DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Creole Lady
by Charles Baudelaire

In a perfumed land caressed by the sun
I found, beneath the trees' crimson canopy,
palms from which languor pours on one's
eyes, the veiled charms of a Creole lady.
Her hue pale, but warm, a dark-haired enchantress,
she shows in her neck's poise the noblest of manners:
slender and tall, she strides by like a huntress,
tranquil her smile, her eyes full of assurance.
If you traveled, my Lady, to the land of true glory,
the banks of the Seine, or green Loire, a Beauty
worthy of gracing the manors of olden days,
you'd inspire, among arbours' shadowy secrets,
a thousand sonnets in the hearts of the poets,
whom, more than your blacks, your vast eyes would enslave.
The Wild Rose.
by Marietta Holley

In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill,
A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light,
The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will,
But there it grew and blossomed, pale and white.
Only one flower it bore, and that was frail and small,
But I think it was brave to try to grow at all.
In groves of fair Cashmere, or sheltered garden of kings,
Sweet with a thousand flowers, with birds of paradise
Fanning her blushing cheeks with their glowing wings,
Praising her deepening bloom with their great bright eyes,
Life would have been a pleasure instead of a toil,
To my pale little patient rose of the sandy soil.
Did she ever sadly think of her wasted life,
Folding her wan weak hands so helpless and still;
And the great oak by her sheltering glad bird life,
And the thirsty meadows praising the running rill;
She could hear the happy work-day song of the busy brook,
While she, poor thing, could only stand and look.
Did the wee white rose ever think of her lonely life,
That there were none to care if she tried to grow;
None to care if the cloud that hung in the west
Should burst, and scatter her pale leaves far and low?
Did she ever wish that the heavy cloud would fall
And hide her, so unblest, from the sight of all?
One sky bends o'er rich garden flowers, and those
That dwell in barren soil, untended and unblest;
And I think that God was pleased with the small white rose,
That tried so patiently to live and do its best;
That bravely kept its small leaves pure and fair
On the waste of dreary sand, and the desert air.
Good Precepts, Or Counsel
by Robert Herrick

In all thy need, be thou possest
Still with a well prepared breast;
Nor let the shackles make thee sad;
Thou canst but have what others had.
And this for comfort thou must know,
Times that are ill won't still be so:
Clouds will not ever pour down rain;
A sullen day will clear again.
First, peals of thunder we must hear;
When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.
The North Country
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

In another country, black poplars shake themselves over a pond,
And rooks and the rising smoke-waves scatter and wheel from the works beyond;
The air is dark with north and with sulphur, the grass is a darker green,
And people darkly invested with purple move palpable through the scene.
Soundlessly down across the counties, out of the resonant gloom
That wraps the north in stupor and purple travels the deep, slow boom
Of the man-life north-imprisoned, shut in the hum of the purpled steel
As it spins to sleep on its motion, drugged dense in the sleep of the wheel.
Out of the sleep, from the gloom of motion, soundlessly, somnambule
Moans and booms the soul of a people imprisoned, asleep in the rule
Of the strong machine that runs mesmeric, booming the spell of its word
Upon them and moving them helpless, mechanic, their will to its will deferred.
Yet all the while comes the droning inaudible, out of the violet air,
The moaning of sleep-bound beings in travail that toil and are will-less there
In the spell-bound north, convulsive now with a dream near morning, strong
With violent achings heaving to burst the sleep that is now not long.
The First Mars Or Makes.
by Robert Herrick

In all our high designments 'twill appear,
The first event breeds confidence or fear.
The Fiddler
by Lola Ridge

