DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Aladdin and the Jinn
by Vachel Lindsay

"Bring me soft song," said Aladdin.
"This tailor-shop sings not at all.
Chant me a word of the twilight,
Of roses that mourn in the fall.
Bring me a song like hashish
That will comfort the stale and the sad,
For I would be mending my spirit,
Forgetting these days that are bad,
Forgetting companions too shallow,
Their quarrels and arguments thin,
Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:" - 
"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.
"Bring me old wines," said Aladdin.
"I have been a starved pauper too long.
Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell,
Serve them with fruit and with song: - 
Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans
Digged from beneath the black seas: - 
New-gathered dew from the heavens
Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,
Cups from the angels' pale tables
That will make me both handsome and wise,
For I have beheld her, the princess,
Firelight and starlight her eyes.
Pauper I am, I would woo her.
And - let me drink wine, to begin,
Though the Koran expressly forbids it."
"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.
"Plan me a dome," said Aladdin,
"That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,
When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,
Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon."
"Build me a dome," said Aladdin,
"That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,
The fullness of life and of beauty,
Peace beyond peace to the eye - 
A palace of foam and of opal,
Pure moonlight without and within,
Where I may enthrone my sweet lady."
"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.
Sonnet 66 To the Lady L.S.
by Michael Drayton

Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit,
A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces,
The Goddesses of memory and wit,
Which in due order take their seuerall places,
In whose deare bosome, sweet delicious loue,
Layes downe his quiuer, that he once did beare,
Since he that blessed Paradice did proue,
Forsooke his mothers lap to sport him there.
Let others striue to entertaine with words,
My soule is of another temper made;
I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,
Deuouring time my faith, shall not inuade:
Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,
Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.
The Broker Of Dreams
by Richard Le Gallienne

Bring not your dreams to me - 
Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream - 
Saying, "He, too, doth dream,
Touched of the moon."
Nay! wouldst thou vanish see
Thy darling phantoms,
Bring them then to me!
For my hard business - though so soft it seems - 
Was ever dreams and dreams.
And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain,
Valuing at nought
Her bosom's locket, with its little chain,
Love's all that Love hath brought;
So must I weigh and measure
Thy fading treasure,
Sighing to see it go
As surely as the snow.
For I have such sad knowledge of all things
That shine like dew a little, all that sings
And ends its song in weeping - 
Such sowing and such reaping! - 
There is no cure but sleeping.
A Frolic.
by Robert Herrick

Bring me my rosebuds, drawer, come;
So, while I thus sit crown'd,
I'll drink the aged C'cubum,
Until the roof turn round.
In A Season Of Bereavement.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Bright summer comes, all bloom and flowers,
To garland o'er her faded bowers;
There's balm and sunshine on her wing,
But where's the friend she used to bring?
One heart is sad 'mid all the glee,
And only asks, "Oh, where is he?"
He comes not now, he comes not now,
To chase the gloom from off my brow,
He comes not with his wonted smile
The weary moments to beguile.
There's joy in every look I see,
But mine is sad, for "Where is he?"
Closed is the book we used to read;
There's none to smile, there's none to heed;
Our 'customed walk's deserted, too;
It charms not as it used to do;
The fav'rite path, the well-known tree,
All, all are whispering, "Where is he?"
This faithful heart is now a shrine
For each dear look and tone of thine,
And every scene thou used to prize
Forever hallowed in my eyes;
But oh! how loved those friends shall be
Whose tearful eyes say, "Where is he?"
I would not breathe to stranger's ear
A name so sacred and so clear,
And, when the reckless crowd are nigh,
My bosom checks the rising sigh;
But when no human eye can see.
It bleeding cries, "Ah, where is he?"
Oh, how I miss thy smile of light,
"Welcome" at morn and kind "good night!"
But, when the quiet eve comes on,
I feel that thou indeed art gone.
That herald of delight to me
Is joyless now, for "Where is he?"
I have not seen the crimson dye,
Which sunset gives the western sky,
Since on thy couch of death thou lay
And watched its glories fade away.
Those hues, so oft admired with thee,
Would ask too loudly, "Where is he?"
And oh! that orb, on whose mild rays
So fondly, too, we used to gaze,
And, though far distant, there unite
At the same sacred hour of night,
Seems sadly now to whisper me,
"Thou art all alone, where, where is he?"
Life was to us no cloudless day,
Blossom and blight still marked our way;
But sorrow is not skilled to part,
It links more closely heart to heart.
Yes! and they ever linked shall be 
"Summer, oh! tell me, where is he?"
I hear a voice upon the breeze,
It speaks of holier ties than these;
Of worlds, where farewell sounds are o'er,
And Death a victor never more.
It bids me for that clime prepare,
And sweetly whispers, "He is there."
Bright Scenes Must All Depart.
by Lennox Amott

