DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Rhymes On The Road. Extract V. Padua.
by Thomas Moore

Fancy and Reality.--Rain-drops and Lakes.--Plan of a Story.--Where to place the Scene of it.--In some unknown Region.--Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.
The more I've viewed this world the more I've found,
That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare.
Fancy commands within her own bright round
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
A single hue unborrowed from the sun--
But 'tis the mental medium it shines thro'
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on Peris' wings!
And such, I deem, the difference between real,
Existing Beauty and that form ideal
Which she assumes when seen by poets' eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop--with all those dyes
Which Fancy's variegating prism supples.
I have a story of two lovers, filled
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world--what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
For two such perfect lovers I know not.
Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he,
The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea,
By nothing but its name of Beauty known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom--take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make at least one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!
Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
(What Grandpa told the Children)
The moon?    It is a griffin's egg,
Hatching to-morrow night.
And how the little boys will watch
With shouting and delight
To see him break the shell and stretch
And creep across the sky.
The boys will laugh.    The little girls,
I fear, may hide and cry.
Yet gentle will the griffin be,
Most decorous and fat,
And walk up to the milky way
And lap it like a cat.
The Stag-Hunt.
by George Pope Morris

The morning is breaking--
The stag is away!
The hounds and the hunters
The signal obey!
The horn bids the echoes
Awake as we go,
And nature is jocund
With hark!--tally-ho!
Hark away!
Tally-ho!
Hark forward!--Tantivy!--
The woodland resounds
With shouts of the sportsmen
To cheer on the hounds!
The horse and his rider,
The deer and his foe,
Dash by to the music
Of hark!--tally-ho!
(He's at bay!)
Tally-ho!
What Semiramis Said
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
The moon's a steaming chalice
Of honey and venom-wine.
A little of it sipped by night
Makes the long hours divine.
But oh, my reckless lovers,
They drain the cup and wail,
Die at my feet with shaking limbs
And tender lips all pale.
Above them in the sky it bends
Empty and gray and dread.
To-morrow night 'tis full again,
Golden, and foaming red.
Autumn.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
(What the Little Girl Said)
The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that... greedy
North... Wind... eats... again!
Clandestine Operation
by Paul Cameron Brown

The most appropriate comment,
besides pig knuckles on racks
& rabbits skewered on prongs
or the Chinese lettering
playing tricks with your Occidental eyes,
is the Breakfast at Tiffany's
approach to suffering - 
that ambience of egg rolls
& fortune cookies dashed aside with
mild dosages of rose-petal tea
amid such trappings and parodies
of the human experiment left stammering
in the too crowded sun
Moon Fairies
by Madison Julius Cawein

The moon, a circle of gold,
O'er the crowded housetops rolled,
And peeped in an attic, where,
'Mid sordid things and bare,
A sick child lay and gazed
At a road to the far-away,
A road he followed, mazed,
That grew from a moonbeam-ray,
A road of light that led
From the foot of his garret-bed
Out of that room of hate,
Where Poverty slept by his mate,
Sickness out of the street,
Into a wonderland,
Where a voice called, far and sweet,
"Come, follow our Fairy band!"
A purple shadow, sprinkled
With golden star-dust, twinkled
Suddenly into the room
Out of the winter gloom:
And it wore a face to him
Of a dream he'd dreamed: a form
Of Joy, whose face was dim,
Yet bright with a magic charm.
And the shadow seemed to trail,
Sounds that were green and frail:
Dew-dripples; notes that fell
Like drops in a ferny dell;
A whispered lisp and stir,
Like winds among the leaves,
Blent with a cricket-chirr,
And coo of a dove that grieves.
And the Elfin bore on its back
A little faery pack
Of forest scents: of loam
And mossy sounds of foam;
And of its contents breathed
As might a clod of ground
Feeling a bud unsheathed
There in its womb profound.
And the shadow smiled and gazed
At the child; then softly raised
Its arms and seemed to grow
To a tree in the attic low:
And from its glimmering hands
Shook emerald seeds of dreams,
From which grew fairy bands,
Like firefly motes and gleams.
The child had seen them before
In his dreams of Fairy lore:
The Elves, each with a light
To guide his feet a-right,
Out of this world to a world
Where Magic built him towers,
And Fable old, unfurled,
Flags like wonderful flowers.
And the child, who knew this, smiled,
And rose, a different child:
No more he knew of pain,
Or fear of heart and brain.
At Poverty there that slept
He never even glanced,
But into the moon-road stept,
And out of the garret danced.
Out of the earthly gloom,
Out of the sordid room,
Out, on a moonbeam ray!
Now at last to play
There with comrades found!
Children of the moon,
There on faery ground,
Where none would find him soon!
In Hospital - I - Enter Patient
by William Ernest Henley

