DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
On the Death of the Vice-Chancellor, A Physician.[1]
by William Cowper

Learn ye nations of the earth
The condition of your birth,
Now be taught your feeble state,
Know, that all must yield to Fate!
If the mournful Rover, Death,
Say but once-resign your breath-
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle Doom,                 
Hercules had both withstood
Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.[2]
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the Chief to Jove allied[3]
By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had liv'd, and equal skill
Had preserv'd Medea still.[4]                                    
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a pow'r
To avert Man's destin'd hour,
Learn'd Machaon[5] should have known
Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,[6]
And Jove's bolt had been with ease
Foil'd by Asclepiades.[7]
Thou too, Sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,                                    
Still had'st filled thy princely place,
Regent of the gowned race,
Had'st advanc'd to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon's skiff explored
The Tartarean gulph abhorr'd.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread
Thee too number'd with the Dead.                         
Wise and good! untroubled be
The green turf that covers thee,
Thence in gay profusion grow
All the sweetest flow'rs that blow!
Pluto's Consort bid thee rest!
Oeacus pronounce thee blest!
To her home thy shade consign,
Make Elysium ever thine!
Parting
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Lean down, and kiss me, O my love, my own;
The day is near when thy fond heart will miss me;
And o'er my low green bed, with bitter moan,
Thou wilt lean down, but cannot clasp or kiss me.
How strange it is, that I, so loving thee,
And knowing we must part, perchance to-morrow,
Do comfort find, thinking how great will be
Thy lonely desolation, and thy sorrow.
And stranger -sadder, O mine own other part,
That I should grudge thee some surcease of weeping;
Why do I not rejoice, that in thy heart,
Sweet love will bloom again when I am sleeping?
Nay, make no promise.    I would place no bar
Upon thy future, even wouldst thou let me.
Thou hast, thou dost, well love me, like a man:
And, like a man, in time thou wilt forget me.
Why should I care, so near the Infinite -
Why should I care, that thou wilt cease to miss me?
O God! these earthly ties are knit so tight -
Quick, quick, lean lower, O my love, and kiss me!
Lean Out Of The Window
by James Joyce

Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.
My book was closed,
I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.
I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.
Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.
Assistance
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Lean on no mortal, Love, and serve;
(For service is love's complement)
But it was never God's intent,
Your spirit from its path should swerve,
To gain another's point of view.
As well might Jupiter, or Mars
Go seeking help from other stars,
Instead of sweeping ON, as you.
Look to the Great Eternal Cause
And not to any man, for light.
Look in; and learn the wrong, and right,
From your own soul's unwritten laws.
And when you question, or demur,
Let Love be your Interpreter.
Easter
by Emily Pauline Johnson

April 1, 1888
Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter's benediction falling,
Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow
Ere she can hope to fly - 
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture's lining
Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
Been naught but pleasure's pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
In youth's light joyousness,
We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
In Lent's black-bordered dress.
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers
To beg the crowning grace
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers
The veil from April's face.
Sweet, rosy April - laughing, sighing, waiting
Until the gateway swings,
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating
Of Easter's tissue wings.
Too brief the bliss - the parting comes with sorrow.
Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!
We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
Against the far blue sky.
Leetle Lac Grenier
by William Henry Drummond

Leetle Lac Grenier, she 's all alone,
Right on de mountain top,
But cloud sweepin' by, will fin' tam to stop
No matter how quickly he want to go,
So he'll kiss leetle Grenier down below.
Leetle Lac Grenier, she 's all alone,
Up on de mountain high
But she never feel lonesome, 'cos for w'y?
So soon as de winter was gone away
De bird come again an' sing to her ev'ry day.
Leetle Lac Grenier, she 's all alone,
Back on de mountain dere,
But de pine tree an' spruce stan' ev'rywhere
Along by de shore, an' mak' her warm
For dey kip off de win' an' de winter storm.
Leetle Lac Grenier, she 's all alone,
No broder, no sister near,
But de swallow will fly, an' de beeg moose deer
An' caribou too, will go long way
To drink de sweet water on Lac Grenier.
Leetle Lac Grenier, I see you now,
Onder de roof of spring
Ma canoe 's afloat, an' de robin sing,
De lily's beginnin' her summer dress,
An' trout 's wakin' up from hees long long res'.
Leetle Lac Grenier, I 'm happy now,
Out on de ole canoe,
For I 'm all alone, ma chere, wit' you,
An' if only a nice light rod I had
I 'd try dat fish near de lily pad!
Leetle Lac Grenier, O! let me go,
Don't spik no more,
For your voice is strong lak de rapid 's roar,
An' you know youse'f I 'm too far away,
For visit you now -leetle Lac Grenier!
To Lesbia! [1]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd,
I'd tell you why, -but yet I know not.
2.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
3.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!
4.
"Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
5.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
6.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
7.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
8.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, 
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
9.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!
Left Alone
by John Clare

