DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Slight Misunderstanding At The Jasper Gate
by Henry Lawson

Oh, do you hear the argument, far up above the skies?
The voice of old Saint Peter, in expostulation rise?
Growing shrill, and ever shriller, at the thing that's being done;
More in sorrow than in anger, like our old Jack Robertson.
Old Saint Peter's had his troubles heaps of troubles, great and small,
Since he kept the gates of Heaven but this last one covers all!
It is not a crowing rooster that's a sight and sound he's useter,
Simulated by some impish spirit that he knows full well;
It is simply Drake, of Devon, who is breaking out of Heaven,
With a crew of pirate brethren, to come down once more to Hell!
Oh, do you hear the distant sound, that seems to come and go,
As thunder does in summer time, when faraway and low?
Or the 'croon' beneath the church bells, when they're pealing from the tower 
And the church bells are the battle-call in this dark, anxious hour.
Do you feel the distant throbbing; Do you feel it go and come;
Like a war hymn on horizons, or a centuries-mellowed drum!
Hear it sobbing, hear it throbbing, like some not unhappy sobbing 
By the peaceful Devon landscape and the fair Devonian home!
By the land those spirits meet in and it's Drake's Drum, spirit-beaten,
By perhaps the Rose of Torridge and it's calling Drake to come?
Oh, do you feel a cooling hand upon your fevered brow?
That dulls your ears to Hell's Own Din or that worse Silence, now?
In the starlight in the Channel, while Destruction lurks below,
Or that Nether-Hell, the Stoke-hole, where you cannot see or know?
Do you feel a soothing presence, keeping sanity in one
Going mad, in Satan's Nightmare, where the gun-crew works the gun?
It is Raleigh! Admiral-Poet, who had dreams though few may know it 
Who had dreams of England's greatness, otherwise than by the sea.
Sorrowful but all-forgiving, bringing courage to the living 
Raleigh's Spirit, not from London, but his Vanished Colony.
Oh, do you feel a stony calm that you had never known?
With comrades in the firing-line, or 'Sentry Go' alone.
When it's Hellfire all around you, and it's freezing slush below,
Or you pace in rain and darkness, with Old Death, and 'Sentry Go' 
Feel a cold determination that makes all but Now a blank;
That's half foreign to your nature, and half foreign to your rank?
It is Wellington, where French is, who has broken Heaven's trenches,
With his purple-blooded captains (who used purple language then)
Come to strengthen with his spirit all the coolness you inherit 
He who took the scum of Europe, and who trained them to be Men.
Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.
by Thomas Moore

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.
Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
Break forth whenever we choose it.
While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
Such shadows will all be omitted:--
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted.
A Warning.
by Thomas Moore

TO .......
Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did nature mould thee all so bright.
That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguished, honor fled,
Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead?
No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity.
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of light such heavenly lore
That men should read them and adore.
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose mind and form were both arrayed
In nature's purest light, like thine;--
Who wore that clear, celestial sign
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For destiny's peculiar care;
Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own,
Was guarded by a sacred zone,
Where the bright gem of virtue shone;
Whose eyes had in their light a charm
Against all wrong and guile and harm.
Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour
These spells have lost their guardian power;
The gem has been beguiled away;
Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;
The modest pride, the guiltless shame,
The smiles that from reflection came,
All, all have fled and left her mind
A faded monument behind;
The ruins of a once pure shrine,
No longer fit for guest divine,
Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see--
Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!
To Fuscus. I-22 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright,
Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow,
Nor may he need the quiver, heavy laden
With arrows poisoned for the lurking foe.
Whether he is about to make a journey
To sultry Libya, or the unfriendly height
Of Caucasus, or to the distant places
That famed Hydaspes washes in his flight.
For lately me a wolf fled in the forest - 
The Sabine forest, as my Lalage
I sang about, - beyond my boundaries wandering,
Care-free, unarmed - the creature fled from me.
Apulia, land of soldiers, never nourished
In her broad woods a monster of such girth,
Nor Mauritania, arid nurse of lions,
To such a one has ever given birth.
Ah, put me on those plains, remote and barren,
Where not a tree can feel the summer wind,
And grow again - a land of mist eternal - 
Whereover Jupiter still broods, unkind;
Or place me in that land denied man's dwelling,
Too near the chariot of the sun above, - 
Still my own Lalage so sweetly smiling,
My sweetly-speaking Lalage I'll love.
Dunolly's Daughter.
by John Campbell

