DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno.
HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.
Dear precious pledge, by Nature snatch'd away,
But yet reserved for me in realms undying;
O thou on whom my life is aye relying,
Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray?
Time was, when sleep could to mine eyes convey
Sweet visions, worthy thee;--why is my sighing
Unheeded now?--who keeps thee from replying?
Surely contempt in heaven cannot stay:
Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain
To feed and banquet on another's woe
(Thus love is conquer'd in his own domain),
But thou, who seest through me, and dost know
All that I feel,--thou, who canst soothe my pain,
Oh! let thy blessed shade its peace bestow.
WROTTESLEY.
The Duke's Answer
by Jonathan Swift

BY DR. SWIFT (Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton)
Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall,
And may be something else withal;
And, were you not so good a writer,
I should present you with a mitre.
Write worse, then, if you can - be wise-
Believe me, 'tis the way to rise.
Talk not of making of thy nest:
Ah! never lay thy head to rest!
That head so well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!
While others rack their busy brains,
You are not in the least at pains.
Down to your dean'ry now repair,
And build a castle in the air.
I'm sure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expense.
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether,
When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when she's in labour,
Well skill'd in midwife artifices,
For she herself oft falls in pieces.
There you shall see a raree show
Will make you scorn this world below,
When you behold the milky-way,
As white as snow, as bright as day;
The glittering constellations roll
About the grinding arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the music of the spheres - 
Your spouse shall then no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain-lecture;
Nor shall she think that she is undone
For quitting her beloved London.
When she's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton-pies;
When you're advanced above Dean Viz,
You'll never think of Goody Griz;
But ever, ever live at ease,
And strive, and strive your wife to please;
In her you'll centre all your joys,
And get ten thousand girls and boys;
Ten thousand girls and boys you'll get,
And they like stars shall rise and set.
While you and spouse, transform'd, shall soon
Be a new sun and a new moon:
Nor shall you strive your horns to hide,
For then your horns shall be your pride.
To De Witt Miller.
by Eugene Field

Dear Miller: You and I despise
The cad who gathers books to sell 'em,
Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth
Or stately folios garbed in vellum.
But when one fellow has a prize
Another bibliophile is needing,
Why, then, a satisfactory trade
Is quite a laudable proceeding.
There's precedent in Bristol's case
The great collector--preacher-farmer;
And in the case of that divine
Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.
When from their sapient, saintly lips
The words of wisdom are not dropping,
They turn to trade--that is to say,
When they're not preaching they are swapping!
So to the flock it doth appear
That this a most conspicuous fact is:
That which these godly pastors do
Must surely be a proper practice.
Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed,
On which De Vinne's art is lavished;
Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing
Is simply waiting to be ravished!
And you have that for which I pine
As you should pine for this fair creature:
Come, now, suppose we make a trade--
You take this gem, and send the Beecher!
Surely, these graceful, tender songs
(In samite garb with lots of gilt on)
Are more to you than those dull tome?
Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton!
Cerberus
by Oliver Herford

Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads must win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The last place one would burglarize.
To The American Invader
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Dear Sir or Madam
(As the case may be), -
Peace hath her victories as well as war
And sometimes
When I have occasion to travel
In this muggy metropolis of ours,
I begin to wonder whether I really am in London,
Or in New York.
On the tops of Atlas 'buses, and all other 'buses,
At the dining-tables of hotels at all prices,
At all theatres,
At all music-halls,
At all art galleries,
At all "evenings,"
At all social functions
Metropolitan in their nature
You, my dear Sir or Madam
(As the case may be),
Flourish and are to the fore,
There are people in the world
Who can pick you out at a glance.
The American woman, I am told,
Wears a certain kind of complexion
And a certain kind of blouse;
The American man, I am told,
Is weedy and an'mic,
A cigarette smoker,
A confirmed spitter,
And a moderate drinker;
He has a soft hat and unlimited dollars:
It is his dollars, of course,
Which are creating all the trouble.
They are beginning to circulate
And "geta-holt"
Wherever honest Britons most do congregate.
My tobacco merchant,
Who sells me two ounces of the real thing every week,
Has just been bought up by an American syndicate;
My barber is in the same case;
And I feel sure
That the woman who brings home "the laundry"
Is seriously considering proposals which have been made to her
By a syndicate of wealthy American gentlemen.
The electric-lighting plant in St. Paul's Cathedral
Was, it seems, paid for by an American.
Another American is doing something or other
With the underground railways,
And a third proposes to erect a building
Which will contain 6,000 rooms
On one of the best sites
On the new Holborn-Strand improvement.
Also I am using
An American roll-top desk,
An American typewriter,
An American chair,
American ink,
American pens,
American blotting paper,
American gum,
American paper fasteners,
American notions,
An American pattern of Ode,
And Heaven knows what besides.
I am all American.
I can whistle the "Star-Spangled Banner,"
I can, really!
Shake!
I like you,
There are no flies on you.
How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home?
Is Pierpont keeping hearty?
Do you miss Carnegie - much?
Have you seen the Amur'can eagle at the Zoo?
Is Monroe's docterin'
Good for dyspepsia?
And it's O to be at home
On the rolling perarie,
With one's money well invested in English concerns,
Run by British labour,
And paying good old, fruity, nourishing British dividends!
To The Dean Of St. Patrick's
by Jonathan Swift

Dear Sir, Since you in humble wise
Have made a recantation,
From your low bended knees arise;
I hate such poor prostration.
'Tis bravery that moves the brave,
As one nail drives another;
If you from me would mercy have,
Pray, Sir, be such another.
You that so long maintain'd the field
With true poetic vigour;
Now you lay down your pen and yield,
You make a wretched figure.
Submit, but do't with sword in hand,
And write a panegyric
Upon the man you cannot stand;
I'll have it done in lyric:
That all the boys I teach may sing
The achievements of their Chiron;
What conquests my stern looks can bring
Without the help of iron.
A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen,
From magazine of standish
Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,
Than any sword we brandish.
My ink's my flash, my pen's my bolt;
Whene'er I please to thunder,
I'll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I'll keep you under.
THOMAS SHERIDAN.
To Mr. Dan Leno
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

(On his Appearance at Sandringham)
Dear Mr. Dan Leno, -
This has been a great week
For Art -
One of the biggest weeks in fact
On record.
For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno,
You were a mere popular entertainer,
Whereas at the present moment
You are a proud and 'appy man,
And in a position to walk about the Strand
With a diamond E
Scintillating in your cravat.
The thing that was anticipated
By the intelligent paragraphists,
My dear Mr. Leno,
Has come to pass.
His Britannic Majesty
King Edward VII., D.G.: B. et T.T.B.R.: I.I.,
Does intend to give artists and authors and people
A little bit more of a show
Than has hitherto fallen to their lot.
His Majesty,
My dear Mr. Leno,
Has always been noted for his tact,
And in opening the ball with you, as it were,
His Majesty has exhibited an amount of tact
Which leaves absolutely nothing to be desired.
Had he commenced with Mr. Swinburne,
Or myself,
Or Mr. Hall Caine
What howls there would have been!
Whereas as it is
Everybody is delighted,
And the Halls resound nightly with his Majesty's praises.
Furthermore,
Besides being tactful,
The King's choice of you,
My dear Mr. Leno,
For an invitation to Sandringham
Has its basis in a profound common sense;
For I am acquainted with nobody in the movement,
My dear Mr. Leno,
Who could have done the Sandringham turn
With anything like the success which appears to have been yours.
I gather from interviews
That the King "laughed heartily" at your jokes,
And that "it was a treat to see him enjoying himself."
It is just here that Mr. Swinburne, myself, and Mr. Hall Caine
Would have broken down.
It seems to me unlikely
That the King would have laughed
At Mr. Swinburne's jokes;
My own jokes, as everybody is aware,
Are constructed on a principle
Which entirely prohibits laughter;
While, as for Mr. Hall Caine's jokes,
They have such a tremendous sale
That it is not good form to laugh at them.
Mr. Leno, my boy,
You have been the humble means
Of doing us all
A great kindness.
Those jokes of yours
Which have tickled Royal ears
Will be nectar to me
When next it is my pleasurable duty
To sit under you;
That hand which Royalty has shaken
I shall grasp
With an added fervour;
That smile will cheer me all the more readily
Because it has cheered
My liege Lord and Sovereign;
Those feet -    -
But, after all, the great point
Is the scarf pin.
I suppose you would not care to lend it to me
For a week or two
While I have one made
Like it?
To Frances
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Dear love, life has dewy mornings,
And the shadeless blaze of noon,
Flowers, that we stop to gather,
That fade from our hands so soon
Dear love, there are meetings, partings,
We have sunshine, we have shade,
There's no continuing city
That our human hands have made
We go onward, joy and sorrow
Checkers all the path we tread,
But our Father loves His children
And with loving care they're led.
Dear love, His great wisdom chooseth
The path that we both have trod,
And through storm, and calm, and sunshine,
We rest in the hand of God
Safety
by Rupert Brooke

