DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Protest: By Zahir-u-Din
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Alas! alas! this wasted Night
With all its Jasmin-scented air,
Its thousand stars, serenely bright!
I lie alone, and long for you,
Long for your Champa-scented hair,
Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;
Long for the close-curved, delicate lips
- Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine - 
Here, where the slender fountain drips,
Here, where the yellow roses glow,
Pale in the tender silver shine
The stars across the garden throw.
Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth!
Why must we spend these lonely nights?
The poets hardly speak the truth, - 
Despite their praiseful litany,
His season is not all delights
Nor every night an ecstasy!
The very power and passion that make - 
Might make - his days one golden dream,
How he must suffer for their sake!
Till, in their fierce and futile rage,
The baffled senses almost deem
They might be happier in old age.
Age that can find red roses sweet,
And yet not crave a rose-red mouth;
Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feet
Of sweeter singers went his way;
Inhale warm breezes from the South,
Yet never fed his fancy stray.
From some near Village I can hear
The cadenced throbbing of a drum,
Now softly distant, now more near;
And in an almost human fashion,
It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come
Laden with sighs of fitful passion,
To mock me, lying here alone
Among the thousand useless flowers
Upon the fountain's border-stone - 
Cold stone, that chills me as I lie
Counting the slowly passing hours
By the white spangles in the sky.
Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate,
Where, close together, side by side,
Gay in their gauze and tinsel state
With lips serene and downcast eyes,
Sit the young bridegroom and his bride,
While round them songs and laughter rise.
They are together; Why are we
So hopelessly, so far apart?
Oh, I implore you, come to me!
Come to me, Solace of mine eyes!
Come Consolation of my heart!
Light of my senses!    What replies?
A little, languid, mocking breeze
That rustles through the Jasmin flowers
And stirs among the Tamarind trees;
A little gurgle of the spray
That drips, unheard, though silent hours,
Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.
Wind, have you never loved a rose?
And water, seek you not the Sea?
Why, therefore, mock at my repose?
Is it my fault I am alone
Beneath the feathery Tamarind tree
Whose shadows over me are thrown?
Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirst
For all to me this night denied
And drunk with longing, and accurst
Beyond all chance of sleep or rest,
With love, unslaked, unsatisfied,
And dreams of beauty unpossessed.
Hating the hour that brings you not,
Mad at the space betwixt us twain,
Sad for my empty arms, so hot
And fevered, even the chilly stone
Can scarcely cool their burning pain, - 
And oh, this sense of being alone!
Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours,
You bring me not my Life's Delight,
My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers!
You leave me loveless and forlorn,
Pass on, most false and futile night,
Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!
Be Courteous.
by Hattie Howard

Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born
Than others - shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that - 
That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn,
Nor even show this slight regard - the lifting of the hat?
Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earth
Is common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind?
Except in purity is there no royal birth,
No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind.
Life is so short - one journey long, a pilgrimage
That we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again;
Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page,
And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men?
To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a hand
To one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair,
May help him to look up and better understand
Why God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there.
Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheap
As kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring;
More precious too than all the treasures of the deep,
Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring.
Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good!
Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim;
Of each may it be said, of the great multitude:
Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame!
Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety,
Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife,
Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy,
Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life?
Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant sting
Lost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully;
And ours shall be the disapproval of the King - 
"Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me."
Lilian
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I
Airy, Fairy Lilian,
Flitting, fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Claps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can;
She 'll not tell me if she love me,
Cruel little Lilian.
II
When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,
She, looking thro' and thro' me
Thoroughly to undo me,
Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
From beneath her gathered wimple
Glancing with black-bearded eyes,
Till the lightning laughters dimple
The baby-roses in her cheeks;
Then away she flies.
III
Prythee weep, May Lilian!
Gaiety without eclipse
Whearieth me, May Lilian;
Thro' my every heart it thrilleth
When from crimson-threaded lips
Silver-treble laughter trilleth:
Prythee weep, May Lilian!
IV
Praying all I can,
If prayers will not hush thee,
Airy Lilian,
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
Fairy Lilian.
The Mystic Meaning
by Clark Ashton Smith

Alas! that we are deaf and blind
To meanings all about us hid!
What secrets lurk the woods amid?
What prophecies are on the wind?
What tidings do the billows bring
And cry in vain upon the strand?
If we might only understand
The brooklet's cryptic murmuring!
The tongues of earth and air are strange.
And yet (who knows?) one little word
Learned from the language of the bird
Might make us lords of Fate and Change!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXXVI - General View Of The Troubles Of The Reformation
by William Wordsworth

Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light,
Our mortal ken! Inspire a perfect trust
(While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just:
Which few can hold committed to a fight
That shows, ev'n on its better side, the might
Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust,
'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust,
Which showers of blood seem rather to incite
Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled
From both sides; veteran thunders (the brute test
Of truth) are met by fulminations new
Tartarean flags are caught at, and unfurled
Friends strike at friends, the flying shall pursue
And Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest!
The Sonnets CIII - Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth
by William Shakespeare

Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
The Changeling
by Walter De La Mare

"Ahoy, and ahoy!"
'Twixt mocking and merry - 
"Ahoy and ahoy, there,
Young man of the ferry!"
She stood on the steps
In the watery gloom - 
That Changeling - "Ahoy, there!"
She called him to come.
He came on the green wave,
He came on the grey,
Where stooped that sweet lady
That still summer's day.
He fell in a dream
Of her beautiful face,
As she sat on the thwart
And smiled in her place.
No echo his oar woke,
Float silent did they,
Past low-grazing cattle
In the sweet of the hay.
And still in a dream
At her beauty sat he,
Drifting stern foremost
Down - down to the sea.
Come you, then: call,
When the twilight apace
Brings shadow to brood
On the loveliest face;
You shall hear o'er the water
Ring faint in the grey - 
"Ahoy, and ahoy, there!"
And tremble away;
"Ahoy, and ahoy!..."
And tremble away.
Prelude: Ballads Of A Bohemian
by Robert William Service

Alas! upon some starry height,
The Gods of Excellence to please,
This hand of mine will never smite
The Harp of High Serenities.
Mere minstrel of the street am I,
To whom a careless coin you fling;
But who, beneath the bitter sky,
Blue-lipped, yet insolent of eye,
Can shrill a song of Spring;
A song of merry mansard days,
The cheery chimney-tops among;
Of rolics and of roundelays
When we were young . . . when we were young;
A song of love and lilac nights,
Of wit, of wisdom and of wine;
Of Folly whirling on the Heights,
Of hunger and of hope divine;
Of Blanche, Suzette and Celestine,
And all that gay and tender band
Who shared with us the fat, the lean,
The hazard of Illusion-land;
When scores of Philistines we slew
As mightily with brush and pen
We sought to make the world anew,
And scorned the gods of other men;
When we were fools divinely wise,
Who held it rapturous to strive;
When Art was sacred in our eyes,
And it was Heav'n to be alive. . . .
O days of glamor, glory, truth,
To you to-night I raise my glass;
O freehold of immortal youth,
Bohemia, the lost, alas!
O laughing lads who led the romp,
Respectable you've grown, I'm told;
Your heads you bow to power and pomp,
You've learned to know the worth of gold.
O merry maids who shared our cheer,
Your eyes are dim, your locks are gray;
And as you scrub I sadly fear
Your daughters speed the dance to-day.
O windmill land and crescent moon!
O Columbine and Pierrette!
To you my old guitar I tune
Ere I forget, ere I forget. . . .
So come, good men who toil and tire,
Who smoke and sip the kindly cup,
Ring round about the tavern fire
Ere yet you drink your liquor up;
And hear my simple songs of earth,
Of youth and truth and living things;
Of poverty and proper mirth,
Of rags and rich imaginings;
Of cock-a-hoop, blue-heavened days,
Of hearts elate and eager breath,
Of wonder, worship, pity, praise,
Of sorrow, sacrifice and death;
Of lusting, laughter, passion, pain,
Of lights that lure and dreams that thrall . . .
And if a golden word I gain,
Oh, kindly folks, God save you all!
And if you shake your heads in blame . . .
Good friends, God love you all the same.
To A Usurper
by Eugene Field

Aha! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,--
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!
To think that I, who've ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!
He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he'll be his mamma's beau
When he's a "gweat, big man"!
You stingy boy! you've always had
A share in mamma's heart;
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?
That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,--
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!
But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He'd be his mamma's beau.
Renounce your treason, little son,
Leave mamma's heart to me;
For there will come another one
To claim your loyalty.
And when that other comes to you,
God grant her love may shine
Through all your life, as fair and true
As mamma's does through mine!
Mourning
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Alas my brother! the cry of the mourners of old
That cried on each other,
All crying aloud on the dead as the death-note rolled,
Alas my brother!
As flashes of dawn that mists from an east wind smother
With fold upon fold,
The past years gleam that linked us one with another.
Time sunders hearts as of brethren whose eyes behold
No more their mother:
But a cry sounds yet from the shrine whose fires wax cold,
Alas my brother!
A Song. The Lover The Lute Of His Deceased Mistress.
by John Carr (Sir)

