DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Venice. A Fragment.[577]
by George Gordon Byron

'Tis midnight - but it is not dark
Within thy spacious place, St. Mark!
The Lights within, the Lamps without,
Shine above the revel rout.
The brazen Steeds are glittering o'er
The holy building's massy door,
Glittering with their collars of gold,
The goodly work of the days of old -
And the wing'd Lion stern and solemn
Frowns from the height of his hoary column,
Facing the palace in which doth lodge
The ocean-city's dreaded Doge.
The palace is proud - but near it lies,
Divided by the "Bridge of Sighs,"
The dreary dwelling where the State
Enchains the captives of their hate:
These - they perish or they pine;
But which their doom may none divine:
Many have passed that Arch of pain,
But none retraced their steps again.
It is a princely colonnade!
And wrought around a princely place,
When that vast edifice displayed
Looks with its venerable face
Over the far and subject sea,
Which makes the fearless isles so free!
And 'tis a strange and noble pile,
Pillared into many an aisle:
Every pillar fair to see,
Marble - jasper - and porphyry -
The Church of St. Mark - which stands hard by
With fretted pinnacles on high,
And Cupola and minaret;
More like the mosque of orient lands,
Than the fanes wherein we pray,
And Mary's bless'd likeness stands. -
Venice, December 6, 1816.
The Oracles
by Alfred Edward Housman

'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.
I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.
Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.
The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.
In Memoriam. - Hon. Thomas S. Williams,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.
'Tis not for pen and ink,
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.
And yet 'twere sad
If such example were allow'd to fleet
Without abiding trace for those behind.
To stand on earth's high places, in the garb
Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend
And track the tortuous policies of guile
With upright aim, and heart immaculate,
To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,
And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep
The fountain of good-will to all mankind,
To mark for more than fourscore years, a line
Of light without a mist, are victories
Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity,
Yet were they his.
Of charities that knew
No stint or boundary, save the woes of man
He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not
Their record is above.
Without the tax
That age doth levy, on the eye or ear,
Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,
In sweet retirement of domestic joy
His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed
By an unsighing transit.
Our first wintry morn
Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit
All reverent, at the table of his Lord,
And heard that kindly modulated voice
Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class
Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd
A different audience. The next holy day
Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,
And found him drooping in his peaceful home,
Guarded by tenderest love.
But on the third,
While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome
The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,
The curtains of his tent were gently raised
And he had gone,--gone,--mourn'd by every heart
Among the people. They had seen in him
The truth personified, and felt the worth
Of such a Mentor.
'Twere impiety
To let the harp of praise in silence lie,
We who beheld so beautiful a life
Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him
Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass
Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,
Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise
From earthly care--to rest,--from war--to peace,--
From chance and change,--to everlasting bliss.
Give praise to God.
Sonnet CXLIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor che 'ncende 'l cor d' ardente zelo.
LOVE AND JEALOUSY.
'Tis Love's caprice to freeze the bosom now
With bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;
And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern--
Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.
In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,
Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:
As if her thin robe by a rival worn,
Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blow
But more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;
And how I love the death by which I die,
Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:
Not so my freezing fire--impartially
She shines to all; and who would speed his way
To that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.
WRANGHAM.
Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within,
Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,
Leaving it doubtful to our judgment here
If hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.
In June I shiver, burn December in,
Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;
E'en as a lady who her loving fee
Hides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.
Of the two ills the first is all mine own,
By day, by night to burn; how sweet that pain
Dwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:
Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,
She levels all: who hopes the crest to gain
Of that proud light expands in vain his wings.
MACGREGOR.
To My Friend Mr Motteux,[1] On His Tragedy Called "Beauty In Distress."
by John Dryden