Bright scenes must all depart as they've departed,
Unshadowed years will fly as they have flown,
And fairer visions leave us silent-hearted,
Keen, lashing blasts must blow as they have blown.
Old mem'ries must grow dim and fade away,
Across the world's wide wastes the sun shall set,
Thou shalt press forward on thy toil-trod way,
Nor leave me one, just one, one sad regret.
Ah, where shall I be then?--forgot--estranged,
When years have rolled their glory at thy feet,
When friends and kindred all, yea, all have changed
And others come their chosen one to greet.
And yet what prayer from me could now implore,
Could crave for all it would, for words have fled?
May Heaven preserve thee as thou wast before,
And multiply all blessings on thy head.
Formed to be great, ennobled in thy pride,
Move on to Honour's portal and, below,
All human reverence shall not be denied,
And Earth shall give thee all it can bestow.
Then Glory's chaplet shall adorn thy brow,
Thy sun shall rise, before it Night shall flee,
And Heaven with all prosperity endow,
And lift a smiling countenance on thee.
The Flower Of Finae.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

I.
Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,
A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.
II.
Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.
III.
But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter?
And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her?
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?
IV.
One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;
Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness?--
He has told his hard fortune, no more he can stay,
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.
V.
For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland;
He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.
VI.
He fought at Cremona--she hears of his story;
He fought at Cassano--she's proud of his glory.
Yet sadly she sings Si'bhail a r'in[1] all the day,
"Oh! come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."
VII.
Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,
Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted;
She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away,
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.
VIII.
Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging--
Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging--
Behind him the Cravats their sections display--
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.
IX.
On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.
X.
In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,
And by it a pale, weeping maiden is praying;
That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray;
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.
Bring Her Again, O Western Wind
by William Ernest Henley

Bring her again, O western wind,
Over the western sea:
Gentle and good and fair and kind,
Bring her again to me!
Not that her fancy holds me dear,
Not that a hope may be:
Only that I may know her near,
Wind of the western sea.
1875
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta.
HE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVEN.
Bright spirit, from those earthly bonds released,
The loveliest ever wove in Nature's loom,
From thy bright skies compassionate the gloom
Shrouding my life that once of joy could taste!
Each false suggestion of thy heart has ceased,
That whilom bade thee stem disdain assume;
Now, all secure, heaven's habitant become,
List to my sighs, thy looks upon me cast.
Mark the huge rock, whence Sorga's waters rise;
And see amidst its waves and borders stray
One fed by grief and memory that ne'er dies
But from that spot, oh! turn thy sight away
Where I first loved, where thy late dwelling lies;
That in thy friends thou nought ungrateful may'st survey!
NOTT.
Blest soul, that, loosen'd from those bands, art flown--
Bands than which Nature never form'd more fair,
Look down and mark how changed to carking care
From gladdest thoughts I pass my days unknown.
Each false opinion from my heart is gone,
That once to me made thy sweet sight appear
Most harsh and bitter; now secure from fear
Here turn thine eyes, and listen to my moan.
Turn to this rock whence Sorga's waters rise,
And mark, where through the mead its waters flow,
One who of thee still mindful ceaseless sighs:
But leave me there unsought for, where to glow
Our flames began, and where thy mansion lies,
Lest thou in thine shouldst see what grieved thee so.
ANON., OX., 1795.
A Merry Madrigal.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Brightly dawns our wedding day;
Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!
Whither, whither art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
What though mortal joys be hollow?
Pleasures come, if sorrows follow:
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Yet until the shadows fall
Over one and over all,
Sing a merry madrigal 
Fal la!
Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours are surely creeping,
Little need for woeful weeping,
Till the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the cup of sorrow 
I to-day and thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song 
Ding dong! Ding dong!
What, though solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later, over all?
Sing a merry madrigal 
Fal la!
Roses And Rue
by Sara Teasdale

