DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The New Zealot To The Sun
by Herman Melville

Persian, you rise
Aflame from climes of sacrifice
Where adulators sue,
And prostrate man, with brow abased,
Adheres to rites whose tenor traced
All worship hitherto.
Arch type of sway,
Meetly your over-ruling ray
You fling from Asia's plain,
Whence flashed the javelins abroad
Of many a wild incursive horde
Led by some shepherd Cain.
Mid terrors dinned
Gods too came conquerors from your Ind,
The book of Brahma throve;
They came like to the scythed car,
Westward they rolled their empire far,
Of night their purple wove.
Chemist, you breed
In orient climes each sorcerous weed
That energizes dream--
Transmitted, spread in myths and creeds,
Houris and hells, delirious screeds
And Calvin's last extreme.
What though your light
In time's first dawn compelled the flight
Of Chaos' startled clan,
Shall never all your darted spears
Disperse worse Anarchs, frauds and fears,
Sprung from these weeds to man?
But Science yet
An effluence ampler shall beget,
And power beyond your play--
Shall quell the shades you fail to rout,
Yea, searching every secret out
Elucidate your ray.
Fragment: To The People Of England.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

People of England, ye who toil and groan,
Who reap the harvests which are not your own,
Who weave the clothes which your oppressors wear,
And for your own take the inclement air;
Who build warm houses...
And are like gods who give them all they have,
And nurse them from the cradle to the grave...
Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VII.
by Thomas Moore

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'--
Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!--would get up prodigiously well--
Its only defect is--it never would sell.
And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.
Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read--
Tho' the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!
However, Sir--if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men.
Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly--
No job, Sir, more easy--your Country once planned,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.
An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell--
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or--supposing you've nothing original in you--
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2]
(Mind--not to her dinners--a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)
Or--in case nothing else in this world you can do--
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not review!
Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row.[3])
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,
Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;
And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to meet him;
Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches--
May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.
Such, Sir, is our plan--if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.
At present, no more--in reply to this Letter,
A line will oblige very much
Yours, et cetera.
Temple of the Muses.
The River Cuts A Channel
by Paul Cameron Brown

People with money but no fortune
or stomach for the life of an albatross,
watch him soar on self-made wings,
fetch the dingy redness
of morning's first catch with
a long necked bottle
he calls the captain
On Heaven.
by Robert Herrick

Permit mine eyes to see
Part, or the whole of Thee,
O happy place!
Where all have grace,
And garlands shar'd,
For their reward;
Where each chaste soul
In long white stole,
And palms in hand,
Do ravish'd stand;
So in a ring,
The praises sing
Of Three in One
That fill the Throne;
While harps and viols then
To voices say, Amen.
To The Same. By Dr. Sheridan
by Jonathan Swift

12 o'Clock at Noon
Sept. 12, 1718.
SIR,
Perhaps you may wonder, I send you so soon
Another epistle; consider 'tis noon.
For all his acquaintance well know that friend Tom is,
Whenever he makes one, as good as his promise.
Now Phoebus exalted, sits high on his throne,
Dividing the heav'ns, dividing my crown,
Into poems and business, my skull's split in two,
One side for the lawyers, and t'other for you.
With my left eye, I see you sit snug in your stall,
With my right I'm attending the lawyers that scrawl
With my left I behold your bellower a cur chase;
With my right I'm a-reading my deeds for a purchase.
My left ear's attending the hymns of the choir,
My right ear is stunn'd with the noise of the crier.
My right hand's inditing these lines to your reverence,
My left is indenting for me and heirs ever-hence.
Although in myself I'm divided in two,
Dear Dean, I shall ne'er be divided from you.
The Members And The Belly.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Perhaps, had I but shown due loyalty,
This book would have begun with royalty,
Of which, in certain points of view,
Boss[2] Belly is the image true,
In whose bereavements all the members share:
Of whom the latter once so weary were,
As all due service to forbear,
On what they called his idle plan,
Resolved to play the gentleman,
And let his lordship live on air.
'Like burden-beasts,' said they,
'We sweat from day to day;
And all for whom, and what?
Ourselves we profit not.
Our labour has no object but one,
That is, to feed this lazy glutton.
We'll learn the resting trade
By his example's aid.'
So said, so done; all labour ceased;
The hands refused to grasp, the arms to strike;
All other members did the like.
Their boss might labour if he pleased!
It was an error which they soon repented,
With pain of languid poverty acquainted.
The heart no more the blood renew'd,
And hence repair no more accrued
To ever-wasting strength;
Whereby the mutineers, at length,
Saw that the idle belly, in its way,
Did more for common benefit than they.
For royalty our fable makes,
A thing that gives as well as takes
Its power all labour to sustain,
Nor for themselves turns out their labour vain.
It gives the artist bread, the merchant riches;
Maintains the diggers in their ditches;
Pays man of war and magistrate;
Supports the swarms in place,
That live on sovereign grace;
In short, is caterer for the state.
Menenius[3] told the story well:
When Rome, of old, in pieces fell,
The commons parting from the senate.
'The ills,' said they, 'that we complain at
Are, that the honours, treasures, power, and dignity,
Belong to them alone; while we
Get nought our labour for
But tributes, taxes, and fatigues of war.'
Without the walls the people had their stand
Prepared to march in search of other land,
When by this noted fable
Menenius was able
To draw them, hungry, home
To duty and to Rome.[4]
Hymn For Music, After The Battle Of Waterloo.
by William Lisle Bowles