'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
That sacred art, by Heaven itself infused,
Which Moses, David, Solomon have used,
Is now to be no more: the Muses' foes
Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who but a madman would his thoughts defend?
All would submit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common sense they give the lie,
And turn distorted words to blasphemy,
They give the scandal; and the wise discern,
Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,
Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
Nor, when accused by me, let them complain:
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people rued.
The stage was silenced; for the saints would see
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy.
But let us first reform, and then so live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:
Our desk be placed below their lofty chairs;
Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.
The moral part, at least, we may divide,
Humility reward, and punish pride;
Ambition, interest, avarice, accuse:
These are the province of a tragic Muse.
These hast thou chosen; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee,
That even Corn'ille might with envy see
The alliance of his tripled Unity.
Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown;
But too much plenty is thy fault alone.
At least but two can that good crime commit,
Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare;
Contented to be thinly regular:
Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue, enfeebled, is refined too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,
More fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd with allay.
But whence art thou inspired, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest
Should over-match the most, and match the best.
In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;
Here find the first deficience of our tongue:
Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend
So great a poet, and so good a friend.
Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
by Emily Bronte

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.
Fasting
by Emily Pauline Johnson

'Tis morning now, yet silently I stand,
Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,
Look out while darkness overspreads the way,
And long for day.
Calm peace is frighted with my mood to-night,
Nor visits my dull chamber with her light,
To guide my senses into her sweet rest
And leave me blest.
Long hours since the city rocked and sung
Itself to slumber: only the stars swung
Aloft their torches in the midnight skies
With watchful eyes.
No sound awakes; I, even, breathe no sigh,
Nor hear a single footstep passing by;
Yet I am not alone, for now I feel
A presence steal
Within my chamber walls; I turn to see
The sweetest guest that courts humanity;
With subtle, slow enchantment draws she near,
And Sleep is here.
What care I for the olive branch of Peace?
Kind Sleep will bring a thrice-distilled release,
Nepenthes, that alone her mystic hand
Can understand.
And so she bends, this welcome sorceress,
To crown my fasting with her light caress.
Ah, sure my pain will vanish at the bliss
Of her warm kiss.
But still my duty lies in self-denial;
I must refuse sweet Sleep, although the trial
Will reawaken all my depth of pain.
So once again
I lift the curtain with a weary hand,
With more than sorrow, silently I stand,
Look out while darkness overspreads the way,
And long for day.
"Go, Sleep," I say, "before the darkness die,
To one who needs you even more than I,
For I can bear my part alone, but he
Has need of thee.
"His poor tired eyes in vain have sought relief,
His heart more tired still, with all its grief;
His pain is deep, while mine is vague and dim,
Go thou to him.
"When thou hast fanned him with thy drowsy wings,
And laid thy lips upon the pulsing strings
That in his soul with fret and fever burn,
To me return."
She goes. The air within the quiet street
Reverberates to the passing of her feet;
I watch her take her passage through the gloom
To your dear home.
Beloved, would you knew how sweet to me
Is this denial, and how fervently
I pray that Sleep may lift you to her breast,
And give you rest - 
A privilege that she alone can claim.
Would that my heart could comfort you the same,
But in the censer Sleep is swinging high,
All sorrows die.
She comes not back, yet all my miseries
Wane at the thought of your calm sleeping eyes - 
Wane, as I hear the early matin bell
The dawn foretell.
And so, dear heart, still silently I stand,
Uplift the curtain with a weary hand,
The long, long night has bitter been and lone,
But now 'tis gone.
Dawn lights her candles in the East once more,
And darkness flees her chariot before;
The Lenten morning breaks with holy ray,
And it is day!
Giving And Forgiving.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

