DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
After Death
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

The four boards of the coffin lid
Heard all the dead man did.
The first curse was in his mouth,
Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.
The next curse was in his head,
Made of God's work discomfited.
The next curse was in his hands,
Made out of two grave-bands.
The next curse was in his feet,
Made out of a grave-sheet.
'I had fair coins red and white,
And my name was as great light;
I had fair clothes green and red,
And strong gold bound round my head.
But no meat comes in my mouth,
Now I fare as the worm doth;
And no gold binds in my hair,
Now I fare as the blind fare.
My live thews were of great strength,
Now am I waxen a span's length;
My live sides were full of lust,
Now are they dried with dust.'
The first board spake and said:
'Is it best eating flesh or bread?'
The second answered it:
'Is wine or honey the more sweet?'
The third board spake and said:
'Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?'
The fourth made answer thus:
'All these things are as one with us.'
The dead man asked of them:
'Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,
And my wife's body for beasts' meat?
Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,
And built a gallows to hang my man?'
The boards said to him:
'This is a lewd thing that ye deem.
Your wife has gotten a golden bed,
All the sheets are sewn with red.
Your son has gotten a coat of silk,
The sleeves are soft as curded milk.
Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,
All the skirt has braids of blue.
Your man has gotten both ring and glove,
Wrought well for eyes to love.'
The dead man answered thus:
'What good gift shall God give us?'
The boards answered him anon:
'Flesh to feed hell's worm upon.'
Patience Of Hope.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

The flowers that bloom in sun and shade
And glitter in the dew,
The flowers must fade.
The birds that build their nest and sing
When lovely spring is new,
Must soon take wing.
The sun that rises in his strength
To wake and warm the world,
Must set at length.
The sea that overflows the shore
With billows frothed and curled,
Must ebb once more.
All come and go, all wax and wane,
O Lord, save only Thou
Who dost remain
The Same to all eternity.
All things which fail us now
We trust to Thee.
The Cat And The Fox
by Walter Crane

The Fox said "I can play, when it fits,
Many wiles that with man make me quits."
"But my trick's up a tree!"
Said the Cat, safe to see
Clever Fox hunted out of his wits.
Trust To Skill Rather Than Wit
An Easter Flower.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
The flower that she gave to me
Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
Its faded leaves abide.
II.
The petals that so fragrant then
She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
With miser care possessed.
III.
As when in sweetest purity
It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
Of one divinely fair!
IV.
Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
And withered in the tomb.
V.
But I will cherish ever thus
The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
Unclouded by the grave!
Lines, Sent To A Gentleman Whom He Had Offended.
by Robert Burns

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
A Song Of Exmoor
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

The Forest above and the Combe below,
On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
Before he leaves the ling!
Here comes Antony bringing the pack,
Steady! he's laying them on!
By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time
To harden your heart and be gone.
Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed,
Right for the North they race:
He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate,
And he's setting a pounding pace!
We're running him now on a breast-high scent,
But he leaves us standing still;
When we swing round by Westland Pound
He's far up Challacombe Hill.
The pack are a string of struggling ants,
The quarry's a dancing midge,
They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains
While he's on Cheriton Ridge.
He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor,
He's gone by Woodcock's Ley;
By the little white town he's turned him down,
And he's soiling in open sea.
So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
The Franklin's Maid (From 'The White Company')
by Arthur Conan Doyle

The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin's maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin's maid?
There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed -
He might not win the franklin's maid.
There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played -
He could not win the franklin's maid.
There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin's maid.
There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed -
Haro, alas! the franklin's maid!
Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin's maid.
Cantatas.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The flowers so carefully rear'd,
In a garland for him I oft twin'd:
How sweet have they ever appear'd,
When wreath'd for a friend dear and kind.
Then incense sweet ascended,
Then new-horn blossoms rose,
With gentle zephyrs blended
In tones of soft repose.
Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 - XIV - Apology
by William Wordsworth

The formal World relaxes her cold chain
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope
His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain,
Imagination works with bolder hope
The cause of grateful reason to sustain;
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats
Against all barriers which his labour meets
In lofty place, or humble Life's domain.
Enough; before us lay a painful road,
And guidance have I sought in duteous love
From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way
Each takes in this high matter, all may move
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
To ----
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread, - 
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.
The Bard's Incantation
by Walter Scott (Sir)

The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby:
The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees,
That mingles with the groaning oak,
That mingles with the stormy breeze,
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;
There is a voice within the wood,
The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;
His song was louder than the blast,
As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past.
"Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The Spectre with the Bloody Hand,
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!
"Souls of the mighty, wake, and say
To what high strain your harps were strung
When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,
And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings, doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
"Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines, with whistling change
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now? Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
"O, yet awake, the strain to tell,
By every deed in song enroll’d,
By every chief who fought or fell
For Albion's weal in battle bold:
From Coilgach, first, who rolled his car
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who, victor, died on Aboukir.
"By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise the mighty strain to tell!
For, fiercer than fierce Hengist’s strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all grasping Rome,
Gaul’s ravening legions hither come!"
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake,
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake
At the dread voice of other years,
"When targets clash'd and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymned the joys of liberty!"
Love's Philosophy.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? -
2.
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
The World Of Tezcatlipoca
by Paul Cameron Brown

