DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
In The Gloaming.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

In the Gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,
And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;
When the Gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavour
To discover - but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.
"To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teaches
That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,
Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,
An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.
Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,
Lalage, Neaera, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:
Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,
When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.
Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the glover,
Having managed to discover what is dear Neaera's "size":
P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,
And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.
Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry -
O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!
To be photograph'd - together - cased in pretty Russia leather -
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!
Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring - a rich and rare one -
Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;
And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!
Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe - and live in clover evermore, whate'er befalls:
For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovel,
Folks PREFER in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls:
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,
Or dissects the lucky pheasant - that, I think, were passing pleasant;
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
Farewell To The Children.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

In the early summer morning
I stand and watch them come,
The children to the school-house;
They chatter and laugh and hum.
The little boys with satchels
Slung round them, and the girls
Each with hers swinging in her hand;
I love their sunny curls.
I love to see them playing,
Romping and shouting with glee,
The boys and girls together,
Simple, fearless, free.
I love to see them marching
In squads, in file, in line,
Advancing and retreating,
Tramping, keeping time.
Sometimes a little lad
With a bright brave face I'll see,
And a wistful yearning wonder
Comes stealing over me.
For once I too had a darling;
I dreamed what he should do,
And surely he'd have had, I thought,
Just such a face as you.
And I, I dreamed to see him
Noble and brave and strong,
Loving the light, the lovely,
Hating the dark, the wrong, - 
Loving the poor, the People,
Ready to smile and give
Blood and brain to their service,
For them to die or live!
No matter, O little darlings!
Little boys, you shall be
My citizens for faithful labour,
My soldiers for victory!
Little girls, I charge you
Be noble sweethearts, wives,
Mothers - comrades the sweetest,
Fountains of happy lives!
Farewell, O little darlings!
Far away, - with strangers, too - 
He sleeps, the little darling,
I dreamed to see like you.
And I, O little darlings,
I have many miles to go,
And where I too may stop and sleep,
And when, I do not know.
But I charge you to remember
The love, the trust I had,
That you'd be noble, fearless, free,
And make your country glad!
That you should toil together,
Face whatever yet shall be,
My citizens for faithful labour,
My soldiers for victory!
I charge you to remember;
I bless you with my hand,
And I know the hour is coming
When you shall understand:
When you shall understand too,
Why, as I said farewell,
Although my lips were smiling,
The shining tears down fell.
Evening
by John Clare

In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail,
Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew,
While even's one star glitters over the vale,
Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue.
I walk with my true love adown the green vale,
The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe;
In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale,
And the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew.
If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck,
As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose:
Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take
The mild voice of even will never disclose.
Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek,
That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew;
Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek--
The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.
The Cemetery Nightingale
by Morris Rosenfeld

In the hills' embraces holden,
In a valley filled with glooms,
Lies a cemetery olden,
Strewn with countless mould'ring tombs.
Ancient graves o'erhung with mosses,
Crumbling stones, effaced and green,--
Venturesome is he who crosses,
Night or day, the lonely scene.
Blasted trees and willow streamers,
'Midst the terror round them spread,
Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers
In this garden of the dead.
One bird, anguish stricken, lingers
In the shadow of the vale,
First and best of feathered singers,--
'Tis the churchyard nightingale.
As from bough to bough he flutters,
Sweetest songs of woe and wail
Through his gift divine he utters
For the dreamers in the vale.
Listen how his trills awaken
Echoes from each mossy stone!
Of all places he has taken
God's still Acre for his own.
Not on Spring or Summer glory,
Not on god or angel story
Loyal poet-fancy dwells!
Not on streams for rich men flowing,
Not on fields for rich men's mowing,--
Graves he sees, of graves he tells.
Pain, oppression, woe eternal,
Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal,
Nothing comforts or allays;
O'er God's Acre in each nation
Sings he songs of tribulation
Tunes his golden harp and plays.
The Valley Of Fear
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the journey of life, as we travel along
To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight,
You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong,
Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right.
Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led,
Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear.
But no matter whither you wander or tread,
Keep out of the Valley of Fear.
The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into light
If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide;
In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight
Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide.
In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife
Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear,
But wretched and arid and void of all life
Is the desolate Valley of Fear.
The Valley of Fear is a maddening maze
Of paths that wind on without exit or end,
From nowhere to nowhere lead all of its ways,
And shadows with shadows in more shadows blend.
Each guide-post is lettered, 'This way to Despair,'
And the River of Death in the darkness flows near,
But there is a beautiful Roadway of Prayer
This side of the Valley of Fear.
This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep,
And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith.
You may not perceive it at first if you weep,
But it rises high over the River of Death.
Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base,
It widens ascending, and ever grows clear,
Till it shines at the top with the Light of God's face,
Far, far from the Valley of Fear.
When close to that Valley your footsteps shall fare,
Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer - 
The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.
Queen Henrietta Maria
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