The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child - so aged yet so young! -
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean - half-workhouse and half-jail.
Memory
by Walter Savage Landor

The mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory: she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or uncall'd.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.
Lines Written Upon Seeing A Blind Young Woman In North Wales,
by John Carr (Sir)

Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.
Poor Blind Bet.
The morning purple on the hill,
The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r,
The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,
The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r,
Are lost to thee!
Dark child of Nature, as thou art!
Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;
E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart
Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh: - 
'Tis good for thee!
Thou seem'st to say "I've sunshine too;
'Tis beaming in a spotless breast;
No shade of guilt obstructs the view,
And there are many not so blest,
Who day's blush see.
"Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen,
Which I protect from many a tear;
Kind stranger! 'tis on yonder green
A mother's aged form I rear:
Oh! buy of me!"
MacGregor's Gathering
by Walter Scott (Sir)

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, etc.
Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc.
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, etc.
But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage, etc.
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.
While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach,
Come then, come then, come then, etc.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, etc.
What the Coal-heaver Said
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
The moon's an open furnace door
Where all can see the blast,
We shovel in our blackest griefs,
Upon that grate are cast
Our aching burdens, loves and fears
And underneath them wait
Paper and tar and pitch and pine
Called strife and blood and hate.
Out of it all there comes a flame,
A splendid widening light.
Sorrow is turned to mystery
And Death into delight.
Worship.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
The mornings raise
Voices of gold in the Almighty's praise;
The sunsets soar
In choral crimson from far shore to shore:
Each is a blast,
Reverberant, of color, seen as vast
Concussions, that the vocal firmament
In worship sounds o'er every continent.
II.
Not for our ears
The cosmic music of the roiling spheres,
That sweeps the skies!
Music we hear, but only with our eyes.
For all too weak
Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak,
Those detonations that we name the dawn
And sunset hues Earth's harmony puts on.
Queries To Casuists. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?
They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps 'twere no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?
BYRON.
Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 - II - The Most Alluring Clouds That Mount The Sky
by William Wordsworth

The most alluring clouds that mount the sky
Owe to a troubled element their forms,
Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye
We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms,
And wish the Lord of day his slow decline
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high?
Behold, already they forget to shine,
Dissolve and leave, to him who gazed, a sigh.
Not loth to thank each moment for its boon
Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may,
Peace let us seek, to steadfast things attune
Calm expectations, leaving to the gay
And volatile their love of transient bowers,
The house that cannot pass away be ours.
The Last Song Of Camoens.[1]
by William Lisle Bowles

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side,
And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide,
When, rising from his melancholy bed,
And faint, and feebly by Antonio[2] led,
Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe,
Along the winding margin wandered slow,
His harp, that once could each warm feeling move
Of patriot glory or of tenderest love,
His sole and sable friend[3] (while a faint tone
Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone.
How beautiful the sun ascending shines
From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines!
How pure the azure of the opening skies!
How resonant the nearer rock replies
To call of early mariners! and, hark!
The distant whistle from yon parting bark,
That down the channel as serene she strays,
Her gray sail mingles with the morning haze,
Bound to explore, o'er ocean's stormy reign,
New lands that lurk amid the lonely main!
A transient fervour touched the old man's breast;
He raised his eyes, so long by care depressed,
And while they shone with momentary fire,
Ardent he struck the long-forgotten lyre.
From Tagus' yellow-sanded shore,
O'er the billows, as they roar,
O'er the blue sea, waste and wide,
Our bark threw back the burning tide,
By northern breezes cheer'ly borne,
On to the kingdoms of the morn.
Blanco, whose cold shadow vast
Chills the western wave, is past!
Huge Bojador, frowning high,
Thy dismal terrors we defy!
But who may violate the sleep
And silence of the sultry deep;
Where, beneath the intenser sun,[4]
Hot showers descend, red lightnings run;
Whilst all the pale expanse beneath
Lies burning wide, without a breath;
And at mid-day from the mast,
No shadow on the deck is cast!
Night by night, still seen the same,
Strange lights along the cordage flame,
Perhaps, the spirits of the good,[5]
That wander this forsaken flood
Sing to the seas, as slow we float,
A solemn and a holy note!
Spectre[6] of the southern main,
Thou barr'st our onward way in vain,
Wrapping the terrors of thy form,
In the thunder's rolling storm!
Fearless o'er the indignant tide,
On to the east our galleys ride.
Triumph! for the toil is o'er
We kiss the far-sought Indian shore!
Glittering to the orient ray,
The banners of the Cross display!
Does my heart exulting bound?
Alas, forlorn, I gaze around:
Feeble, poor, and old, I stand,
A stranger in my native land!
My sable slave (ah, no! my only friend,
Whose steps upon my rugged path attend)
Sees, but with tenderness that fears to speak,
The tear that trickles down my aged cheek!
My harp is silent, famine shrinks mine eye,
"Give me a little food for charity!"[7]
Southampton Castle.[1] - Inscribed To The Marquis Of Lansdowne.
by William Lisle Bowles