Perish! Almighty Justice cried,
And struck the avenging blow,
And Europe shouts from side to side,
The tyrant is laid low!
Said not his heart, More blood shall stream
Around my sovereign throne?
He wakes from dire ambition's dream,
Pale, trembling, and alone.
ARIA WITH CHORUS.
Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.
Sad mother, weep no more thy children slain;
The trumpets and the battle clangours cease:
Uplift to heaven the loud, the grateful strain,
And hail the dawn of Freedom and of Peace.
CHORUS.
Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.
ARIA.
For joy returned, for peace restored,
Lord of all worlds, to thee we raise,
While Slaughter drops his weary sword,
To thee the hymn of gratitude and praise.
CHORUS.
Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.
Epilogue
by Thomas Oldham

Perplexing case! your pardon, Friends, I pray,
My head so turns, I know not what to say;
However, since I've dared to come before ye,
I'll stop the whirligig,
("Clapping his hand to his forehead_,)
and tell my story:
Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction
It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.
Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:
The devil take him for neglecting it!
Nay though, 'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
From certain motives which were most absurd;
For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,
And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,
To set about it when the play began;
Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,
Then write his epilogue quite ' propos.
The time at last arrives the signal rings,
Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,
And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,
With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,
Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,
To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.
Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite
Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,
And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,
Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose
Over his shoulder, curiously to trace
His progress; zounds! how snail-like was his pace!
Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,
Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:
'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!
As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,
My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;
He was excuse the pun with grape high-loaded.
Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,
Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.
But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; }
I'll end my story. When the play was done,        }
The epilogue was look! 'tis here begun:         }
Such as it is, however, if you will,
I'll read it; shall I, Friends?             ("They clap.")
Your orders I fulfil.
("He reads.")
'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell
Summons me Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;
See, see, the curtain draws; it now commences;
Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:
But let me to my task: what noise is this?
They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!
Now then, to work, my pen: descend, O Muse!
Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;
Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before
Has been imagined, never will be more.
What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,
I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies
Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:
They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.
Again they clap, O extacy!
Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,
He halts, reads, curses, and begins again;
But not a single couplet could he muster;
How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,
All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?
Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!
Pensive And Faltering
by Walt Whitman

Pensive and faltering,
The words, the dead, I write;
For living are the Dead;
(Haply the only living, only real,
And I the apparition - I the spectre.)
Nursery Rhyme. LXXIII. Tales.
by Unknown

Pemmy was a pretty girl,
But Fanny was a better;
Pemmy looked like any churl,
When little Fanny let her.
Pemmy had a pretty nose,
But Fanny had a better;
Pemmy oft would come to blows,
But Fanny would not let her.
Pemmy had a pretty doll,
But Fanny had a better;
Pemmy chatter'd like a poll,
When little Fanny let her.
Pemmy had a pretty song,
But Fanny had a better;
Pemmy would sing all day long,
But Fanny would not let her.
Pemmy lov'd a pretty lad,
And Fanny lov'd a better;
And Pemmy wanted for to wed,
But Fanny would not let her.
Solidarity Song
by Bertolt Brecht

Peoples of the world, together
Join to serve the common cause!
So it feeds us all for ever
See to it that it's now yours.
Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!
Black or white or brown or yellow
Leave your old disputes behind.
Once start talking with your fellow
Men, you'll soon be of one mind.
Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!
If we want to make this certain
We'll need you and your support.
It's yourselves you'll be deserting
if you rat your own sort.
Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!
All the gang of those who rule us
Hope our quarrels never stop
Helping them to split and fool us
So they can remain on top.
Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!
Workers of the world, uniting
Thats the way to lose your chains.
Mighty regiments now are fighting
That no tyranny remains!
Forward, without forgetting
Till the concrete question is hurled
When starving or when eating:
Whose tomorrow is tomorrow?
And whose world is the world?
The Royal Way
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Perfection ever is the price of toil.
Of marchings long, and hardships by the way,
Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day,
'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.
The world admires the wreath upon his brow,
But he alone can tell how much it cost,
And how to gain it he had all things lost.
Results men see, but not the when, or how.
The stately elm which rears its head so high,
And spreads abroad so gracefully its boughs,
Beneath which may repose a herd of cows,
Grows under ground as well as toward the sky.
The bridge which spans the swiftly-flowing stream
O'er which the iron horse, by night and day,
With heavy tread speeds on its busy way,
Rests not on sand, nor slender post and beam.
Below the shifting sand, on solid rock,
The mason safely laid the buttress stone,
And labored long before his work was shown;
But he built well--his work endures each shock.
This work takes time; we chafe at the delay
And try to gain the summit at a bound,
But find full soon our hopes dashed to the ground;
Yet there remains for all the royal way.
And he who would true eminence attain
Must heed the word of Him who came to serve,
Nor from this path a single moment swerve,
If he the great reward would surely gain.
This is the royal way--to serve in love--
Servant to servants ever aim to be
Like Him who gave His life to ransom thee;
Then shalt thou sit with Him on throne above.
Inland
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

