DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Grey Day
by William Vaughn Moody

Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape,
Rain whitens the dead sea,
From headland dim to sullen cape
Grey sails creep wearily.
I know not how that merchantman
Has found the heart; but 't is her plan
Seaward her endless course to shape.
Unreal as insects that appall
A drunkard's peevish brain,
O'er the grey deep the dories crawl,
Four-legged, with rowers twain:
Midgets and minims of the earth,
Across old ocean's vasty girth
Toiling--heroic, comical!
I wonder how that merchant's crew
Have ever found the will!
I wonder what the fishers do
To keep them toiling still!
I wonder how the heart of man
Has patience to live out its span,
Or wait until its dreams come true.
Gulls In An Aery Morrice
by William Ernest Henley

Gulls in an aery morrice
Gleam and vanish and gleam . . .
The full sea, sleepily basking,
Dreams under skies of dream.
Gulls in an aery morrice
Circle and swoop and close . . .
Fuller and ever fuller
The rose of the morning blows.
Gulls, in an aery morrice
Frolicking, float and fade . . .
O, the way of a bird in the sunshine,
The way of a man with a maid!
Prologue, Designed For Mr D'Urfey's Last Play.
by Alexander Pope

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted bard;
Damnation follows death in other men,
But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.
The adventurous lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From this deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
Though plays for honour in old time he made,
'Tis now for better reasons--to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song.
He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.
Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis substantial happiness to eat.
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.
The Rosemary Branch.
by Robert Herrick

Grow for two ends, it matters not at all,
Be 't for my bridal or my burial.
September in Australia
by Henry Kendall

Grey winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,
And, behold, for repayment,
September comes in with the wind of the West
And the Spring in her raiment!
The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers,
While the forest discovers
Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours,
And the music of lovers.
September, the maid with the swift, silver feet!
She glides, and she graces
The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat,
With her blossomy traces;
Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose,
She lightens and lingers
In spots where the harp of the evening glows,
Attuned by her fingers.
The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips
In a darling old fashion;
And the day goeth down with a song on its lips,
Whose key-note is passion.
Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea
I stand, and remember
Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee,
Resplendent September!
The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon
And beats on the beaches,
Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune
That touches and teaches;
The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time,
And the death of Devotion,
Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme
In the waves of the ocean.
We, having a secret to others unknown,
In the cool mountain-mosses,
May whisper together, September, alone
Of our loves and our losses!
One word for her beauty, and one for the grace
She gave to the hours;
And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face
To sleep with the flowers.
High places that knew of the gold and the white
On the forehead of Morning
Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night
Are heavy with warning.
Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud
Through the echoing gorges;
She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud,
And her feet in the surges.
On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones
Chief temples of thunder
The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans,
Gliding over and under.
The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain,
Leapeth wild at the forelands;
And the plover, whose cry is like passion with pain,
Complains in the moorlands.
Oh, season of changes of shadow and shine
September the splendid!
My song hath no music to mingle with thine,
And its burden is ended;
But thou, being born of the winds and the sun,
By mountain, by river,
Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run,
With thy voices for ever!
On The Death Of The Same Reverend Nun, The Venerable Mother St. Madeleine, Ten Years Later.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

In Memoriam.
Grief reigns now within the convent walls,
And sadly float through its silent halls
The notes of a requiem - solemn, clear,
Falling like wail on each listening ear,
And with tearful eyes and features pale,
With low bowed head and close drawn veil,
To the convent church, round a bier to kneel,
The daughters of Marguerite Bourgeoys steal.
Scant is the mourning pomp displayed,
Nor plumes nor hangings of gloomy shade,
But rev'rend prelates and priests are there,
With crowds of mourners joining in prayer;
Each sister's heart is filled with grief,
To which faith alone can bring relief,
Deploring the loss of that sainted nun,
Friend, mother and abbess, all in one.
Yet why should sorrow fill thus each breast?
That well loved one has entered her rest,
To live in eternal, cloudless light,
To live in our memories, blessed and bright;
Her chair may be vacant - her place unfilled - 
But her mission high was all fulfilled.
And the thought of how well she did her part
Will ever dwell in each sister's heart.
Sixty-one years passed in convent home,
Amassing wealth for a world to come,
Sixty-one years of constant prayer,
Of cloister duties fulfilled with care,
Of gentle aid to each sister dear,
Kind tender counsel - sympathy's tear,
Of high commune with her Maker, known
Perchance to herself and to God alone.
Sixty-one years, oh! think of it well,
Since first she entered the convent cell!
On her cheek youth's soft and roseate dyes,
Its radiant light in her cloudless eyes,
Turning from earth's alluring wiles,
From worldly promptings, from pleasure's smiles,
From love's soft pleading look and tone,
To give herself unto God alone.
Since then she has witnessed many a change,
In the world around her, startling, strange;
Her much loved Order growing in strength
Throughout America's breadth and length;
Our young city stretching far and wide,
Till it reaches Mount Royal's verdant side,
Where, fair as an Eden, through leafy screen,
Villa Maria is dimly seen.
Timeworn foreheads and brows of snow
Has the one we mourn seen in dust laid low;
Fair girlish novice and nun professed,
Quietly gathered to earth's dark breast;
But with thoughts on heaven, she, through all,
Patiently waited her Father's call,
It came, and now she lays gladly down
Her long borne cross to take up her crown.
Montreal, January, 1869.
Upon Grubs.
by Robert Herrick

