DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Fill The Goblet Again. A Song.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink! - who would not? - since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
2.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have lov'd! - who has not? - but what heart can declare
That Pleasure existed while Passion was there?
3.
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that Affection can never take wing,
I had friends! - who has not? - but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
4.
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam - thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old - who does not? - but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
5.
Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous! - who's not? - thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
6.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find - do we not? - in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
7.
When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth,
Hope was left, - was she not? - but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
8.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die - who shall not? - May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.
Song. "Fill the foaming cups again"
by John Clare

Fill the foaming cups again,
Let's be merry while we may;
Man is foolish to complain
When such joys are in his way:
Cares may breed in peevish minds,
Life at best is short and vain,
Wisdom takes the joy she finds--
Fill the foaming cups again.
Fortune, she may slight us, boys,
Boast her thousands to our crowns,
Give to knaves her smiles and joys,
We can feast upon her frowns.
What care we how rich she be,
Let our needs but meet supply,
Kings may govern, so will we--
Foaming cups before we're dry.
Fill them foaming o'er again,
Fill with cordial to the brim;
Let the peevish soul complain,
Care is worthy none but him.
Hearts of oak we're born to die;
Toast for comforts while we reign,--
"Let our needs but meet supply--
Foaming cups be fill'd again."
A Bacchanalian Verse.
by Robert Herrick

Fill me a mighty bowl
Up to the brim,
That I may drink
Unto my Jonson's soul.
Crown it again, again;
And thrice repeat
That happy heat,
To drink to thee, my Ben.
Well I can quaff, I see,
To th' number five
Or nine; but thrive
In frenzy ne'er like thee.
Kirsty's Opinion
by Violet Jacob

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna' seem to understan' it,
I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!
Maybe ye'll mind her man - a fine wee cratur,
Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur);
What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur';
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.
But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna' feared to contradic' her flat;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,
(I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)
What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint?
Ye think she's wae[1] because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule - the man's a sairgint,
An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' him!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXIII. Jingles.
by Unknown

Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee,
The fly shall marry the humble-bee.
They went to the church, and married was she,
The fly has married the humble-bee.
Contentment. - Philippians iv.11.
by William Cowper

Fierce passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea:
But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to thee.
In vain by reason and by rule
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.
Since at his feet my soul has sat,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on him my care.
'Art thou a sinner, soul?' he said,
'Then how canst thou complain?
How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd
With everlasting pain!
'If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured,
Compare thy griefs with mine;
Think what my love for thee endured,
And thou wilt not repine.
''Tis I appoint thy daily lot,
And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.
'In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away.
Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repinings spent,
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learnt to be content.
The Quest
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
First I asked the honeybee,
Busy in the balmy bowers;
Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me:
Have you seen her, honeybee?
She is cousin to the flowers
All the sweetness of the south
In her wild-rose face and mouth."
But the bee passed silently.
II.
Then I asked the forest bird,
Warbling by the woodland waters;
Saying, "Dearest, have you heard?
Have you heard her, forest bird?
She is one of music's daughters
Never song so sweet by half
As the music of her laugh."
But the bird said not a word.
III.
Next I asked the evening sky,
Hanging out its lamps of fire;
Saying, "Loved one, passed she by?
Tell me, tell me, evening sky!
She, the star of my desire
Sister whom the Pleiads lost,
And my soul's high pentecost."
But the sky made no reply.
IV.
Where is she? ah, where is she?
She to whom both love and duty
Bind me, yea, immortally.
Where is she? ah, where is she?
Symbol of the Earth-Soul's beauty.
I have lost her. Help my heart
Find her! her, who is a part
Of the pagan soul of me.
The Grenade
by Alfred Lichtenstein

First a bright, brief drum roll,
A bang and explosion into the blue day.
Then a noise, like rockets climbing on
Iron rails.    Fear and long silence.
Then suddenly in the distance smoke and a fall,
A strange hard dark echo.
The Lights Of Cobb & Co
by Henry Lawson