The moonlight is without; and I could lose
An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here,
As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!
Regardless of the lights that blaze within,
I look upon the wide and silent sea,
That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps:
How still,
Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies;
Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam,
The eve of pleasant yesterdays!
The clouds
Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars
Seem in their watches set, as gazing on;
While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful,
Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens
Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks,
Of gazing worlds!
How different is the scene
That lies beneath this arched window's height!
The town, that murmured through the busy day,
Is hushed; the roofs one solemn breadth of shade
Veils; but the towers, and taper spires above,
The pinnets, and the gray embattled walls,
And masts that throng around the southern pier,
Shine all distinct in light; and mark, remote,
O'er yonder elms, St Mary's modest fane.
Oh! if such views may please, to me they shine
How more attractive! but few years have passed,
Since there I saw youth, health, and happiness,
All circling round an aged sire,[2] whose hairs
Are now in peace gone down; he was to me
A friend, and almost with a father's smile
Hung o'er my infant Muse. The cheerful voice
Of fellowship, the song of harmony,
And mirth, and wit,[3] were there.
That scene is passed:
Cold death and separation have dissolved
The evening circle of once-happy friends!
So has it ever fared, and so must fare,
With all! I see the moonlight watery tract
That shines far off, beneath the forest-shades:
What seems it, but the mirror of that tide,
Which noiseless, 'mid the changes of the world,
Holds its inevitable course, the tide
Of years departing; to the distant eye
Still seeming motionless, though hurrying on
From morn till midnight, bearing, as it flows,
The sails of pleasurable barks! These gleam
To-day, to-morrow other passing sails
Catch the like sunshine of the vernal morn.
Our pleasant days are as the moon's brief light
On the pale ripple, passing as it shines!
But shall the pensive bard for this lament,
Who knows how transitory are all worlds
Before His eye who made them!
Cease the strain;
And welcome still the social intercourse
That soothes the world's loud jarring, till the hour
When, universal darkness wrapping all
This nether scene, a light from heaven shall stream
Through clouds dividing, and a voice be heard:
Here only pure and lasting bliss is found!
The Moper
by Arthur Macy

The Moper mopeth all the day;
He mopeth eke at night;
And never is the Moper gay,
But, grim and serious alway,
He is a sorry sight.
He liketh not the merry quip;
He hateth other men;
Escheweth he companionship,
Nor doth he e'er essay to trip
The light fantastic ten.
He seeketh not where murm'ring brooks
With rippling music flow.
He seeth naught in woman's looks,
And never readeth he in books
Except they tell of woe.
He e'en forgetteth that the sun,
Likewise God's balmy air,
Were made to gladden every one;
But he preferreth both to shun,
And taketh not his share.
He careth not for merry wights
Who drink Ch'teau Yquem,
But he would set the world to rights
By peopling it with eremites - 
And very few of them.
When children sport with merry glee,
He thinketh they are wild,
And with them doth so disagree
It seemeth verily that he
Hath never been a child.
He thinketh that it is not right
Rare dishes to discuss,
And knoweth not the keen delight
Of one that hath an appetite
Yclep'd ravenous.
Of goodly raiment he hath none,
He calleth it "display;"
Wherefore the urchin poketh fun,
Because he looketh like that one
Unholy men call "jay."
And so we see this foolish man
All pleasant things doth scorn.
Good folk, pray God to change his plan,
And cheer the Moper if He can,
Or let no more be born!
In Kentucky.
by Edwin C. Ranck