Grubs loves his wife and children, while that they
Can live by love, or else grow fat by play;
But when they call or cry on Grubs for meat,
Instead of bread Grubs gives them stones to eat.
He raves, he rends, and while he thus doth tear,
His wife and children fast to death for fear.
The Birthday Party
by Madison Julius Cawein

Had a birthday yesterday.
First one for, I think, a year.
Won't have one again, they say,
Till another year is here.
Funny, don't you think so? I
Can't just understand now why.
Anyhow my birthday came;
And I had, oh! lots of things
Birthday gifts I just can't name,
Even count them: toys and rings;
Hoops and books and hats. Indeed,
Everything that I don't need.
What I wanted was n't suits;
Wooden toys and"Wonderland";
But a hoe to dig up roots;
And a spade to shovel sand;
Rake to rake where father said
He has made a flower-bed.
But I did n't get them; and
Did n't get a box of paints,
Which I wanted. I raised sand,
Till my mother said, "My saints!
If you don't behave yourself,
Party'll be laid on the shelf."
So I did behave, and played
With the little girls and boys,
Who just stayed and stayed and stayed,
Played with me and with my toys;
Broke some, too; but, never mind,
Had the best time of its kind.
Had the dinner then. I bet
Y' never saw a finer sight.
A big birthday cake was set,
Thick with icing, round and white,
In the centre of the table,
Looking all that it was able.
On it four pink candles burned:
And we had a lot of fun
When a little girl there turned,
Blew them out, yes, every one,
And I kissed her for it yes
And she liked it, too, I guess.
When I saw my father, why,
All the children then were gone;
Only child around was I.
I was playing on the lawn
By myself when father came,
And he kissed me just the same.
And I asked my father where
Do the birthdays come from, while
He sat in his rocking-chair,
Looking at me with a smile.
Then I asked him where they go
When they're gone. He did n't know.
Had We Not Met.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Had we not met, the brooding woe
And all the griefs that greater grow,
Might not have been, and happy-wise
Our lives have laughed with lullabies
And quaffed such joys as few may know.
Our days beneath embittered skies
Where anguish moans and sorrow cries,
Might not have wept and wandered so,
Had we not met!
But ah, my darling! All we prize,--
Love and sweet trust that never dies,
Wild yearnings that with constant flow
From kindred heart to bosom go,--
Would never in our souls had rise,
Had we not met!
Had I Wist
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Had I wist, when life was like a warm wind playing
Light and loud through sundawn and the dew's bright trust,
How the time should come for hearts to sigh in saying
'Had I wist' -
Surely not the roses, laughing as they kissed,
Not the lovelier laugh of seas in sunshine swaying,
Should have lured my soul to look thereon and list.
Now the wind is like a soul cast out and praying
Vainly, prayers that pierce not ears when hearts resist:
Now mine own soul sighs, adrift as wind and straying,
'Had I wist.'
In Memoriam. - Madam Hannah Lathrop,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.
Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch
Her as she was, in her young matronhood
Graceful and dignified, serene and fair.
--I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,
With pious zeal, the rural church she sought,
Our rural church,--by rocks o'er-canopied,--
Where with her stately husband and their group
Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,
How many a glance was toward her beauty bent
Admiringly.
In those primeval days
The aristocracy that won respect,
Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base
In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held
Her healthful influence in society
Without gainsaying voice.
The polity
Of woman's realm,--sweet home,--those inner cares
And countless details that promote its peace,
Prosperity and order, were not deem'd
Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left
To hireling hands. This science she upheld,
And with her circle of accomplishments
And charms so mingled it, that all combined
Harmoniously.
That energy and grace
So often deem'd the exclusive property
Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,
She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower,
Making the gift of being beautiful,
Even beyond ninety years.
And though the change
Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band,
And some had gone their own fair nests to build
And some arisen to mansions in the skies
Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,
Guiding a household in the same good ways
Of order and of hospitality.
So, when with mild decline, the sunset came,
Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly
As a confiding and obedient child
Goes to its father's house, she went above.
At Lulworth Cove A Century Back
by Thomas Hardy

Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:
"YOU SEE THAT MAN?" I might have looked, and said,
"O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban's Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought."
"YOU SEE THAT MAN?" "Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do."
"YOU SEE THAT MAN?" "Nay, leave me!" then I plead,
"I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!
"Good. That man goes to Rome to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie."
September 1920.
Sonnet II: To ----
by John Keats

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I doat upon thee, call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
The Man He Killed
by Thomas Hardy

"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
"I shot him dead because -
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
"He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like - just as I -
Was out of work - had sold his traps -
No other reason why.
"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown."
1902.
Song of Jasoda
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Had I been young I could have claimed to fold thee
For many days against my eager breast;
But, as things are, how can I hope to hold thee
Once thou hast wakened from this fleeting rest?
Clear shone the moonlight, so that thou couldst find me,
Yet not so clear that thou couldst see my face,
Where in the shadow of the palms behind me
I waited for thy steps, for thy embrace.
What reck I now my morning life was lonely?
For widowed feet the ways are always rough.
Though thou hast come to me at sunset only,
Still thou hast come, my Lord, it is enough.
Ah, mine no more the glow of dawning beauty,
The fragrance and the dainty gloss of youth,
Worn by long years of solitude and duty,
I have no bloom to offer thee in truth.
Yet, since these eyes of mine have never wandered,
Still may they gleam with long forgotten light.
Since in no wanton way my youth was squandered,
Some sense of youth still clings to me to-night.
Thy lips are fresh as dew on budding roses,
The gold of dawn still lingers in thy hair,
While the abandonment of sleep discloses
How every attitude of youth is fair.
Thou art so pale, I hardly dare caress thee,
Too brown my fingers show against the white.
Ahi, the glory, that I should possess thee,
Ahi, the grief, but for a single night!
The tulip tree has pallid golden flowers
That grow more rosy as their petals fade;
Such is the splendour of my evening hours
Whose time of youth was wasted in the shade.
I shall not wait to see to-morrow's morning,
Too bright the golden dawn for me, - too bright, - 
How could I bear thine eyes' unconscious scorning
Of what so pleased thee in the dimmer light?
It may be wine had brought some brief illusion,
Filling thy brain with rainbow fantasy,
Or youth, with moonlight, making sweet collusion,
Threw an alluring glamour over me
Therefore I leave thee softly, to awaken
When the first sun rays warm thy blue-veined breast,
Smiling and all unknowing I have taken
The poppied drink that brings me endless rest.
Thus would I have thee rise; thy fancy laden
With the vague sweetness of the bygone night,
Thinking of me as some consenting maiden,
Whose beauty blossomed first for thy delight.
While I, if any kindly visions hover
Around the silence of my last repose,
Shall dream of thee, my pale and radiant lover,
Who made my life so lovely at its close!
Haunted.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine,
Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing
And lay ghost hands on everything,
But leave the noonday's warm sunshine
To living lads for mirth and wine.
I met you suddenly down the street,
Strangers assume your phantom faces,
You grin at me from daylight places,
Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet
Dead men down the morning street.
Rhymes And Rhythms - XI
by William Ernest Henley

Gulls in an aery morrice
Gleam and vanish and gleam . . .
The full sea, sleepily basking,
Dreams under skies of dream.
Gulls in an aery morrice
Circle and swoop and close . . .
Fuller and ever fuller
The rose of the morning blows.
Gulls in an aery morrice
Frolicking float and fade . . .
O the way of a bird in the sunshine,
The way of a man with a maid!
Valentine Day (Prose)
by John Hartley