*
"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...
elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which
they follow like earth encompassing genies.
In soft light
amid hues
of barbaric green.
walled edges of
the cenote's fortress
shine as eyes of the Cyclops,
bloodlshot and ringed
with nettled stone
A break in the clearing    - 
then ramshackle growth
broken with vengeance
of uprooted vine
confronts the eyes of a jaguar*
(axe-breadth apart)
between canopies of trees
millenial rot,
algae and monkeys
carved in
a jungle setting
the shape of an iguana's room
* the same
October
by Ellis Parker Butler

The forest holds high carnival to-day,
And every hill-side glows with gold and fire;
Ivy and sumac dress in colors gay,
And oak and maple mask in bright attire.
The hoarded wealth of sober autumn days
In lavish mood for motley garb is spent,
And nature for the while at folly plays,
Knowing the morrow brings a snowy Lent.
The Liner
by John Le Gay Brereton

The foamy waves are swishing
As patiently we thud,
But O the wave of wishing
That surges in my blood!
Along the ocean's rim, now,
With never-ceasing song,
I wish that I could swim now
And shove the boat along.
My heart is crying, tireless,
The word it has to say.
What need have we of wireless
Who know a better way?
The slow craft plunges nor'ward
And welters on the blue:
My thoughts are floating forward
And swooping home to you.
Your magic love is tingling
In every vein of me,
And you and I are mingling
In spite of rolling sea.
Yet O that I could borrow
That albatross's flight!
To-morrow, Love, to-morrow
Is our supreme delight.
Songs Of The Spring Nights
by George MacDonald

I.
The flush of green that dyed the day
Hath vanished in the moon;
Flower-scents float stronger out, and play
An unborn, coming tune.
One southern eve like this, the dew
Had cooled and left the ground;
The moon hung half-way from the blue,
No disc, but conglobed round;
Light-leaved acacias, by the door,
Bathed in the balmy air,
Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,
And breathed a perfume rare;
Great gold-flakes from the starry sky
Fell flashing on the deep:
One scent of moist earth floating by,
Almost it made me weep.
II.
Those gorgeous stars were not my own,
They made me alien go!
The mother o'er her head had thrown
A veil I did not know!
The moon-blanched fields that seaward went,
The palm-flung, dusky shades,
Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent,
No slender, spear-like blades.
I longed to see the starry host
Afar in fainter blue;
But plenteous grass I missed the most,
With daisies glimmering through.
The common things were not the same!
I longed across the foam:
From dew-damp earth that odour came--
I knew the world my home.
III.
The stars are glad in gulfy space--
Friendly the dark to them!
From day's deep mine, their hiding-place,
Night wooeth every gem.
A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar,
When up the day is furled,
Shines in the sky a light afar,
Mayhap a home-filled world.
Sometimes upon the inner sky
We catch a doubtful shine:
A mote or star? A flash in the eye
Or jewel of God's mine?
A star to us, all glimmer and glance,
May teem with seraphim:
A fancy to our ignorance
May be a truth to Him.
IV.
The night is damp and warm and still,
And soft with summer dreams;
The buds are bursting at their will,
And shy the half moon gleams.
My soul is cool, as bathed within
By dews that silent weep--
Like child that has confessed his sin,
And now will go to sleep.
My body ages, form and hue;
But when the spring winds blow,
My spirit stirs and buds anew,
Younger than long ago.
Lord, make me more a child, and more,
Till Time his own end bring,
And out of every winter sore
I pass into thy spring.
Guilielmus Rex
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way--
They little knew what man he was.
The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have seen--
But not the light behind the brow!
The doublet's modest gray or brown,
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.
Yet 'twas the king of England's kings!
The rest with all their pomps and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things--
'Tis he alone that lives and reigns!
Crickets on a Strike
by Vachel Lindsay

The foolish queen of fairyland
From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell,
Gave command to her cricket-band
To play for her when the dew-drops fell.
But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor.
El'anore.
by Eric Mackay

I.
The forest flowers are faded all,
The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,
El'anore!
I turn to thee, as to a bower: -
Thou breathest beauty like a flower,
Thou smilest like a happy hour,
El'anore!
II.
I turn to thee. I bless afar
Thy name, which is my guiding-star,
El'anore!
And yet, ah God! when thou art here
I faint, I hold my breath for fear.
Art thou some phantom wandering near,
El'anore?
III.
Oh, take me to thy bosom fair;
Oh, cover me with thy golden hair,
El'anore!
There let me lie when I am dead,
Those morning beams about me spread,
The glory of thy face o'erhead,
El'anore!
Nunnery
by William Wordsworth

The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary;
Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely sweeps
Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary!
He raves, or through some moody passage creeps
Plotting new mischief, out again he leaps
Into broad light, and sends, through regions airy,
That voice which soothed the Nuns while on the steeps
They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary.
That union ceased: then, cleaving easy walks
Through crags, and smoothing paths beset with danger,
Came studious Taste; and many a pensive stranger
Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks.
What change shall happen next to Nunnery Dell?
Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell!
Villa Serbelloni, Bellaggio
by Sara Teasdale