Fire lighted; on the table a meal for sleepy men;
A lantern in the stable; a jingle now and then;
The mail-coach looming darkly by light on moon and star;
The growl of sleepy voices; a candle in the bar;
A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;
A swear-word from a bedroom, the shout of "All aboard!"
"Tekh tehk! Git-up!" "Hold fast, there!" and down the range we go;
Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.
Old coaching towns already decaying for their sins;
Uncounted "Half-way Houses," and scores of "Ten-Mile Inns;"
The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;
The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;
The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a Digger's Rest;"
The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Farthest West;
Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe,
The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.
The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone.
In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;
A flask of friendly whisky, each other's hopes we share,
And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.
The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;
The grind of wheels on gravel, the trop of horses' feet,
The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go,
The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.
We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,
To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,
To stir our hearts and break them, wind hearts that hope and ache,
(Ah! When she thinks again of these her own must nearly break!)
Five miles this side of the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:
Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:
With "Auld Lang Syne" in chorus, through roaring camp they go
That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.
Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,
A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidlings sweep,
A flash on shrouded wagons, on water ghastly white;
Weird brush and scattered remnants of "rushes in the night;"
Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:
Ride hard to warn the driver! He's drunk or mad, good Lord!
But on the bank to westward a broad and cheerful glow,
New camps extend across the plains new routes for Cobb and Co.
Swift scramble up the sidling where teams climb inch by inch;
Pause, bird-like, on the summit, then breakneck down the pinch;
By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,
Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;
Past haunted half-way houses, where convicts made the bricks,
Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six;
Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go,
A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co!
From The Greek Of Meleager.
by Thomas Moore

Fill high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name.
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Live in the breeze, till every tone,
And word, and breath, speaks her alone.
Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night,
It circled her luxuriant hair,
And caught her eyes' reflected light.
Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,
'Tis all of her that's left me now.
And see--each rosebud drops a tear,
To find the nymph no longer here--
No longer, where such heavenly charms
As hers should be--within these arms.
How He Would Drink His Wine.
by Robert Herrick

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus
I see't in's puris naturalibus:
Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine;
'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine.
What madman's he, that when it sparkles so,
Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?
Advice To A Young Author
by Arthur Conan Doyle

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!
Never strain
Weary brain,
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.
Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Nerve stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.
Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse.
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!
Song.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Fierce roars the midnight storm
O'er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain -
See! o'er yon rocky height,
Dim mists are flying -
See by the moon's pale light,
Poor Laura's dying!
Shame and remorse shall howl,
By her false pillow -
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O'er the white billow;
No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
But she will find repose,
For Laura's dying!
Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove,
When no friend is near her.
On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.
DECEMBER, 1809.
Fill A Glass With Golden Wine
by William Ernest Henley

Fill a glass with golden wine,
And the while your lips are wet
Set their perfume unto mine,
And forget,
Every kiss we take and give
Leaves us less of life to live.
Yet again! Your whim and mine
In a happy while have met.
All your sweets to me resign,
Nor regret
That we press with every breath,
Sighed or singing, nearer death.
1875
Armand Barb's
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I
Fire out of heaven, a flower of perfect fire,
That where the roots of life are had its root
And where the fruits of time are brought forth fruit;
A faith made flesh, a visible desire,
That heard the yet unbreathing years respire
And speech break forth of centuries that sit mute
Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit;
That touched the highest of hope, and went up higher;
A heart love-wounded whereto love was law,
A soul reproachless without fear or flaw,
A shining spirit without shadow of shame,
A memory made of all men's love and awe;
Being disembodied, so thou be the same,
What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?
II
All woes of all men sat upon thy soul
And all their wrongs were heavy on thy head;
With all their wounds thy heart was pierced and bled,
And in thy spirit as in a mourning scroll
The world's huge sorrows were inscribed by roll,
All theirs on earth who serve and faint for bread,
All banished men's, all theirs in prison dead,
Thy love had heart and sword-hand for the whole.
'This was my day of glory,' didst thou say,
When, by the scaffold thou hadst hope to climb
For thy faith's sake, they brought thee respite; 'Nay,
I shall not die then, I have missed my day.'
O hero, O our help, O head sublime,
Thy day shall be commensurate with time.
In The Train
by Sara Teasdale