'Tis not by selfish miser's greed
The great rewards of love are given;
'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed
Which gladly makes this world a heaven;
But tender word and loving deed
Increase the angel joys of living,
And mortals gain life's grandest meed
By acts of giving and forgiving.
Let warriors bold with armies fight
Their awful battles brave and gory,
To reap the harvest of their might
And fill a gaping world with glory!
The humble heroes, out of sight,
Where hidden tears and woes are striving,
Win victories for truth and right
By deeds of giving and forgiving.
Let mighty kings of loyal lands
Despise the faithful sons of duty,
And with the swords of vandal hands
Destroy the homes of joy and beauty;
The honest lords of low commands
Will find a nobler way of thriving,
In lonely vales where sorrow stands,
By sweets of giving and forgiving.
Let rich men with their heaps of gold
Be servants of the shining splendor,
And crush the bosom, poor and old,
That lives by mercies pure and tender;
But still the soul with saints enrolled
Will keep its charity surviving,
And have its humble glory told
In tales of giving and forgiving.
O, helping hands and Christian hearts,
Twin parents of the race's gladness,
God speed the time when your sweet arts
Shall banish every sign of sadness!
When mournful cries, when pain's wild darts,
Shall cease to curse the days of living,
And Heaven's love to man imparts
The joys of giving and forgiving.
The Wishing Gate Destroyed
by William Wordsworth

'Tis gone, with old belief and dream
That round it clung, and tempting scheme
Released from fear and doubt;
And the bright landscape too must lie,
By this blank wall, from every eye,
Relentlessly shut out.
Bear witness ye who seldom passed
That opening, but a look ye cast
Upon the lake below,
What spirit-stirring power it gained
From faith which here was entertained,
Though reason might say no.
Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs
Of history, Glory claps her wings,
Fame sheds the exulting tear;
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook
Unheard of is, like this, a book
For modest meanings dear.
It was in sooth a happy thought
That grafted, on so fair a spot,
So confident a token
Of coming good; the charm is fled,
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,
Which one harsh day has broken.
Alas! for him who gave the word;
Could he no sympathy afford,
Derived from earth or heaven,
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed;
Their very wishes wanted aid
Which here was freely given?
Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound,
Will now so readily be found
A balm of expectation?
Anxious for far-off children, where
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air
Of home-felt consolation?
And not unfelt will prove the loss
'Mid trivial care and petty cross
And each day's shallow grief;
Though the most easily beguiled
Were oft among the first that smiled
At their own fond belief.
If still the reckless change we mourn,
A reconciling thought may turn
To harm that might lurk here,
Ere judgment prompted from within
Fit aims, with courage to begin,
And strength to persevere.
Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state
Enjoins, while firm resolves await
On wishes just and wise.
That strenuous action follow both,
And life be one perpetual growth
Of heaven-ward enterprise.
So taught, so trained, we boldly face
All accidents of time and place;
Whatever props may fail,
Trust in that sovereign law can spread
New glory o'er the mountain's head,
Fresh beauty through the vale.
That truth informing mind and heart,
The simplest cottager may part,
Ungrieved, with charm and spell;
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee
The voice of grateful memory
Shall bid a kind farewell!
Prologue To The Rival Ladies.
by John Dryden

'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
Would pass a vote to put all prologues down:
For who can show me, since they first were writ,
They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days
Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
For the reforming poets of our age,
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's done:
The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it now;
They blow out candles to give light to the plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again,
Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day:
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;
Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:
He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows
There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges....
A SECOND PROLOGUE ENTERS.
2. Hold; would you admit
For judges all you see within the pit?
1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?
2. All who (like him) have writ ill plays before;
For they, like thieves condemn'd, are hangmen made,
To execute the members of their trade.
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except--even all the town;
All choleric, losing gamesters, who, in spite,
Will damn to-day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;
All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All who are out of humour, all severe;
All that want wit, or hope to find it here.
'Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
by Emily Bronte

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.
The Ogre
by Walter De La Mare