(To Ellen Terry)
In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
Made for the luring and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
My freedom, and my life republican!
His Litany, To The Holy Spirit
by Robert Herrick

In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill,
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath pray'd,
And I nod to what is said,
'Cause my speech is now decay'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When, God knows, I'm tost about
Either with despair, or doubt;
Yet, before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the Judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd;
When to Thee I have appeal'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
The Opening Of The Piano
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,
At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,
Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night!
Ah me I how I remember the evening when it came!
What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,
When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas,
With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!
Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy,
For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,
Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way,
But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."
For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;
She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,
In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills,
Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills.
So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,
Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys.
Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim,
As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn."
Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red,
(Wedded since, and a widow, - something like ten years dead,)
Hearing a gush of music such as none before,
Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.
Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies,
"Open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries,
(For she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)
"Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!"
The Shimmer Of The Sound
by Richard Le Gallienne

In the long shimmer of the Sound
May I some day be laughing found,
Part of its restless to and fro,
A humble worker of the tides
That round the sleepless planet flow,
And in the rock and drift of things - 
(O how the sea-weed sways and swings!
Is it her hair - has she been found
In the long shimmer of the Sound!)
Do some small task I do not know - 
O maybe help the mussel grow,
Or tint the shell-imprisoned pearl - 
A mute companion of the waves
That toss within their moonlit graves - 
Is it a king, or but a girl?
And, all the while, she sings and sings,
And waves her wild white hands with glee,
Mysterious sister of the world,
That singing water called the sea.
(O tell me was this sea-weed found
In the long shimmer of the Sound!)
Delilah.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the midnight of darkness and terror,
When I would grope nearer to God,
With my back to a record of error
And the highway of sin I have trod,
There come to me shapes I would banish - 
The shapes of the deeds I have done;
And I pray and I plead till they vanish - 
All vanish and leave me, save one.
That one with a smile like the splendor
Of the sun in the middle-day skies - 
That one with a spell that is tender - 
That one with a dream in her eyes - 
Cometh close, in her rare Southern beauty,
Her languor, her indolent grace;
And my soul turns its back on its duty,
To live in the light of her face.
She touches my cheek, and I quiver - 
I tremble with exquisite pains;
She sighs - like an overcharged river
My blood rushes on through my veins',
She smiles - and in mad-tiger fashion,
As a she-tiger fondles her own,
I clasp her with fierceness and passion,
And kiss her with shudder and groan.
Once more, in our love's sweet beginning,
I put away God and the World;
Once more, in the joys of our sinning,
Are the hopes of eternity hurled.
There is nothing my soul lacks or misses
As I clasp the dream shape to my breast;
In the passion and pain of her kisses
Life blooms to its richest and best.
O ghost of dead sin unrelenting,
Go back to the dust and the sod!
Too dear and too sweet for repenting,
Ye stand between me and my God.
If I, by the Throne, should behold you,
Smiling up with those eyes loved so well,
Close, close in my arms I would fold you,
And drop with you down to sweet Hell!
The Logger
by Robert William Service

In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight,
I am sitting by the camp-fire's fading cheer;
Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill,
And the breakers in the bay are moaning drear.
The toilful hours are sped, the boys are long abed,
And I alone a weary vigil keep;
In the sightless, sullen sky I can hear the night-hawk cry,
And the frogs in frenzied chorus from the creek.
And somehow the embers' glow brings me back the long ago,
The days of merry laughter and light song;
When I sped the hours away with the gayest of the gay
In the giddy whirl of fashion's festal throng.
Oh, I ran a grilling race and I little recked the pace,
For the lust of youth ran riot in my blood;
But at last I made a stand in this God-forsaken land
Of the pine-tree and the mountain and the flood.
And now I've got to stay, with an overdraft to pay,
For pleasure in the past with future pain;
And I'm not the chap to whine, for if the chance were mine
I know I'd choose the old life once again.
With its woman's eyes a-shine, and its flood of golden wine;
Its fever and its frolic and its fun;
The old life with its din, its laughter and its sin -
And chuck me in the gutter when it's done.
Ah, well! it's past and gone, and the memory is wan,
That conjures up each old familiar face;
And here by fortune hurled, I am dead to all the world,
And I've learned to lose my pride and keep my place.
My ways are hard and rough, and my arms are strong and tough,
And I hew the dizzy pine till darkness falls;
And sometimes I take a dive, just to keep my heart alive,
Among the gay saloons and dancing halls.
In the distant, dinful town just a little drink to drown
The cares that crowd and canker in my brain;
Just a little joy to still set my pulses all a-thrill,
Then back to brutish labour once again.
And things will go on so until one day I shall know
That Death has got me cinched beyond a doubt;
Then I'll crawl away from sight, and morosely in the night
My weary, wasted life will peter out.
Then the boys will gather round, and they'll launch me in the ground,
And pile the stones the timber wolf to foil;
And the moaning pine will wave overhead a nameless grave,
Where the black snake in the sunshine loves to coil.
And they'll leave me there alone, and perhaps with softened tone
Speak of me sometimes in the camp-fire's glow,
As a played-out, broken chum, who has gone to Kingdom Come,
And who went the pace in England long ago.
The Chrism Of Kings
by Thomas O'Hagan