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,
And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.
Old Brompton Road
by Paul Cameron Brown

1
"Death is but a sleep"
quaint rationalization
even to Revolutionaries.
Think of Robespierre
holding his bleeding jaw
or Marat outside - 
eyeing the inscription,
scofula no longer distracting while
tepidly emptying bath water.
2
Dreams, poetry of painting,
deathly pastel shades alongside
granite canyons
entwined with rosebuds and leaves - 
bone horseshoes clanking in the dark.
3
Catch basin, drainage ditch
upon which the raspberry
parts its tendrils and
human remains, the loathing
of the living ("not dead yet...."
...appropriate obscenity:)
scrawled on one Victorian
mortuary, windows knocked out,
coffins in full view a
hand's reach away on a dare
dignitaries in a pile pried loose;
one, few years hence across
the Channel, sworn enemy
to the French.
Raymond And Ida
by Manmohan Ghose

Raymond.
Dearest, that sit'st in dreams,
Through the window look, this way.
How changed and desolate seems
The world, Ida, to-day!
Heavy and low the sky is glooming:
Winter is coming!
Ida.
My dreaming heart is stirr'd:
Sadly the winter comes!
The wind is loud: how weird,
Heard in these darken'd rooms!
Speak to me, Raymond; ease this dread:
I am afraid, afraid.
Raymond.
Love, what is this? Like snow
Thy cheeks feel, snow they wear.
What ails my darling so?
What is it thou dost hear?
Close, close, thy soft arms cling to mine:
Tears on thy lashes shine.
Ida.
Hark! love, the wind wails by
The wet October trees,
Swaying them mournfully:
The wet leaves shower and cease.
And hark! how blows the weary rain,
Against the shaken pane.
Raymond.
Ah, yes, the world is drear
Outside; there is no rest.
But what can Ida fear,
Shelter'd upon my breast?
Heed not the storm-blast, beating wild,
I love thee, love thee, child.
Ida.
Thy breath is in my hair,
Thy kisses on my cheek;
Yet I scarce feel them there:
Faintly I hear thee speak.
My heart is dreaming far away,
In some sad, future day.
Raymond.
The future? In the mist
Of years what dost thou see?
O let that dark land rest:
Come back, come back to me!
Look up! How fix'd and vacant seem
Thine eyes; so deep they dream.
Ida.
To leave the blessed light:
Cold in the grave to lie!
No voice, no human sight:
Darkness and apathy!
To die! 'tis hard, ere youth is o'er;
But ah, to love no more!
Raymond.
What dream is this, alas!
O, if but for my sake,
Wake, darling; let this pass:
Ida, dear Ida, wake!
I cannot bear to see those tears:
Thy sad tones hurt my ears.
Ida.
Will he forget me, then,
When I am gone away?
'Twere best: to give him pain,
Let not my memory stay.
But O, even there, in Hades dim,
I would remember him.
Raymond.
Thou griev'st thyself in vain:
Sweet love, be comforted.
Come, leave this world of rain;
To the bright hearth turn thy head.
We have our fireside still, the same:
How cheerful is the flame!
Though darkness round us press;
Though wild, without, it blows;
Here sit thee, while thy face
In the happy firelight glows:
Clasp'd in my arms, lie tranquil here;
And listen, Ida dear.
As, from that outlook chill,
The glad hearth meets our sight,
A charm for every ill
We bear, a charm of might.
Ah, 'gainst its power not death shall stay!
Know'st thou it, darling, say?
Thou smilest! Joy, I see,
Dawns in thine eyes again:
Those cheeks of ivory
Their own sweet bloom regain.
Thou know'st that heavenly charm; how well,
Thy happy kisses tell!
Death And The Dying.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Death never taketh by surprise
The well-prepared, to wit, the wise - 
They knowing of themselves the time
To meditate the final change of clime.
That time, alas! embraces all
Which into hours and minutes we divide;
There is no part, however small,
That from this tribute one can hide.