(A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)
The moonlight may be softest
In Kentucky,
And summer days come oftest
In Kentucky,
But friendship is the strongest
When the money lasts the longest
Or you sometimes get in wrongest
In Kentucky.
Sunshine is the brightest
In Kentucky,
And a right is often rightest
In Kentucky,
While plain girls are the fewest,
They work their eyes the truest,
They leave a fellow bluest
In Kentucky.
All debts are treated lightest
In Kentucky,
So make your home the brightest
In Kentucky,
If you have the social entree
You need never think of pay,
Or, at least, that's what they say
In Kentucky.
Orators are the proudest
In Kentucky,
And they always talk the loudest
In Kentucky.
While boys may be the fliest,
Their money is the shyest,
They carry bluffs the highest
In Kentucky.
Pedigrees are longest
In Kentucky,
Family trees the strongest
In Kentucky.
For blue blood is a pride,
But, if you've ever tried
You'll find 'sporting blood' inside
In Kentucky.
Society is exclusive
In Kentucky,
So do not be intrusive
In Kentucky.
If you want the right of way,
And have the coin to pay,
You'll be in the swim to stay
In Kentucky.
The race track's all the money
In Kentucky,
But don't you go there, sonny
In Kentucky.
For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest,
They get your coin the neatest,
And leave you looking seediest
In Kentucky.
Short-skates are the thickest
In Kentucky,
They spot a sucker quickest
In Kentucky.
They'll set up to a drink,
Get your money 'fore you think,
And you get the "dinky dink"
In Kentucky.
If you want to be fraternal
In Kentucky,
Just call a fellow "Colonel"
In Kentucky,
Or, give a man a nudge
And say, "How are you, Judge?"
For they never call that "fudge"
In Kentucky.
But when you have tough luck
In Kentucky,
In other words "get stuck"
In Kentucky,
Just raise your voice and holler
And you'll always raise a dollar,
While a drink is sure to follow
In Kentucky.
'Tis true that birds sing sweetest
In Kentucky,
That women folk are neatest
In Kentucky,
But there are things you shouldn't tell
About our grand old State--and, well--
Politics is h----l
In Kentucky.
Mysterious.
by Hattie Howard

The morning sun rose bright and fair
Upon a lovely village where
Prosperity abounded,
And ceaseless hum of industry
In lines of friendly rivalry
From day to day resounded.
Its shaded avenues were wide,
And closely bordered either side
With cottages or mansions,
Or marked by blocks of masonry
That might defy a century
To loosen from their stanchions.
Its peaceful dwellers daily vied
To make this spot, with anxious pride,
A Paradise of beauty,
Recounted its attractions o'er,
And its adornment held no more
A pleasure than a duty.
But, ere the daylight passed away,
That hamlet fair in ruins lay,
Its hapless people scattered
Like playthings, at the cyclone's will,
And scarce remained one domicile
Its fury had not shattered.
Few moments of the tempest's wrath
Sufficed to mark one dreadful path
With scenes of devastation;
While over piles of wild d'bris
Rose shrieks of dying agony
Above the desolation.
Oh, mystery! who can understand
Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand
Destructive bolts of power
Without discrimination strike
The evil and the good alike - 
As in that dreadful hour!
Alas for aching hearts that wait
Today in homes made desolate
By one sharp blow appalling - 
For all who kneel by altars lone,
And strive to say "Thy will be done,"
That awful day recalling!
We dare not question his decrees
Who seeth not as mortal sees,
Nor doubt his goodness even;
Nor let our hearts be dispossessed
Of faith that he disposeth best
All things in earth and Heaven.
The Bees And The Flies
by Rudyard Kipling

"The Mother Hive", Actions and Reactions
A Farmer of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil's golden page
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son,
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again.
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
Breeds honey by the bellyful.
The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Nor waited long. The God of Day
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld
The carcass, and the carcass swelled.
Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!
The farmer bids men bring more hives
To house the profit that arrives;
Prepares on pan and key and kettle,
Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!
Where are the honest toilers? Where
The gravid mistress of their care?
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin-lid,
Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,
Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.