Fields beneath a quilt of snow
From which the rocks and stubble sleep,
And in the west a shy white star
That shivers as it wakes from deep.
The restless rumble of the train,
The drowsy people in the car,
Steel blue twilight in the world,
And in my heart a timid star.
The Uncultured Rhymer To His Cultured Critics
by Henry Lawson

Fight through ignorance, want, and care,
Through the griefs that crush the spirit;
Push your way to a fortune fair,
And the smiles of the world you'll merit.
Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn,
For the chance that Fate denies you;
Win degrees where the Life-lights burn,
And scores will teach and advise you.
My cultured friends! you have come too late
With your bypath nicely graded;
I've fought thus far on my track of Fate,
And I'll follow the rest unaided.
Must I be stopped by a college gate
On the track of Life encroaching?
Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate,
For the lack of a college coaching?
You grope for Truth in a language dead,
In the dust 'neath tower and steeple!
What know you of the tracks we tread?
And what know you of our people?
'I must read this, and that, and the rest,'
And write as the cult expects me?,
I'll read the book that may please me best,
And write as my heart directs me!
You were quick to pick on a faulty line
That I strove to put my soul in:
Your eyes were keen for a 'dash' of mine
In the place of a semi-colon,
And blind to the rest. And is it for such
As you I must brook restriction?
'I was taught too little?' I learnt too much
To care for a pedant's diction!
Must I turn aside from my destined way
For a task your Joss would find me?
I come with strength of the living day,
And with half the world behind me;
I leave you alone in your cultured halls
To drivel and croak and cavil:
Till your voice goes further than college walls,
Keep out of the tracks we travel!
Prologue to The Revenger's Tragedy
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Fire, and behind the breathless flight of fire
Thunder that quickens fear and quells desire,
Make bright and loud the terror of the night
Wherein the soul sees only wrath for light.
Wrath winged by love and sheathed by grief in steel
Sets on the front of crime death's withering seal.
The heaving horror of the storms of sin
Brings forth in fear the lightning hid therein,
And flashes back to darkness: truth, found pure
And perfect, asks not heaven if shame endure.
What life and death were his whose raging song
Bore heaven such witness of the wild world's wrong,
What hand was this that grasped such thunder, none
Knows: night and storm seclude him from the sun.
By daytime none discerns the fire of Mars:
Deep darkness bares to sight the sterner stars,
The lights whose dawn seems doomsday. None may tell
Whence rose a world so lit from heaven and hell.
Life-wasting love, hate born of raging lust,
Fierce retribution, fed with death's own dust
And sorrow's pampering poison, cross and meet,
And wind the world in passion's winding-sheet.
So, when dark faith in faith's dark ages heard
Falsehood, and drank the poison of the Word,
Two shades misshapen came to monstrous birth,
A father fiend in heaven, a thrall on earth:
Man, meanest born of beasts that press the sod,
And die: the vilest of his creatures, God.
A judge unjust, a slave that praised his name,
Made life and death one fire of sin and shame.
And thence reverberate even on Shakespeare's age
A light like darkness crossed his sunbright stage.
Music, sublime as storm or sorrow, sang
Before it: tempest like a harpstring rang.
The fiery shadow of a name unknown
Rose, and in song's high heaven abides alone.
Sonnet CXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d' orsa.
HE PRAYS HER EITHER TO WELCOME OR DISMISS HIM AT ONCE.
Fiercer than tiger, savager than bear,
In human guise an angel form appears,
Who between fear and hope, from smiles to tears
So tortures me that doubt becomes despair.
Ere long if she nor welcomes me, nor frees,
But, as her wont, between the two retains,
By the sweet poison circling through my veins,
My life, O Love! will soon be on its lees.
No longer can my virtue, worn and frail
With such severe vicissitudes, contend,
At once which burn and freeze, make red and pale:
By flight it hopes at length its grief to end,
As one who, hourly failing, feels death nigh:
Powerless he is indeed who cannot even die!
MACGREGOR.
Danse Macabre (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