Ha monny young folk are langin for th' fourteenth o' February! An ha mony old pooastmen wish it ud niver come? Sawr owd maids an' crusty owd bachelors wonder 'at fowk should have noa moor sense nor to waste ther brass on sich like nonsense. But it's noa use them talkin', for young fowk have done it befoor time, an' as long as it's i'th' natur on 'em to love one another an' get wed, soa long will valentine makers have plenty to do at this time o'th' year. Ther's monny a daycent sooart of a young chap at thinks he could like to mak up to a young lass at he's met at th' chapel or some other place, but as sooin as he gets at th' side on her, he caant screw his courage up to th' stickin' place, an' he axes her some sooart ov a gaumless question, sich as "ha's your mother," or summat he cares noa moor abaat. An' as sooin as he gets to hissell he's fit to pail his heead agean th' jaumstooan for bien sich a fooil. Well, nah, what can sich a chap do? Why, send her a valentine ov coorse. Soa he gooas an' buys her one wi' a grand piece ov poetry like this: -
"The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The pink is sweet, and so are you."
It isn't to be expected 'at shoo can tell whear it's come throo; but shoo could guess at twice, an guess puddin' once, that's the beauty on it. Then th' way's oppen'd aat at once, he's gein her to understand what ten to one shoo understood long afoor he did. Next time they meet shoo's sure to ax him if he gate ony valentines, an' then he'll smile an' say, "What for, did yo?" An' shoo'll show him th' direction, an' ax him if he knows who's writing that is? An' he'll luk at it as sackless as if he didn't know it wor his own - ther heeads get cloise together, an' shoo sighs an' he sighs, an' then, if ther's noabody abaat he'll give hur a smack with his lips an' lawp back as if he'd burned th' skin off 'em, an' shooo axes him ha he con fashion to goa on like that, he owt to be ashamed ov his face? An' all th' time shoo's wonderin' why he niver did it afoor. Then, if ther's owt abaat him, it isn't long befoor ther's a weddin', an' then he's begun life. He's settled into his nook i'th' world, an' he feels he's a man. Troubles come, but then ther's a pleasure i' bein able to maister 'em. He's summat to wark for besides his own belly an' back. He's a heart-expandin' responsibility put on him. His country benefits by him, for a man does moor for his country 'at leaves ten weel-trained sons an' dowters nor him 'at leaves ten thaasand paand. Then if sich a little simple thing as a valentine can help a chap on his rooad in lite, aw say.
Be hanged to th' Grumblers, goa a head Valentine Makkers!!!
Invocation
by Herman Melville

Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;
Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to the call!
Fill fast, and fill full; 'gainst the goblet ne'er sin;
Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost rim:--
Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!
Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his cares?
Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?
Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;
But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:--
Welling up, till the brain overflow!
As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,
Others golden, with music, revolve round the pole;
So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,
Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac's Signs:--
Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!
Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment brings;
It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant sings.
Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows dim;
Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded rim:--
Fill up, every cup, to the brim!
Had I The Choice
by Walt Whitman

Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,
To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,
Homer with all his wars and warriors, Hector, Achilles, Ajax,
Or Shakspere's woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello, Tennyson's fair ladies,
Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme, delight of singers;
These, these, O sea, all these I'd gladly barter,
Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer,
Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse,
And leave its odor there.
The Queen's Song
by James Elroy Flecker

Had I the power
To Midas given of old
To touch a flower
And leave the petals gold
I then might touch thy face,
Delightful boy,
And leave a metal grace,
A graven joy.
Thus would I slay, -
Ah, desperate device!
The vital day
That trembles in thine eyes,
And let the red lips close
Which sang so well,
And drive away the rose
To leave a shell.
Then I myself,
Rising austere and dumb
On the hight shelf
Of my half-lighted room,
Would place the shining bust
And wait alone,
Until I was but dust,
Buried unknown.
Thus in my love
For nations yet unborn,
I would remove
From our two lives the morn,
And muse on loveliness
In mine armchair,
Content should Time confess
How sweet you were.
Royal Prayer.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Ha, I am the lord of earth! The noble,
Who're in my service, love me.
Ha, I am the lord of earth! The noble,
O'er whom my sway extendeth, love I.
Oh, grant me, God in Heaven, that I may ne'er
Dispense with loftiness and love!
Had I The Wyte.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Had I the wyte she bade me."
I.
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,
Had I the wyte she bade me;
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side.
And up the loan she shaw'd me;
And when I wadna venture in,
A coward loon she ca'd me;
Had kirk and state been in the gate,
I lighted when she bade me.
II.
Sae craftilie she took me ben,
And bade me make nae clatter;
"For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman
Is out and owre the water:"
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace
When I did kiss and dawte her,
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say I was the fautor.
III.
Could I for shame, could I for shame,
Could I for shame refused her?
And wadna manhood been to blame,
Had I unkindly used her?
He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame,
And blue and bluidy bruised her;
When sic a husband was frae hame,
What wife but had excused her?
IV.
I dighted ay her een sae blue,
And bann'd the cruel randy;
And weel I wat her willing mou',
Was e'en like sugar-candy.
A gloamin-shot it was I wot,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I cam through the Tysday's dew,
To wanton Willie's brandy.
An Acrostic.
by John Hartley

H a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass,
A w'm sure yo'd call her bonny;
N oa other could her charms surpass,
N oa other had as monny.
A n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind,
H ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined.
C awered in a nook one day aw set,
R aand which wild flaars wor growin;
O, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget,
S oa long as aw've mi knowin.
T hear aw first saw this lovely lass;
I n thowtful mood shoo tarried,
"C ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried:
"K eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!"