The fountain shivers lightly in the rain,
The laurels drip, the fading roses fall,
The marble satyr plays a mournful strain
That leaves the rainy fragrance musical.
Oh dripping laurel, Phoebus sacred tree,
Would that swift Daphne's lot might come to me,
Then would I still my soul and for an hour
Change to a laurel in the glancing shower.
Suggested By A View From An Eminence In Inglewood Forest
by William Wordsworth

The forest huge of ancient Caledon
Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:
On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone;
Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none,
Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign
With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,
To kill for merry feast their venison.
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck bestrown;
The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid,
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,
That he may watch by night, and lessons con
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.
The Dove of Dacca
by Rudyard Kipling

The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower,
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings,
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur,
Dove, dove, oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
He set in his bosom a dove of flight,
"If she return, be sure that I fall."
Dove, dove, oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
"Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep,
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove, if the dove, if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall."
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad,
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove, the dove, oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
She opened her wings and she flew away,
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove, dove, oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame
Slept in the flame of the palace old,
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove, the dove, oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove, the dove, the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower,
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove, dove, oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
Drinking
by Unknown

The Frenchman loves his native wine;
The German loves his beer;
The Englishman loves his 'alf and 'alf,
Because it brings good cheer;
The Irishman loves his "whiskey straight,"
Because it gives him dizziness;
The American has no choice at all,
So he drinks the whole blamed business.
Nursery Rhyme. CXXXIII. Songs.
by Unknown

The fox and his wife they had a great strife,
They never eat mustard in all their whole life;
They eat their meat without fork or knife,
And loved to be picking a bone, e-ho!
The fox jumped up on a moonlight night;
The stars they were shining, and all things bright;
Oh, ho! said the fox, it's a very fine night
For me to go through the town, e-ho!
The fox when he came to yonder stile,
He lifted his lugs and he listened a while!
Oh, ho! said the fox, it's but a short mile
From this unto yonder wee town, e-ho!
The fox when he came to the farmer's gate,
Who should he see but the farmer's drake;
I love you well for your master's sake,
And long to be picking your bone, e-ho!
The gray goose she ran round the hay-stack,
Oh, ho! said the fox, you are very fat;
You'll grease my beard and ride on my back
From this into yonder wee town, e-ho!
Old Gammer Hipple-hopple hopped out of bed,
She opened the casement, and popped out her head;
Oh! husband, oh! husband, the gray goose is dead,
And the fox is gone through the town, oh!
Then the old man got up in his red cap,
And swore he would catch the fox in a trap;
But the fox was too cunning, and gave him the slip,
And ran thro' the town, the town, oh!
When he got to the top of the hill,
He blew his trumpet both loud and shrill,
For joy that he was safe
Thro' the town, oh!
When the fox came back to his den,
He had young ones both nine and ten,
"You're welcome home, daddy, you may go again,
If you bring us such nice meat
From the town, oh!"
The Hot Season
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The folks, that on the first of May
Wore winter coats and hose,
Began to say, the first of June,
"Good Lord! how hot it grows!"
At last two Fahrenheits blew up,
And killed two children small,
And one barometer shot dead
A tutor with its ball!
Now all day long the locusts sang
Among the leafless trees;
Three new hotels warped inside out,
The pumps could only wheeze;
And ripe old wine, that twenty years
Had cobwebbed o'er in vain,
Came spouting through the rotten corks
Like Joly's best champagne.
The Worcester locomotives did
Their trip in half an hour;
The Lowell cars ran forty miles
Before they checked the power;
Roll brimstone soon became a drug,
And loco-focos fell;
All asked for ice, but everywhere
Saltpetre was to sell.
Plump men of mornings ordered tights,
But, ere the scorching noons,
Their candle-moulds had grown as loose
As Cossack pantaloons!
The dogs ran mad, - men could not try
If water they would choose;
A horse fell dead, - he only left
Four red-hot, rusty shoes!
But soon the people could not bear
The slightest hint of fire;
Allusions to caloric drew
A flood of savage ire;
The leaves on heat were all torn out
From every book at school,
And many blackguards kicked and caned,
Because they said, "Keep cool!"
The gas-light companies were mobbed,
The bakers all were shot,
The penny press began to talk
Of lynching Doctor Nott;
And all about the warehouse steps
Were angry men in droves,
Crashing and splintering through the doors
To smash the patent stoves!
The abolition men and maids
Were tanned to such a hue,
You scarce could tell them from their friends,
Unless their eyes were blue;
And, when I left, society
Had burst its ancient guards,
And Brattle Street and Temple Place
Were interchanging cards.
Belgravia By Night. "Move On!"
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

"The foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?"
"Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, laid!"
Sonnet II.
by Anna Seward

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,
Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;
Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;
But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes
That gild the days to come. - She still relies
The Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glide
Always from life. - Alas! - yet ill betide
Austere Experience, when she coldly tries
In distant roses to discern the thorn!
Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?
Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.
Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,
When yet again, shining through april-tears,
Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.