Alas! but like a summer's dream
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.
Il Santo
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Alas! alas! what impious hands are these?
They have cut down my dark mysterious trees,
Defied the brooding spell
That sealed my sacred well,
Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars,
And on the mouldering shade
Wherein my dead were laid
Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars.
Slumber hath held the grove for years untold:
Is there no reverence for a peace so old?
Is there no seemly awe
For bronze-engraven law,
For dust beatified and saintly name?
When they shall see the shrine
Princes have held divine,
Will they not bow before the eternal flame?
Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long
Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong!
Hew down and fling away
The growth that veils decay,
Shatter the shrine that chokes the living spring.
Scorn hatred, scorn regret,
Dig deep and deeper yet,
Leave not the quest for word of saint or king.
"Dig deeper yet! though the world brand thee now,
The faithful labour of an impious brow
May for thy race redeem
The source of that lost stream
Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake.
Nay, thou too ere the end
Thy weary knee mayst bend
And in thy trembling hands that water take."
Woman.
by George Pope Morris

Ah, woman!--in this world of ours,
What boon can be compared to thee?--
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!
My mother!--At that holy name,
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame--
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not, crush!
And sisters!--ye are dear as life;
But when I look upon my wife,
My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother--sisters--wife and friend!
Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away!
Were I the monarch of the earth,
Or master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.
Autumn Sadness.
by Emma Lazarus

Air and sky are swathed in gold
Fold on fold,
Light glows through the trees like wine.
Earth, sun-quickened, swoons for bliss
'Neath his kiss,
Breathless in a trance divine.
Nature pauses from her task,
Just to bask
In these lull'd transfigured hours.
The green leaf nor stays nor goes,
But it grows
Royaler than mid-June's flowers.
Such impassioned silence fills
All the hills
Burning with unflickering fire - 
Such a blood-red splendor stains
The leaves' veins,
Life seems one fulfilled desire.
While earth, sea, and heavens shine,
Heart of mine,
Say, what art thou waiting for?
Shall the cup ne'er reach the lip,
But still slip
Till the life-long thirst give o'er?
Shall my soul, no frosts may tame,
Catch new flame
From the incandescent air?
In this nuptial joy apart,
Oh my heart,
Whither shall we lonely fare?
Seek some dusky, twilight spot,
Quite forgot
Of the Autumn's Bacchic fire.
Where soft mists and shadows sleep,
There outweep
Barren longing's vain desire.
The Sonnets CX - Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there
by William Shakespeare

Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done, save what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
Human Feelings.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Ah, ye gods! ye great immortals
In the spacious heavens above us!
Would ye on this earth but give us
Steadfast minds and dauntless courage
We, oh kindly ones, would leave you
All your spacious heavens above us!
Signs Of The Times
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah,
Frost a-comin' in de night,
Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin',
Possum keepin' out o' sight.
Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd,
Nary step so proud ez his;
Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key,
Yo' do' know whut time it is.
Cidah press commence a-squeakin'
Eatin' apples sto'ed away,
Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets,
Huntin' aigs ermung de hay.
Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin'
At de geese a-flyin' souf,
Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin';
Ef he did he 'd shet his mouf.
Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah
Mek me open up my eyes;
Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me
Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies."
Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin',
Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack;
Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key,
You ain't seed no almanac.
Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd
Seein' how things is comin' on,
Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin'--
Good times comin' sho 's you bo'n.
Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin',
Den his face break in a smile--
Nebbah min', you sassy rascal,
He 's gwine nab you atter while.
Choppin' suet in de kitchen,
Stonin' raisins in de hall,
Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat,
Spices groun'--I smell 'em all.
Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin',
You ain' luned de sense ob feah,
You ol' fool, yo' naik 's in dangah,
Do' you know Thanksgibbin 's hyeah?
Scamp
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Ain't it nice to have a mammy
W'en you kin' o' tiahed out
Wid a-playin' in de meddah,
An' a-runnin' roun' about
Till hit's made you mighty hongry,
An' yo' nose hit gits to know
What de smell means dat 's a-comin'
F'om de open cabin do'?
She wash yo' face,
An' mek yo' place,
You's hongry as a tramp;
Den hit's eat you suppah right away,
You sta'vin' little scamp.
W'en you's full o' braid an' bacon,
An' dey ain't no mo' to eat,
An' de lasses dat's a-stickin'
On yo' face ta'se kin' o' sweet,
Don' you t'ink hit's kin' o' pleasin'
Fu' to have som'body neah
Dat'll wipe yo' han's an' kiss you
Fo' dey lif' you f'om you' cheah?
To smile so sweet,
An' wash yo' feet,
An' leave 'em co'l an' damp;
Den hit's come let me undress you, now
You lazy little scamp.
Don' yo' eyes git awful heavy,
An' yo' lip git awful slack,
Ain't dey som'p'n' kin' o' weaknin'
In de backbone of yo' back?
Don' yo' knees feel kin' o' trimbly,
An' yo' head go bobbin' roun',
W'en you says yo' "Now I lay me,"
An' is sno'in on de "down"?
She kiss yo' nose,
She kiss yo' toes,
An' den tu'n out de lamp,
Den hit's creep into yo' trunnel baid,
You sleepy little scamp.
Airly Beacon
by Charles Kingsley