'Tis moonlight on Trebarwith Vale,
And moonlight on an Ogre keen,
Who prowling hungry through the dale
A lone cottage hath seen.
Small with thin smoke ascending up
Three casements and a door: - 
The Ogre eager is to sup,
And here seems dainty store.
Sweet as a larder to a mouse,
So to him staring down,
Seemed the sweet-windowed moonlit house,
With jasmine overgrown.
He snorted, as the billows snort
In darkness of the night,
Betwixt his lean locks tawny-swart,
He glowered on the sight.
Into the garden sweet with peas
He put his wooden shoe,
And bending back the apple trees
Crept covetously through;
Then, stooping, with an impious eye
Stared through the lattice small,
And spied two children which did lie
Asleep, against the wall.
Into their dreams no shadow fell,
Of his disastrous thumb
Groping discreet, and gradual,
Across the quiet room.
But scarce his nail had scraped the cot
Wherein these children lay,
As if his malice were forgot,
It suddenly did stay.
For faintly in the ingle-nook
He heard a cradlesong,
That rose into his thoughts and woke
Terror them among.
For she who in the kitchen sat
Darning by the fire,
Guileless of what he would be at,
Sang sweet as wind or wire: - 
'Lullay, thou little tiny child,
By-by, lullay, lullie;
Jesu of glory, meek and mild,
This night remember ye!
'Fiend, witch, and goblin, foul and wild,
He deems 'em smoke to be;
Lullay, thou little tiny child,
By-by, lullay, lullie!'
The Ogre lifted up his eyes
Into the moon's pale ray,
And gazed upon her leopard-wise,
Cruel and clear as day;
He snarled in gluttony and fear:
'The wind blows dismally,
Jesu in storm my lambs be near,
By-by, lullay, lullie!'
And like a ravenous beast which sees
The hunter's icy eye,
So did this wretch in wrath confess
Sweet Jesu's mastery.
He lightly drew his greedy thumb
From out that casement pale,
And strode, enormous, swiftly home,
Whinnying down the dale.
The Shepherdess Of The Arno.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.
She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
And, like morning's smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight;
Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.
Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true,
Such as worldly breast, earth harden'd, passion-wearied, never knew;
And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
There to seek an hour's communing with the Friend she loved so well.
Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair,
Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care;
The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet, - 
For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?
The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem;
On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem,
Murm'ring, "O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power
To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!"
But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love,
One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above;
And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day,
And to Our Lady's chapel she came no more to pray.
One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile,
Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while,
And in sleep to both a vision of most wond'rous beauty came,
Such as only visit souls which burn with heav'nly love's pure flame.
Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down
A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown;
And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night,
Was high Heaven's regal Mistress - Our Lady, fair and bright.
Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way
To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay;
And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true,
They said: "Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!"
High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright,
And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight;
'Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow'd and reverent head,
And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.
Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow
Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now;
As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone,
Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary's child had gone.
Upon A Scar In A Virgin's Face.
by Robert Herrick

'Tis heresy in others: in your face
That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.
Comfort In Calamity.
by Robert Herrick

'Tis no discomfort in the world to fall,
When the great crack not crushes one, but all.
Hay-Carren
by William Barnes

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haul'n hay,
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do me'ke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-backed we'les or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the froth'n hosses snort,
A-haul'n on, wi' sleek he'ir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my e'rm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitch'n or a-me'k'n rick.
The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' e'rm do stan',
At head, an' back at ta'l, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
An' at each zide o'm, sprack an' strong,
A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,
Avore the best two women now
A-call'd to re'ky after plough.
When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
Vor Jenny Hine to re'ke my zide,
An' zee her fling her re'ke, an' reach
So vur, an' te'ke in sich a streech;
An' I don't shatter hay, an' me'ke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's re'ke.
I'd sooner zee the we'les' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Je'ne a-be't an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead,
Than let the pitchers get a-head.
'Tis merry at the rick to zee
How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee.
While woone's unlwoad'n, woone do te'ke
The pitches in; an' zome do me'ke
The lofty rick upright an' roun',
An' tread en hard, an' re'ke en down,
An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
An' zoo 'tis merry any day
Where vo'k be out a-carr'n hay.