In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.
Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.
The Ocean Of Song
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In a land beyond sight or conceiving,
In a land where no blight is, no wrong,
No darkness, no graves, and no grieving,
There lies the great ocean of song.
And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden
By any save gods, and their kind,
Are not blue, are not green, but are golden,
Like moonlight and sunlight combined.
It was whispered to me that their waters
Were made from the gathered-up tears,
That were wept by the sons and the daughters
Of long-vanished eras and spheres.
Like white sands of heaven the spray is
That falls all the happy day long,
And whoever it touches straightway is
Made glad with the spirit of song.
Up, up to the clouds where their hoary
Crowned heads melt away in the skies,
The beautiful mountains of glory
Each side of the song ocean rise.
Here day is one splendor of sky light
Of God's light with beauty replete.
Here night is not night, but is twilight,
Pervading, enfolding and sweet.
Bright birds from all climes and all regions
That sing the whole glad summer long,
Are dumb, till they flock here in legions
And lave in the ocean of song.
It is here that the four winds of heaven,
The winds that do sing and rejoice,
It is here they first came and were given
The secret of sound and a voice.
Far down along beautiful beeches,
By night and by glorious day,
The throng of the gifted ones reaches,
Their foreheads made white with the spray.
And a few of the sons and the daughters
Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight,
Go down in the wonderful waters,
And bathe in those billows of light
And their souls ever more are like fountains,
And liquid and lucent and strong,
High over the tops of the mountains
Gush up the sweet billows of song.
No drouth-time of waters can dry them.
Whoever has bathed in that sea,
All dangers, all deaths, they defy them,
And are gladder than gods are, with glee.
The Clocks Of Death
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

In a life where the clocks
Are slow or fast,
It is a pleasant thing
To die together
As we are dying.
From the Japanese of the Wife of Bes-syo Ko-saburo Naga-haru, (sixteenth century).
Good Precepts Or Counsel.
by Robert Herrick

In all thy need be thou possess'd
Still with a well-prepared breast;
Nor let the shackles make thee sad;
Thou canst but have what others had.
And this for comfort thou must know
Times that are ill won't still be so.
Clouds will not ever pour down rain;
A sullen day will clear again.
First peals of thunder we must hear,
Then lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.
Thomas Winterbottom Hance
by William Schwenck Gilbert

In all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too
And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France
He said so, and he ought to know.
"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros
Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."
But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.
She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.
PIERRE had a doating mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage;
HIS Ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.
At HANCE'S doings every morn,
With sheer delight HIS mother cried;
And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn
Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.
But HANCE'S powers began to fail
His constitution was not strong
And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings' minds at rest.
Said MRS. HANCE, "Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,
But still they'd better meet, I thinks."
"Assurement!" said MADAME PIERRE.
A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,
The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.
Said MRS. H., "Your work you see
Go in, my noble boy, and win."
"En garde, mon fils!" said MADAME P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"
(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
I've been obliged to draw them small.)
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!
"The French for 'Pish'" said THOMAS HANCE.
Said PIERRE, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"
Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three!
We're sittin' here to see all fair."
"C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"
"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,"
Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France.
"I fight not coward foe like you!"
Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.
"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried.
"L'Anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each went on his respective road.
My Picture-Gallery
by Walt Whitman

In a little house keep I pictures suspended, it is not a fix'd house,
It is round, it is only a few inches from one side to the other;
Yet behold, it has room for all the shows of the world, all memories?
Here the tableaus of life, and here the groupings of death;
Here, do you know this? this is cicerone himself,
With finger rais'd he points to the prodigal pictures.
To Love[1]
by Jonathan Swift

In all I wish, how happy should I be,
Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee!
So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise;
And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise.
Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art,
They catch the cautious, let the rash depart.
Most nets are fill'd by want of thought and care
But too much thinking brings us to thy snare;
Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay,
And throw the pleasing part of life away.
But, what does most my indignation move,
Discretion! thou wert ne'er a friend to Love:
Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts,
By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts;
While the blind loitering God is at his play,
Thou steal'st his golden pointed darts away:
Those darts which never fail; and in their stead
Convey'st malignant arrows tipt with lead:
The heedless God, suspecting no deceits,
Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats;
But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn,
And from her shepherd can find no return,
Laments, and rages at the power divine,
When, curst Discretion! all the fault was thine:
Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds,
And bred such feuds between those kindred gods,
That Venus cannot reconcile her sons;
When one appears, away the other runs.
The former scales, wherein he used to poise
Love against love, and equal joys with joys,
Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride,
Where titles, power, and riches, still subside.
Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run,
And tell him, how thy children are undone:
Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,
And strike Discretion to the shades below.
Translation Of A South American Ode
by Oliver Goldsmith

In all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.
Golden Egg.
by James McIntyre