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer's day!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the weary haunt for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee!
1847.
Odes From Horace. - To Posthumus. Book The Second, Ode The Fourteenth.
by Anna Seward

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years
Unpausing glide away;
Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers,
Their fleeting pace delay;
Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend,
Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.
Time goads us on, relentless Sire!
On to the shadowy Shape, that stands
Terrific on the funeral pyre,
Waving the already kindled brands. - 
Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed,
Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.
Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood,
That skirts the verge of mortal light,
He chains the Forms, on earth that stood
Proud, and gigantic in their might;
That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide
Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.
In vain the bleeding field we shun,
In vain the loud and whelming wave;
And, as autumnal winds come on,
And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave,
Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar,
In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door.
The universal lot ordains
We seek the black Cocytus' stream,
That languid strays thro' dreary plains,
Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam;
Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan,
And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.
Thy tender wife, thy large domain,
Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command;
And of those various trees, that gain
Their culture from thy fost'ring hand,
The Cypress only shall await thy doom,
Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb!
The Dying Child To Its Mother.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")
[Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.]
Ah, you said too often to your angel
There are other angels in the sky - 
There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers,
Sweet it were to enter in on high.
To that dome on marvellous pilasters,
To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars,
That blue garden full of stars like lilies,
And of lilies beautiful as stars.
And you said it was a place most joyous,
All our poor imaginings above,
With the wing'd cherubim for playmates,
And the good God evermore to love.
Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons,
Like a taper burning day and night,
Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin,
In that home so beautiful and bright.
But you should have told him, hapless mother,
Told your child so frail and gentle too,
That you were all his in life's beginning,
But that also he belonged to you.
For the mother watches o'er the infant,
He must rise up in her latter days,
She will need the man that was her baby
To stand by her when her strength decays.
Ah, you did not tell enough your darling
That God made us in this lower life,
Woman for the man, and man for woman,
In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.
So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow!
The sweet creature left you all alone;
'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open,
Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.
BP. ALEXANDER.
The Tree's Prayer
by George MacDonald

Alas, 'tis cold and dark!
The wind all night hath sung a wintry tune!
Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon
Beat, beat against my bark.
Oh! why delays the spring?
Not yet the sap moves in my frozen veins;
Through all my stiffened roots creep numbing pains,
That I can hardly cling.
The sun shone yester-morn;
I felt the glow down every fibre float,
And thought I heard a thrush's piping note
Of dim dream-gladness born.
Then, on the salt gale driven,
The streaming cloud hissed through my outstretched arms,
Tossed me about in slanting snowy swarms,
And blotted out the heaven.
All night I brood and choose
Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June!
The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon
The slow baptizing dews!
Oh, the joy-frantic birds!--
They are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees!
Aha, the billowy odours! and the bees
That browse like scattered herds!
The comfort-whispering showers
That thrill with gratefulness my youngest shoot!
The children playing round my deep-sunk root,
Green-caved from burning hours!
See, see the heartless dawn,
With naked, chilly arms latticed across!
Another weary day of moaning loss
On the thin-shadowed lawn!
But icy winter's past;
Yea, climbing suns persuade the relenting wind:
I will endure with steadfast, patient mind;
My leaves will come at last!