The very moment, oft, which bids
The heirs of empire see the light
Is that which shuts their fring'd lids
In everlasting night.
Defend yourself by rank and wealth,
Plead beauty, virtue, youth, and health, - 
Unblushing Death will ravish all;
The world itself shall pass beneath his pall.
No truth is better known; but, truth to say,
No truth is oftener thrown away.
A man, well in his second century,
Complain'd that Death had call'd him suddenly;
Had left no time his plans to fill,
To balance books, or make his will.
'O Death,' said he, 'd' ye call it fair,
Without a warning to prepare,
To take a man on lifted leg?
O, wait a little while, I beg.
My wife cannot be left alone;
I must set out my nephew's son,
And let me build my house a wing,
Before you strike, O cruel king!'
'Old man,' said Death, 'one thing is sure, - 
My visit here's not premature.
Hast thou not lived a century!
Darest thou engage to find for me?
In Paris' walls two older men
Has France, among her millions ten?
Thou say'st I should have sent thee word
Thy lamp to trim, thy loins to gird,
And then my coming had been meet - 
Thy will engross'd,
Thy house complete!
Did not thy feelings notify?
Did not they tell thee thou must die?
Thy taste and hearing are no more;
Thy sight itself is gone before;
For thee the sun superfluous shines,
And all the wealth of Indian mines;
Thy mates I've shown thee dead or dying.
What's this, indeed, but notifying?
Come on, old man, without reply;
For to the great and common weal
It doth but little signify
Whether thy will shall ever feel
The impress of thy hand and seal.'
And Death had reason, - ghastly sage!
For surely man, at such an age,
Should part from life as from a feast,
Returning decent thanks, at least,
To Him who spread the various cheer,
And unrepining take his bier;
For shun it long no creature can.
Repinest thou, grey-headed man?
See younger mortals rushing by
To meet their death without a sigh - 
Death full of triumph and of fame,
But in its terrors still the same. - 
But, ah! my words are thrown away!
Those most like Death most dread his sway.
Life And Death
by Helen Leah Reed

"Death after life" shall we sigh as we say it,
Sigh as if death were the end for us all,
Pale at the thought, as in silence we weigh it,
Yield our dull souls to it, bending in thrall?
"Life after death" - look ahead, weakling spirit - 
Sure is the way to a world that is ours.
Death is fruition, why then should we fear it?
Death - the fruition of life's budding powers.
Cor Cordium
by Richard Le Gallienne

To My Wife, Mildred
Dear wife, there is no word in all my songs
But unto thee belongs:
Though I indeed before our true day came
Mistook thy star in many a wandering flame,
Singing to thee in many a fair disguise,
Calling to thee in many another's name,
Before I knew thine everlasting eyes.
Faces that fled me like a hunted fawn
I followed singing, deeming it was Thou,
Seeking this face that on our pillow now
Glimmers behind thy golden hair like dawn,
And, like a setting moon, within my breast
Sinks down each night to rest.
Moon follows moon before the great moon flowers,
Moon of the wild wild honey that is ours;
Long must the tree strive up in leaf and root,
Before it bear the golden-hearted fruit:
And shall great Love at once perfected spring,
Nor grow by steps like any other thing?
COR CORDIUM
The lawless love that would not be denied,
The love that waited, and in waiting died,
The love that met and mated, satisfied.
Ah, love, 'twas good to climb forbidden walls,
Who would not follow where his Juliet calls?
'Twas good to try and love the angel's way,
With starry souls untainted of the clay;
But, best the love where earth and heaven meet,
The god made flesh and dwelling in us, sweet.
(October 22, 1891.)
Constancy. To----.
by Thomas Gent

Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee,
Be this record inscribed on thy tomb:
Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee,
And all thy past virtues relume.
It shall tell--to thy sex's proud honour,
Of sufferings and trials severe,
While still, through protracted affliction,
Not a murmur escaped; but the tear
Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates,
'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed:
That heart--all affection for others--
For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled.
Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd,
What an angel thou wert unto me;
In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd,
Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree!
All was gloom; and in vain had I striven,
For hope ceased a ray to impart;
When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven,
And gave peace to my desolate heart!
For Music
by John Collings Squire, Sir

Death in the cold grey morning
Came to the man where he lay;
And the wind shivered, and the tree shuddered
And the dawn was grey.
And the face of the man was grey in the dawn,
And the watchers by the bed
Knew, as they heard the shaking of the leaves,
That the man was dead.
Death Is A Dialogue Between
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,
I have another trust."
Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
Riders In The Night
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Masks
Death rides black-masked to-night; and through the land
Madness beside him brandishes a torch.
The peaceful farmhouse with its vine-wreathed porch
Lies in their way. Death lifts a bony hand
And knocks, and Madness makes a wild demand
Of fierce Defiance: then the night's deep arch
Reverberates, and under beech and latch
A dead face stares; shot where one took his stand.
Then down the night wild hoofs; the darkness beats;
And like a torrent through the startled town
Destruction sweeps; high overhead a flame;
And Violence that shoots amid the streets.
A piercing whistle: one who gallops down:
And Death and Madness go the way they came.
II.
The Raid
Rain and black night. Beneath the covered bridge
The rushing Fork that roars among its rocks.
Nothing is out. Nothing? What's that which blocks
The long grey road upon the rain-swept ridge?
A horseman! No! A mask! As hewn from jet
With ready gun he waits and sentinels
The open way. Far off he hears wild bells;
And now a signal shrills through wind and wet.
Was that the thunder, or the rushing stream?
The tunnel of the bridge throbs with mad hoofs;
Now its black throat pours out a midnight cloud
Riders! behind whom steadily a gleam
Grows to a glare that silhouettes dark roofs,
Whence armed Pursuit gathers and gallops loud.
III.
The Rendezvous
A lonely barn, lost in a field of weeds;
A fallen fence, where partly hangs a gate:
The skies are darkening and the hour is late;
The Indian dusk comes, red in rainy beads.
Along a path, which from a woodland leads,
Horsemen come riding who dismount and wait:
Here Anarchy conspires with Crime and Hate,
And Madness masks and on its business speeds.
Another Kuklux in another war
Of blacker outrage down the night they ride,
Brandishing a torch and gun before each farm.
Is Law asleep then? Does she fear? Where are
The servants of her strength, the Commonweath's pride?
And where the steel of her restraining arm?
IV.
In Black And Red
The hush of death is on the night. The corn,
That loves to whisper to the wind; the leaves,
That dance with it, are silent: one perceives
No motion mid the fields, as dry as horn.
What light is that? It cannot be the morn!
Yet in the east it seems its witchcraft weaves
A fiery rose. Look! how it grows! it heaves
And flames and tosses! 'Tis a burning barn!
And now the night is rent with shouts and shots.
Dark forms and faces hurry past. The gloom
Gallops with riders. Homes are less than straw
Before this madness: human lives, mere lots
Flung in and juggled from the cap of Doom,
Where Crime stamps yelling on the face of Law.
Her Temple
by Thomas Hardy

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.
They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."
Friend And Foe.
by Friedrich Schiller

Dearly I love a friend; yet a foe I may turn to my profit;
Friends show me that which I can; foes teach me that which I should.