Left in the world alone,
Where nothing seems my own,
And everything is weariness to me,
'T is a life without an end,
'T is a world without a friend,
And everything is sorrowful I see.
There's the crow upon the stack,
And other birds all black,
While bleak November's frowning wearily;
And the black cloud's dropping rain,
Till the floods hide half the plain,
And everything is dreariness to me.
The sun shines wan and pale,
Chill blows the northern gale,
And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree,
While I am left alone,
Chilled as a mossy stone,
And all the world is frowning over me.
Road-Hymn For The Start
by William Vaughn Moody

Leave the early bells at chime,
Leave the kindled hearth to blaze,
Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time,
Leave the forms of sons and fathers trudging through the misty ways,
Leave the sounds of mothers taking up their sweet laborious days.
Pass them by! even while our soul
Yearns to them with keen distress.
Unto them a part is given; we will strive to see the whole.
Dear shall be the banquet table where their singing spirits press;
Dearer be our sacred hunger, and our pilgrim loneliness.
We have felt the ancient swaying
Of the earth before the sun,
On the darkened marge of midnight heard sidereal rivers playing;
Rash it was to bathe our souls there, but we plunged and all was done.
That is lives and lives behind us--lo, our journey is begun!
Careless where our face is set,
Let us take the open way.
What we are no tongue has told us: Errand-goers who forget?
Soldiers heedless of their harry? Pilgrim people gone astray?
We have heard a voice cry "Wander!" That was all we heard it say.
Ask no more: 't is much, 't is much!
Down the road the day-star calls;
Touched with change in the wide heavens, like a leaf the frost winds
touch,
Flames the failing moon a moment, ere it shrivels white and falls;
Hid aloft, a wild throat holdeth sweet and sweeter intervals.
Leave him still to ease in song
Half his little heart's unrest:
Speech is his, but we may journey toward the life for which we long.
God, who gives the bird its anguish, maketh nothing manifest,
But upon our lifted foreheads pours the boon of endless quest.
The Fox, The Monkey, And The Animals.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Left kingless by the lion's death,
The beasts once met, our story saith,
Some fit successor to install.
Forth from a dragon-guarded, moated place,
The crown was brought, and, taken from its case,
And being tried by turns on all,
The heads of most were found too small;
Some horn'd were, and some too big;
Not one would fit the regal gear.
For ever ripe for such a rig,
The monkey, looking very queer,
Approach'd with antics and grimaces,
And, after scores of monkey faces,
With what would seem a gracious stoop,
Pass'd through the crown as through a hoop.
The beasts, diverted with the thing,
Did homage to him as their king.
The fox alone the vote regretted,
But yet in public never fretted.
When he his compliments had paid
To royalty, thus newly made,
'Great sire, I know a place,' said he,
'Where lies conceal'd a treasure,
Which, by the right of royalty,
Should bide your royal pleasure.'
The king lack'd not an appetite
For such financial pelf,
And, not to lose his royal right,
Ran straight to see it for himself.
It was a trap, and he was caught.
Said Renard, 'Would you have it thought,
You ape, that you can fill a throne,
And guard the rights of all, alone,
Not knowing how to guard your own?'
The beasts all gather'd from the farce,
That stuff for kings is very scarce.
Workmen's March
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 74)
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
That makes one of many, many,
That makes bold, if fear daunts any,
That makes small the load and lighter,
That makes near the goal and brighter,
Till it greets us gained with laughter,
And we seek the next one after.
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
Marching, marching of few hundreds,
No one heeds it, never one dreads;
Marching, marching of few thousands,
Here and there wakes some to hearing;
Marching, marching hundred thousands, - 
All will mark that thunder nearing.
Left foot! Right foot! Lines unbroken!
Keeping time is power's token.
Let us march all, never weaken
Time from Vard' down to Viken,
Vinger up to Bergen's region, - 
Let us make one marching legion,
Then we'll rout some wrong from Norway,
Open wide to right the doorway.
Many Inventions
by Rudyard Kipling