People that build their houses inland,
People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
Far from the sea-board, far from the sound
Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
Tons of water striking the shore,--
What do they long for, as I long for
One salt smell of the sea once more?
People the waves have not awakened,
Spanking the boats at the harbor's head,
What do they long for, as I long for,--
Starting up in my inland bed,
Beating the narrow walls, and finding
Neither a window nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,--
One salt taste of the sea once more?
Pelion And Ossa Flourish Side By Side
by William Wordsworth

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled:
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
Non-Resistance
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Perhaps too far in these considerate days
Has patience carried her submissive ways;
Wisdom has taught us to be calm and meek,
To take one blow, and turn the other cheek;
It is not written what a man shall do,
If the rude caitiff smite the other too!
Land of our fathers, in thine hour of need
God help thee, guarded by the passive creed!
As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl,
When through the forest rings the gray wolf's howl;
As the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow
When the black corsair slants athwart her bow;
As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien,
Trusts to his feathers, shining golden-green,
When the dark plumage with the crimson beak
Has rustled shadowy from its splintered peak, - 
So trust thy friends, whose babbling tongues would charm
The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm,
Thy torches ready for the answering peal
From bellowing fort and thunder-freighted keel!
I Didn't Like Him
by Harry Bache Smith

Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately,
Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant.
Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately;
Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present.
I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago,
Fo' now dat I am in de social swim
I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau,
So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.
refrain
Oh, I didn't like his clo'es,
An' I didn't like his eyes,
Nor his walk, nor his talk,
Nor his ready-made neckties.
I didn't like his name a bit,
Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim;
If dem ere reasons ain't enough,
I didn't like Him.
Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone.
Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor.
Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone,
Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur.
Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row.
P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack;
Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how;
But I had to go to jail or give it back.
refrain
Oh, I didn't like his trade;
Trade dat kep' him out all night.
He'd de look ob a crook,
An' he owned a bull's-eye light.
So when policemen come to ask
What I know 'bout dat Jim,
I come to de confusion dat
I didn't like Him.
She, To Him II
by Thomas Hardy

Perhaps, long hence, when I have passed away,
Some other's feature, accent, thought like mine,
Will carry you back to what I used to say,
And bring some memory of your love's decline.
Then you may pause awhile and think, "Poor jade!"
And yield a sigh to me as ample due,
Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid
To one who could resign her all to you -
And thus reflecting, you will never see
That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed,
Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,
But the Whole Life wherein my part was played;
And you amid its fitful masquerade
A Thought as I in yours but seem to be.
1866.
Pennarby Mine
by Arthur Conan Doyle

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
'Never look down!
Stick to the line!'
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.
A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.
Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?
Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might HE get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?
'Twas like two worlds that met that day -
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft
Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
'Got 'em all out!'
'A cousin of mine!'
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.
And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping--well,
He wouldn't say what,
But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.
Then leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode--a crash! a jar!
A grasping hand and a splintered bar.
Gone in his strength,
With the lips that laughed -
Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!
Far down on a narrow ledge,
They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
'Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!
That rope ain't safe! It's worn away!
He's taking his chance,
Slack out the line!
Sweet Lord be with him!' cried Pennarby mine.
'He's got him! He has him! Pull with a will!
Thank God! He's over and breathing still.
And he--Lord's sakes now! What's that? Well!
Blowed if it ain't our London swell.
Your heart is right
If your coat IS fine:
Give us your hand!' cried Pennarby mine.
A Prayer For Purification.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Forse perch' d' altrui.
Perchance that I might learn what pity is,
That I might laugh at erring men no more,
Secure in my own strength as heretofore,
My soul hath fallen from her state of bliss:
Nor know I under any flag but this
How fighting I may 'scape those perils sore,
Or how survive the rout and horrid roar
Of adverse hosts, if I Thy succour miss.
O flesh! O blood! O cross! O pain extreme!
By you may those foul sins be purified,
Wherein my fathers were, and I was born!
Lo, Thou alone art good: let Thy supreme
Pity my state of evil cleanse and hide--
So near to death, so far from God, forlorn.
Perhaps
by Paul Cameron Brown

Perhaps the sky once was shadows,
the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.
Now, those warm lips ease
departing sorrow
like pressed flowers
emptied from hallowed ground.
To His Slave. - Translations From Horace.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

OD. i. 38.
Persian grandeur I abhor;
Linden-wreathed crowns, avaunt:
Boy, I bid thee not explore
Woods which latest roses haunt:
Try on nought thy busy craft
Save plain myrtle; so arrayed
Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught
Fitliest 'neath the scant vine-shade.
If Death Is Kind
by Sara Teasdale

Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
A Party Of Lovers
by John Keats

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.
See with cross'd arms they sit, ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot, must he die
By a humane society?
No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Arise! take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;
Where may your tailor live?'    'I may not tell.
O pardon me, I'm absent now and then.
Where might my tailor live?    I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd,
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'