In ancient times we have been told
A goose did lay an egg of gold,
She did produce one every day,
So regular this goose did lay.
But her stupid foolish master
Wanted her to lay them faster,
And he at last the goose did kill,
Gold grist no more came to his mill.
But a strange tale we now unfold,
In California's mines of gold,
There they keep both hens and chickens,
'Mong the gravel scratching pickings.
But hens do find the golden shiner,
Is too heavy for their dinner,
For it they cannot well digest,
As it lies solid in their breast.
Then they are slain and you behold
In their craw the shining gold,
Made up of particles so fine,
The purest gold in all the mine.
Then how happy is the miner,
When he has sweet fowl for dinner,
And he doth find within its craw,
A little golden bonanza.
And in Ontario the hen
Is worthy of the poet's pen,
For she doth well deserve the praise
Bestowed on her for her fine lays.
Vivien's Song. At The L.L.A. Examination
by Robert Fuller Murray

In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,
x and x^2 can ne'er be equal powers,
Unless x=1, or none at all.
It is the little error in the sum,
That by and by will make the answer come
To something queer, or else not come at all.
The little error in the easy sum,
The little slit across the kettle-drum,
That makes the instrument not play at all.
It is not worth correcting: let it go:
But shall I?    Answer, Prudence, answer, no.
And bid me do it right or not at all.
Blame.
by Robert Herrick

In battles what disasters fall,
The king he bears the blame of all.
No East Or West
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

In Christ there is no East or West,
In Him no South or North,
But one great Fellowship of Love
Throughout the whole wide earth.
In Him shall true hearts everywhere
Their high communion find.
His service is the golden cord
Close-binding all mankind.
Join hands then, Brothers of the Faith,
Whatever your race may be!--
Who serves my Father as a son
Is surely kin to me.
In Christ now meet both East and West,
In Him meet South and North,
All Christly souls are one in Him,
Throughout the whole wide earth.
Jack-In-The-Box
by James Whitcomb Riley

(Grandfather, musing.)
In childish days! O memory,
You bring such curious things to me! -
Laughs to the lip - tears to the eye,
In looking on the gifts that lie
Like broken playthings scattered o'er
Imagination's nursery floor!
Did these old hands once click the key
That let "Jack's" box-lid upward fly,
And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf
Leap, as though frightened at himself,
And quiveringly lean and stare
At me, his jailer, laughing there?
A child then! Now - I only know
They call me very old; and so
They will not let me have my way, -
But uselessly I sit all day
Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke
The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke,
And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue,
And chuckle - ay, I often do -
Seeing again, all vividly,
Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee
To see how much he looks like me!
... They talk. I can't hear what they say -
But I am glad, clean through and through
Sometimes, in fancying that they
Are saying, "Sweet, that fancy strays
In age back to our childish days!"
Day
by George William Russell

In day from some titanic past it seems
As if a thread divine of memory runs;
Born ere the Mighty One began his dreams,
Or yet were stars and suns.
But here an iron will has fixed the bars;
Forgetfulness falls on earth's myriad races:
No image of the proud and morning stars
Looks at us from their faces.
Yet yearning still to reach to those dim heights,
Each dream remembered is a burning-glass,
Where through to darkness from the Light of Lights
Its rays in splendour pass.
On The Same (On The Upright Judge, Who Condemned The Drapier's Printer)
by Jonathan Swift

In church your grandsire cut his throat;
To do the job too long he tarried:
He should have had my hearty vote
To cut his throat before he married.
Aestivation - An Unpublished Poem, By My Late Latin Tutor
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

In candent ire the solar splendor flames;
The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper.
How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!
To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum, - 
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!
Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump, - 
Depart, - be off, - excede, - evade, - erump!
Gone
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