'Less you want your toes trod of you'd better get back at once,
For the bullocks are walking two by two,
The byles are walking two by two,                                        
And the elephants bring the guns.
Ho! Yuss!
Great-big-long-black-forty-pounder guns.
Jiggery-jolty to and fro,
Each as big as a launch in tow 
Blind-dumb-broad-breeched beggars o' battering-guns!
- My Lord the Elephant.
Upon A Young Mother Of Many Children.
by Robert Herrick

Let all chaste matrons, when they chance to see
My num'rous issue, praise and pity me:
Praise me for having such a fruitful womb,
Pity me, too, who found so soon a tomb.
The Unsatisfactory Painter.
by John Gay

Lest captious men suspect your story,
Speak modestly its history.
The traveller, who overleaps the bounds
Of probability, confounds;
But though men hear your deeds with phlegm,
You may with flattery cram them.
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will yet come short of self-conceit.
A painter drew his portraits truly,
And marked complexion and mien duly; - 
Really a fellow knew the picture,
There was nor flattery nor delicture.
The eyes, and mouth, and faulty nose,
Were all showed up in grim repose;
He marked the dates of youth and age - 
But so he lost his clientage:
The which determined to recover,
He turned in mind the matter over.
He bought a pair of busts - one, Venus,
The other was Apollo Phoebus;
Above his subject client placed them,
And for the faulty features traced them.
Chatted the while of Titian's tints,
Of Guido - Raphael - neither stints
To raise him to the empyr'al,
Whilst he is sketching his ideal.
He sketches, utters, "That will do:
Be pleased, my lord, to come and view."
"I thought my mouth a little wider."
"My lord, my lord, you me deride, ah!"
"Such was my nose when I was young."
"My lord, you have a witty tongue."
"Ah well, ah well! you artists flatter."
"That were, my lord, no easy matter."
"Ah well, ah well! you artists see best."
"My lord, I only (aside) earn my fee best."
So with a lady - he, between us,
Borrowed the face and form of Venus.
There was no fear of its rejection - 
Her lover voted it perfection.
So on he went to fame and glory,
And raised his price - which ends the story; - 
But not the moral, - which, though fainter,
Bids one to scorn an honest painter.
In Imitation Of Anacreon
by Matthew Prior

Let 'em Censure: what care I?
The Herd of Criticks I defie.
Let the Wretches know, I write
Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Young
Govern the Numbers of my Song.
All that They approve is sweet:
And All is Sense, that They repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, String thy Servant's Lyre:
Love shall be my endless Theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these Maxims I decline,
Apollo, may Thy Fate be Mine:
May I grasp at empty Praise;
And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.
Faith
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Let a valiant Faith cross swords with Death,
And Death is certain to fall;
For the dead arise with joy in their eyes - 
They were not dead at all.
If this were only a world of chance,
Then faith, with its strong white spark
Could burn through the sod and fashion a God,
And set Him to shine in the dark.
So in troublesome days, and in shadowy ways,
In the dire and difficult time,
We must cling, we must cling to our Faith, and bring
Our courage to heights sublime.
It is not a matter of hugging a creed
That will lift us up to the light,
But in keeping our trust that Love is just,
And that whatever is, is right.
When the hopes of this world into chaos are hurled,
And the devil seems running the earth,
When the bad folks stay and the good pass away,
And greed fares better than worth,
Oh, that is the hour to trust in the Power
That will straighten the tangle out;
For death and sorrow are little things,
But a terrible thing is doubt.
Catullus De Lesbia[1]
by Jonathan Swift