Bring me the roses white and red,
And take the laurel leaves away;
Yea, wreathe the roses round my head
That wearies 'neath the crown of bay.
"We searched the wintry forests thro'
And found no roses anywhere
But we have brought a little rue
To twine a circlet for your hair."
I would not pluck the rose in May,
I wove a laurel crown instead;
And when the crown is cast away,
They bring me rue, the rose is dead.
Stars
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.)
Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air,
Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair?
As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through,
Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too?
Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes,
Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.
Now and then a winged child turns his merry face
Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place!
Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!)
In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.
Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry,
Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.
Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men,
Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.
Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are,
Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.
The Silent Melody
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Bring me my broken harp," he said;
"We both are wrecks, - but as ye will, - 
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long - how long! - ago.
"I cannot see its tarnished gold,
I cannot hear its vanished tone,
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks, - a while ago
It had some silver strings, I know,
"But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange, - 
Yes! iron strings, - I know, - I know, - 
We both are wrecks of long ago.
"We both are wrecks, - a shattered pair, - 
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise.
What say ye to the lovesick air
That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?
Ay! trust me, - under breasts of snow
Hearts could be melted long ago!
"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash
That from his dreams the soldier woke,
And bade him face the lightning flash
When battle's cloud in thunder broke? . . .
Wrecks, - nought but wrecks! - the time was when
We two were worth a thousand men!"
And so the broken harp they bring
With pitying smiles that none could blame;
Alas! there's not a single string
Of all that filled the tarnished frame!
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!
"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre . . .
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There
They love to dally with the wire
As Isaac played with Esau's hair.
Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune
That Marian called the Breath of June!"
And so they softly gather round
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems
His fingers move: but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams. . . .
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!"
Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;
To him the unreal sounds are sweet, - 
No discord mars the silent strain
Scored on life's latest, starlit page - 
The voiceless melody of age.
Sweet are the lips, of all that sing,
When Nature's music breathes unsought,
But never yet could voice or string
So truly shape our tenderest thought
As when by life's decaying fire
Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!
Reverie
by Walter De La Mare

Bring not bright candles, for his eyes
In twilight have sweet company;
Bring not bright candles, else they fly - 
His phantoms fly - 
Gazing aggrieved on thee!
Bring not bright candles, startle not
The phantoms of a vacant room,
Flocking above a child that dreams - 
Deep, deep in dreams, - 
Hid, in the gathering gloom!
Bring not bright candles to those eyes
That between earth and stars descry,
Lovelier for the shadows there,
Children of air,
Palaces in the sky!
Welcome To The Nations
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Bright on the banners of lily and rose
Lo! the last sun of our century sets!
Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,
All but her friendships the nation forgets
All but her friends and their welcome forgets!
These are around her; but where are her foes?
Lo, while the sun of her century sets,
Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!
Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swell
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around
Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell;
Welcome! the walls of her temple resound!
Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound
Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;
Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;
Welcome I still trembles on Liberty's bell!
Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea
Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine;
Welcome, once more, to the land of the free,
Shadowed alike by the pahn and the pine;
Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine,
"Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free";
Over your children their branches entwine,
Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!
Brighter Shone The Golden Shadows
by Louisa May Alcott

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.
Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.
Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And o'er the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The "Power of Love," by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.
To A Bed Of Tulips.
by Robert Herrick

Bright tulips, we do know
You had your coming hither,
And fading-time does show
That ye must quickly wither.
Your sisterhoods may stay,
And smile here for your hour;
But die ye must away,
Even as the meanest flower.
Come, virgins, then, and see
Your frailties, and bemoan ye;
For, lost like these, 'twill be
As time had never known ye.
Memory
by Anne Bronte

Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower, a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee,
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.
Problems.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up,
And say how many dew;
Tell me how far the morning leaps,
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadths of blue!
Write me how many notes there be
In the new robin's ecstasy
Among astonished boughs;
How many trips the tortoise makes,
How many cups the bee partakes, --
The debauchee of dews!
Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
By withes of supple blue?
Whose fingers string the stalactite,
Who counts the wampum of the night,
To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban house
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who 'll let me out some gala day,
With implements to fly away,
Passing pomposity?
Hie For Christmas!
by Lizzie Lawson

Bring Frost, bring Snow,
Come winter,
Bring us holly,
Bring joy at Christmas,
Off with Melancholy!
Sing hie, sing hey,
Sing ho,
Sing holly,
Sing hie for Christmas!
Isn't winter jolly?
Sing Jack, Sing Jill,
Sing Jo,
Sing Polly,
Sing hie for Christmas,
Mistletoe and Holly.
Sonnets: Idea IV
by Michael Drayton

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear,
Since he that bless'd paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there
Let others strive to entertain with words
My soul is of a braver mettle made;
I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which time cannot invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you;
Be you most worthy whilst I am most true!
Crazy Jane And The Bishop
by William Butler Yeats

Bring me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
(all find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Words For Music Perhaps
by William Butler Yeats

Crazy Jane And The Bishop
Bring me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
i(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
i(The solid man and the coxcomb.)
Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
i(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
i(The solid man and the coxcomb.)
The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
i(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
i(The solid man and the coxcomb.)
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
i(all find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
i(The solid man and the coxcomb.)