In Collins-street standeth a statue tall,*
A statue tall on a pillar of stone,
Telling its story, to great and small,
Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone.
Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,
Feeble and faint, and languid and low,
He lay on the desert a dying man,
Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.
There are perils by land, and perils by water,
Short, I ween, are the obsequies
Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter
With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;
And well for him when the timbers start,
And the stout ship reels and settles below,
Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart
As that dead man gone where we all must go.
Man is stubborn his rights to yield,
And redder than dews at eventide
Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,
By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride;
But few who have heard their death-knell roll,
From the cannon's lips where they faced the foe,
Have fallen as stout and steady of soul
As that dead man gone where we all must go.
Traverse yon spacious burial-ground,
Many are sleeping soundly there,
Who pass'd with mourners standing around,
Kindred and friends, and children fair;
Did he envy such ending? 'twere hard to say;
Had he cause to envy such ending? no;
Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay
When it once has gone where we all must go?
What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,
The blighted herbage, the black'ning log,
The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,
Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?
That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,
Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know
That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food,
When once they've gone where we all must go.
With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,
With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes,
He saw the sun go down on the sand,
And he slept, and never saw it rise;
'Twas well; he toil'd till his task was done,
Constant and calm in his latest throe;
The storm was weathered, the battle was won,
When he went, my friends, where we all must go.
God grant that whenever, soon or late,
Our course is run and our goal is reach'd,
We may meet our fate as steady and straight
As he whose bones in yon desert bleach'd;
No tears are needed, our cheeks are dry,
We have none to waste upon living woe;
Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,
Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?
We tarry yet, we are toiling still,
He is gone and he fares the best,
He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,
He has fairly earned his season of rest;
No tears are needed, fill out the wine,
Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow;
Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,
To a brave man gone where we all must go.
Why The Mole Is Blind.
by Edwin C. Ranck

In days gone by, when cows could fly
And goblins rode on bears;
When fairies danced upon the green
And giants moped in lairs,
There lived alone upon a shelf
A tinsie, winsie little elf.
Just when the stars came out at night
And moonbeams filled the earth with light,
Down from his perch this little elf
Would jump and wander by himself.
He wore a pair of little wings
Tied in their place by golden strings.
One day he took a kind of notion
To take a trip upon the ocean.
He combed his hair and washed his face
And put his little wings in place,
Then from his shelf he softly stole
And went to see his friend the mole
Who gave to him a pea-green boat
And guaranteed that it would float.
A funny thing about this boat
'Twas patterned from a ten-pound note.
The little elf was greatly pleased
And laughed until he sneezed and sneezed;
He launched his boat upon the sea
And kicked his little heels in glee.
The mole looked on in glad surprise
(For in those days all moles had eyes.)
He shouted out a loud farewell
As the little row-boat rose and fell.
The elf picked up a golden oar
And soon lost sight of mole and shore.
The elf rowed out for quite a way
And in the waves did sport and play,
Until at length the sun sank low
And then he thought it time to go.
Now just as luck would have it then
A prowling sea gull left his den.
The savage sea gull loudly laughed
To see an elf in such a craft,
And swooping down upon the water
He did a thing he hadn't oughter,
For with his strong and sturdy beak
He caused the boat to spring a leak.
He said he longed for a little change
And the bank-note boat was just in range;
The poor young elf gave one big holler
Just as the sea gull made a swallow
(And this is strange indeed to follow
For a gull himself is just a swallow.)
The faithful mole heard this loud yell
And rushed down to the shore pell-mell.
Alas, alas he was too late
And saw his friend's unhappy fate;
He groaned, and shrieked and tore his fur
And raised an awful din and stir.
The sea gull heard this awful racket
And seized the mole, just like a packet.
He carried him across the seas
To teach the young gulls A B C's.
But the loving mole went blind with rage
And they had to put him in a cage,
And ever since that fatal night
The moles have all been out of sight.
Samuel.
by H. P. Nichols

In Bible times so long ago,
And in a far-off city, too,
A mother watched her only child
As he in strength and beauty grew.
And when his little tottering feet
Had scarcely learned to go alone,--
Before his baby voice could speak
Her name, with a sweet, joyous tone,--
She took her boy and travelled on,
Away from home, for many a mile,
That with a good and holy man
Her darling son might live a while;
That he might learn about the God
Who made the earth and sea and sky;
And then she left him there and turned
Back to her home, with many a sigh.
She could not place him on her knee
And tell him he was very dear;
And so she made a little coat
And brought it to him every year.
But you, my little girl, can learn,
While you are sitting close by me,
Of heaven, and that kind God above,
Who made in love each thing we see.
And you should thank Him every day,
That you can here His goodness know;
And from your pleasant, happy home,
And your dear parents, need not go.
Of Clementina
by Walter Savage Landor

In Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,
And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?
Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Have I not cull'd as sweet before:
Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.
I now behold another scene,
Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light,
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright.
Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty who, when she goes,
Is gone for ever.