Lesbia for ever on me rails,
To talk of me she never fails.
Now, hang me, but for all her art,
I find that I have gain'd her heart.
My proof is this: I plainly see,
The case is just the same with me;
I curse her every hour sincerely,
Yet, hang me but I love her dearly.
Less Than The Dust
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,
Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less than these!
Less than the weed, that grows beside thy door,
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me.
Even less am I.
Since I, O Lord, am nothing unto thee,
See here thy Sword, I make it keen and bright,
Love's last reward, Death, comes to me to-night,
Farewell,    Zahir-u-din.
The Roman Centurion's Song
by Rudyard Kipling

Legate, I had the news last night, my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid, my wife, my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?
For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze,
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?
You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!
You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?
Let me work here for Britain's sake, at any task you will,
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.
Legate, I come to you in tears, My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!
Chapter Headings - Many Inventions
by Rudyard Kipling

'Less you want your toes trod off you'd better get back at once,
For the bullocks are walking two by two,
The byles are walking two by two,
And the elephants bring the guns.
Ho! Yuss!
Great, big, long, black, forty-pounder guns.
Jiggery jolty to and fro,
Each as big as a launch in tow, 
Blind, dumb, broad-breeched, beggars o' battering-guns.
My Lord the Elephant.
Upon Leech.
by Robert Herrick

Leech boasts, he has a pill, that can alone
With speed give sick men their salvation:
'Tis strange, his father long time has been ill,
And credits physic, yet not trusts his pill:
And why? he knows he must of cure despair,
Who makes the sly physician his heir.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CX
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Leaue, me, O loue which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things.
Grow rich in that which neuer taketh rust;
Whateuer fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedomes be;
Which breakes the clowdes, and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and giue us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth drawes out to death,
And thinke how euill becommeth him to slide,
Who seeketh heau'n, and comes of heau'nly breath.
Then farewell world; thy vttermost I see:
Eternall Loue, maintaine thy life in me.
spendidis longum valedico nugis.
From Earth To Heaven
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Leave me, O love! which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things:
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine, and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide,
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes from heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world, thy uttermost I see,
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
SPLENDIDIS LONGUM VALEDICO NUGIS
On the Death of the Vice-Chancellor, A Physician.1
by John Milton

Learn ye nations of the earth
The condition of your birth,
Now be taught your feeble state,
Know, that all must yield to Fate!
If the mournful Rover, Death,
Say but once-resign your breath-
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle Doom,
Hercules had both withstood
Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.2
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the Chief to Jove allied3
By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had liv'd, and equal skill
Had preserv'd Medea still.4
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a pow'r
To avert Man's destin'd hour,
Learn'd Machaon5 should have known
Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,6
And Jove's bolt had been with ease
Foil'd by Asclepiades.7
Thou too, Sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still had'st filled thy princely place,
Regent of the gowned race,
Had'st advanc'd to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon's skiff explored
The Tartarean gulph abhorr'd.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread
Thee too number'd with the Dead.
Wise and good! untroubled be
The green turf that covers thee,
Thence in gay profusion grow
All the sweetest flow'rs that blow!
Pluto's Consort bid thee rest!
Oeacus pronounce thee blest!
To her home thy shade consign,
Make Elysium ever thine!
Part Of The Ninth Ode Of The Fourth Book.
by Alexander Pope

1 Lest you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught, on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;
2 Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser, native Muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.
3 Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Caesar was, or Newton named;
These raised new empires o'er the earth,
And those, new heavens and systems framed.
4 Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died.
In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.
Twelve Articles[1]
by Jonathan Swift

I
LEST it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.
II
By disputing, I will never,
To convince you once endeavour.
III
When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.
IV
When I talk and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.
V
When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne'er object a word.
VI
When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve and hold my tongue.
VII
Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye:
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.
VIII
Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.
IX
You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.
X
You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.
XI
Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.[2]
XII
Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
'Twill be just as I expect.
Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.
Nursery Rhyme. CXXVIII. Scholastic.
by Unknown

[A Greek bill of fare.]
LEGOMOTON,
Acapon,
Alfagheuse,
Pasti venison.