' Ernest Christophe
Fi're, autant qu'un vivant, de sa noble stature,
Avec son gros bouquet, son mouchoir et ses gants,
Elle a la nonchalance et la d'sinvolture
D'une coquette maigre aux airs extravagants.
Vit-on jamais au bal une taille plus mince?
Sa robe exag'r'e, en sa royale ampleur,
S''croule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince
Un soulier pomponn', joli comme une fleur.
La ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules,
Comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher,
D'fend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules
Les fun'bres appas qu'elle tient ' cacher.
Ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de t'n'bres,
Et son cr'ne, de fleurs artistement coiff',
Oscille mollement sur ses fr'les vert'bres.
O charme d'un n'ant follement attif' .
Aucuns t'appelleront une caricature,
Qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres de chair,
L''l'gance sans nom de l'humaine armature.
Tu r'ponds, grand squelette, ' mon go't le plus cher!
Viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace,
La f'te de la Vie? ou quelque vieux d'sir,
'peronnant encor ta vivante carcasse,
Te pousse-t-il, cr'dule, au sabbat du Plaisir?
Au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies,
Esp'res-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur,
Et viens-tu demander au torrent des orgies
De rafra'chir l'enfer allum' dans ton c'ur?
In'puisable puits de sottise et de fautes!
De l'antique douleur 'ternel alambic!
A travers le treillis recourb' de tes c'tes
Je vois, errant encor, l'insatiable aspic.
Pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie
Ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efforts ;
Qui, de ces c'urs mortels, entend la raillerie?
Les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts!
Le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d'horribles pens'es,
Exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents
Ne contempleront pas sans d'am'res naus'es
Le sourire 'ternel de tes trente-deux dents.
Pourtant, qui n'a serr' dans ses bras un squelette,
Et qui ne s'est nourri des choses du tombeau?
Qu'importe le parfum, l'habit ou la toilette?
Qui fait le d'go't' montre qu'il se croit beau.
Bayad're sans nez, irr'sistible gouge,
Dis donc ' ces danseurs qui font les offusqu's :
'Fiers mignons, malgr' l'art des poudres et du rouge,
Vous sentez tous la mort! O squelettes musqu's,
Antino's fl'tris, dandys ' face glabre,
Cadavres verniss's, lovelaces chenus,
Le branle universel de la danse macabre
Vous entra'ne en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus!
Des quais froids de la Seine aux bords br'lants du Gange,
Le troupeau mortel saute et se p'me, sans voir
Dans un trou du plafond la trompette de l'Ange
Sinistrement b'ante ainsi qu'un tromblon noir.
En tout climat, sous tout soleil, la Mort t'admire
En tes contorsions, risible Humanit',
Et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe,
M'le son ironie ' ton insanit'!'
Fill The Bumper Fair.
by Thomas Moore

Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
From the starred dominions:--
So we, Sages, sit,
And, mid bumpers brightening,
From the Heaven of Wit
Draw down all its lightning.
Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires that warm us:
The careless Youth, when up
To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup
To hide the pilfered fire in.--
But oh his joy, when, round
The halls of Heaven spying,
Among the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying!
Some drops were in the bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the Sparks of Soul
Mixt their burning treasure.
Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us;
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Anacreontic To A Plumassier.
by Thomas Moore

Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Prince's Plume--
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Prince to wear.
First thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Prince's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.
Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well--be sure you do--
Who wouldn't be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a Royal crest?
Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl--
Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so formed to pen
Books[2] that shun the search of men;
Books that, far from every eye,
In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now--alas, how much!
Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.
There--enough--thy task is done;
Present, worthy George's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.
The Toast.
by Robert Burns

Fill me with the rosy-wine,
Call a toast, a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.
Upon A Sour-Breath Lady. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.
Money Gets The Mastery.
by Robert Herrick

Fight thou with shafts of silver and o'ercome,
When no force else can get the masterdom.
Ventures.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
For the one ship that struts the shore
Many's the gallant, overwhelmed creature
Nodding in navies nevermore.
The Vain Jackdaw
by Walter Crane

"Fine feathers," Jack thought, "make fine fowls;
I'll be envied of bats & of owls:"
But the peacocks' proud eyes
Saw through his disguise,
And Jack fled the assembly of fowls.
Borrowed Plumes Are Soon Discovered