes! And I was in his way.
A Satirical Elegy; On The Death Of A Late Famous General[1]
by Jonathan Swift

His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.
Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate!
Let Pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing's a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2]
Napoleon III
by Mary Hannay Foott

His silent spirit from the place
Slid forth unseen; amid the throng
Of those whose love outlived disgrace,
Whose fealty to the last was strong.
'Midst homage, 'neath Fate's adverse reign,
Paid to the star shorn of its rays,
How passed the Exile? Lingering fain,
As never once in prouder days?
The Mother and the Child were there,
Discrowned and disinherited!
No hand henceforth to right the heir;
New griefs to bow the golden head.
How passed Napoleon? Prizing more,
Old fame in camp and council won
Or fearless England's aegis, o'er
The future of her ally's son?
Gate of that World we know not yet,
What thou beheld'st who may proclaim!
Were spirit-ranks, in order set,
Haunting thy portals, as he came,
With voices murmuring, 'Our life torch,
Unspent, was quenched at his behest'?
Did bygone princes fill the porch,
Bourbon, and Valois, and the rest?
How passed the soldier? Cold and stern,
'Mid weaponless reproachful ghosts,
As when he led them forth to learn
How fight the hardy German hosts?
How passed the Emperor where THEY gazed,
Once wearers of the ancient crown?
As one who knew its lustre blazed
The brighter ere he laid it down?
How passed he? brighter grows the dream!
Past yon accusing spirit-band,
Beyond the scornful Old R'gime,
Another group of watchers stand!
Those hands are stretched to greet him now
That once Charlemagne's proud sceptre won;
While hastes Hortense with beaming brow,
No longer banished from her son!
Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.
by Thomas Moore

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers--
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us--
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities![1]
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily--
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply;--
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon's wig.
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffered (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.
Next, our Castlereagh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Withered Shamrocks which have been
Gilded o'er to hide the green--
(Such as Headfort brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]--
Stitch the garland thro' and thro'
With shabby threads of every hue--
And as, Goddess!--entre nous--
His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)
A little torture now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
That's enough--away, away--
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose--
How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile
Crowned with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses--to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!
Fragment: A Serpent-Face.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

His face was like a snake's - wrinkled and loose
And withered -
Philosophy
by James Thomson -  (Bysshe Vanolis)

I.
His eyes found nothing beautiful and bright,
Nor wealth nor, honour, glory nor delight,
Which he could grasp and keep with might and right.
Flowers bloomed for maidens, swords outflashed for boys,
The world's big children had their various toys;
He could not feel their sorrows and their joys.
Hills held a secret they would not unfold,
In careless scorn of him the ocean rolled,
The stars were alien splendours high and cold.
He felt himself a king bereft of crown,
Defrauded from his birthright of renown,
Bred up in littleness with churl and clown.
II.
How could he vindicate himself? His eyes,
That found not anywhere their proper prize,
Looked through and through the specious earth and skies,
They probed, and all things yielded to their probe;
They saw the void around the massy globe,
The raging fire within its flowery robe.
They pierced through beauty; saw the bones, the mesh
Of nerves and veins, the hideous raw red flesh,
Beneath the skin most delicate and fresh:
Saw Space a mist unfurled around the steep
Where plunge Time's waters to the blackest deep;
Saw Life a dream in Death's eternal sleep.
III.
A certain fair form came before his sight,
Responding to him as the day to night
To yearning, love; to cold and gloom, warm light.
A hope sprang from his breast, and fluttered far
On rainbow wings; beyond the cloudy bar,
Though very much beneath the nearest star.
His eyes drew back their beams to kindle fire
In his own heart; whose masterful desire
Scorned all beyond its aim, lower or higher.
This fire flung lustre upon grace and bloom,
Gave warmth and brightness to a little room,
Burned Thought to ashes in its fight with gloom.
IV.
He said: Those eyes alone see well that view
Life's lovely surfaces of form and hue;
And not Death's entrails, looking through and through.
Bones, nerves, and veins, and flesh, are covered in
By this opaque transparency of skin,
Precisely that we should not see within.
The corpse is hid, that Death may work its vile
Corruption in black secrecy; the while
Our saddest graves with grass and fair flowers smile.
If you will analyse the bread you eat,
The water and the wine most pure and sweet,
Your stomach soon must loathe all drink and meat.
Life liveth but in Life, and doth not roam
To other realms if all be well at home:
'Solid as ocean-foam,' quoth ocean-foam.
If Midge will pine and curse its hours away
Because Midge is not Everything For-aye,
Poor Midge thus loses its one summer day;
Loses its all, and winneth what, I pray?
A Woman's Voice
by George William Russell

His head within my bosom lay,
But yet his spirit slipped not through:
I only felt the burning clay
That withered for the cooling dew.
It was but pity when I spoke
And called him to my heart for rest,
And half a mother's love that woke
Feeling his head upon my breast:
And half the lion's tenderness
To shield her cubs from hurt or death,
Which, when the serried hunters press,
Makes terrible her wounded breath.
But when the lips I breathed upon
Asked for such love as equals claim
I looked where all the stars were gone
Burned in the day's immortal flame.
'Come thou like yon great dawn to me
From darkness vanquished, battles done:
Flame unto flame shall flow and be
Within thy heart and mine as one.'
Power
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

His tongue was framed to music,
And his hand was armed with skill;
His face was the mould of beauty,
And his heart the throne of will.