In the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time,
When Kingdoms were few and Empires unknown,
God searched for a Ruler to sceptre the land,
And gather the harvest from the seed He had sown.
He found a young Shepherd boy watching his flock
Where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green;
He hailed the young Shepherd boy king of the land
And anointed his brow with a Chrism unseen.
He placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power,
And taught his young heart all the wisdom of love;
He gave him the vision of prophet and priest,
And dowered him with counsel and light from above.
But alas! came a day when the Shepherd forgot
And heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings,
And bartering his purple for the greed of his heart
He lost both the sceptre and Chrism of Kings.
For Miss Katherine Br'gy.
In The Long Run.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.
The lucky wight may prosper for a day,
But in good time true merit leads the van,
And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way.
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,
But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,
In the long run.
In the long run all goodly sorrow pays,
There is no better thing than righteous pain,
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,
Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end.
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend
In the long run.
In the long run all hidden things are known,
The eye of truth will penetrate the night,
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,
However well 'tis guarded from the light.
All the unspoken motives of the breast
Are fathomed by the years and stand confest
In the long run.
In the long run all love is paid by love,
Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;
The great eternal Government above
Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth.
Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;
So beautiful a thing was never lost
In the long run.
Phyllida And Corydon
by Nicholas Breton

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
When anon by a woodside,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,
Phyllida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not:
She said, never man was true;
He says, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long:
She says, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then,
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness, truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth! - 
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded:
And Phyllida, with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.
In Childbed
by Thomas Hardy

In the middle of the night
Mother's spirit came and spoke to me,
Looking weariful and white -
As 'twere untimely news she broke to me.
"O my daughter, joyed are you
To own the weetless child you mother there;
'Men may search the wide world through,'
You think, 'nor find so fair another there!'
"Dear, this midnight time unwombs
Thousands just as rare and beautiful;
Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms
To be as bright, as good, as dutiful.
"Source of ecstatic hopes and fears
And innocent maternal vanity,
Your fond exploit but shapes for tears
New thoroughfares in sad humanity.
"Yet as you dream, so dreamt I
When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me;
Other views for by and by!" . . .
Such strange things did mother say to me.
Little Girls And Little Lambs.
by Kate Greenaway

In the May-time flowers grow;
Little girls in meadows go;
Little lambs frisk with delight,
And in the green grass sleep at night.
Little birds sing all the day,
Oh, in such a happy way!
All the day the sun is bright,
Little stars shine all the night.
The Cowslip says to the Primrose,
"How soft the little Spring wind blows!"
The Daisy and the Buttercup
Sing every time that they look up.
For beneath the sweet blue sky
They see a pretty Butterfly;
The Butterfly, when he looks down,
Says, "What a pretty Flower Town!"
Old Man's Nursery Rhyme
by James Whitcomb Riley

I
In the jolly winters
Of the long-ago,
It was not so cold as now -
O! No! No!
Then, as I remember,
Snowballs to eat
Were as good as apples now.
And every bit as sweet!
II
In the jolly winters
Of the dead-and-gone,
Bub was warm as summer,
With his red mitts on, -
Just in his little waist-
And-pants all together,
Who ever hear him growl
About cold weather?
III
In the jolly winters
Of the long-ago -
Was it HALF so cold as now?
O! No! No!
Who caught his death o' cold,
Making prints of men
Flat-backed in snow that now's
Twice as cold again?
IV
In the jolly winters
Of the dead-and-gone,
Startin' out rabbit-huntin' -
Early as the dawn, -
Who ever froze his fingers,
Ears, heels, or toes, -
Or'd 'a' cared if he had?
Nobody knows!
V
Nights by the kitchen-stove,
Shellin' white and red
Corn in the skillet, and
Sleepin' four abed!
Ah! the jolly winters
Of the long-ago!
We were not as old as now -
O! No! No!
Phillida And Corydon
by George Wharton Edwards

In the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troope of damselles playing
Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying;
When anon by a wood side,
Where that Maye was in his pride,
I espied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
Much adoe there was, God wot:
He wold love, and she wold not.
She sayde, "Never man was trewe;"
He sayes, "None was false to you."
He sayde, hee had lovde her longe;
She sayes, love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then;
She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men,
"Tyll they doe for good and all."
When she made the shepperde call
All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
Never loved a truer youthe.
Then with manie a prettie othe,
Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe,
Suche as seelie shepperdes use
When they will not love abuse,
Love, that had bene long deluded,
Was with kisses sweete concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gaye
Was made the lady of the Maye.