Oh, dear to old Dunolly's heart
His darling daughter seemed,
Yet when she fled, how pitiless
His bitter curse was deemed.
To death he doomed her lover true,
And swore his lowly blood
Should stain the land, whose soil would blush
At wanton womanhood.
But leaves were thick, and woods were green,
Where summer saw their love,
And none could tell Dunolly where
Was nesting his wild dove.
Two years had sped, and all unchanged
Dunolly's mood remained;
When tired with hunting, late at eve
A forest hut he gained.
A cheerful scene! for hung on trees
On either side the door
A stag and roe, and salmon there
Lay strewn the hut before.
There pausing silently he heard
Light laughter, O well known;
And, looking through the wattled wall
Stood motionless as stone.
He saw a happy woman lie
Her true man's form beside;
And laugh as on the bed they tossed
A smiling child in pride.
No word Dunolly spoke, but went,
An altered man, and said;
"Go bring them home, for rich are they,
Love shows them nobly wed."
The Air
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh, cast every care to the wind,
And dry, best beloved, the tear!
Secure, that thou ever shalt find,
The friend of thy bosom sincere.
Still friendship shall live in the breast of the brave,
And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.
I have felt each emotion of bliss,
That affection the fondest can prove,
Have received on my lip the first kiss
Of thy holy and innocent love;
But perish each hope of delight,
Like the flashes of night on the sea,
If ever, though far from thy sight,
My soul is forgetful of thee!
Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave,
How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.
Now bring my boy; may God above
Shower blessings on his head!
May he requite his mother's love,
And to her age a comfort prove,
When I perhaps am dead!
The beams of morn on his helm did play,
And aloud the bugle blew,
Then he leaped on his harnessed steed of gray,
And sighed to the winds as he galloped{f} away,
Adieu, my heart's love, adieu!
And now he has joined the warrior train
Of knights and barons bold,
That, bound to Salem's holy plain,
Across the gently-swelling main,
Their course exulting hold.
With a cross of gold, as on they passed,
The crimson streamers flew;
The shields hung glittering round the mast,
And on the waves a radiance cast,
Whilst all the trumpets blew.
O'er the Severn-surge, in long array,
So, the proud galleys went,
Till soon, as dissolved in ether gray,
The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[1] steal away,
And the long blue hills of Gwent.
Oh, Come To Me When Daylight Sets. (Venetian Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Oh, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,
Beneath that glancing ray,
With sound of lutes and mandolins,
To steal young hearts away.
Then, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
Oh, then's the hour for those who love,
Sweet, like thee and me;
When all's so calm below, above,
In Heaven and o'er the sea.
When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles,
And Echo sings again
So sweet, that all with ears and souls
Should love and listen then.
So, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
The Sea-Shell
by Virna Sheard

Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl
Frescoed with filigree silver-white,
Down in the silence beneath the sea
God by Himself must have fashioned thee
Just for His own delight!
But no! - For a dumb and shapeless thing
Stirring in darkness its little hour,
Thy walls were built with infinite care,
Thou sea-scented home, so fine and fair,
Perfect - and like a flower!
A Last Word
by Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, for some cup of consummating might,
Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!
A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure
This sickness called existence! Oh to find
Surcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind,
An end of thought in something dark and sure!
Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure!
Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams!
No more, no more, with patience, to endure
The wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems;
Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time,
And lamentations and the boasts of man!
To hear no more the wild complaints of toil,
And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve:
To see no more life's disregard for Art!
Oh God! to know no longer anything!
Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!
Nor hear the changing tides of customs roll
On the dark shores of Time! No more to hear
The stream of Life that furies on the shoals
Of hard necessity! No more to see
The unavailing battle waged of Need
Against adversity! Merely to lie, at last,
Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!
To think and dream no more! no more to hope!
At rest at last! at last at peace and rest,
Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of root
Bearing me upward in its large embrace
To gentler things and fairer clouds and winds,
And stars and sun and moon! To undergo
The change the great trees know when Spring comes in
With shoutings and rejoicings of the rain,
To swiftly rise an atom in a host,
The myriad army of the leaves; and stand
A handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!
To pulse in sap that beats unfevered in
The life we call inanimate the heart
Of some great tree. And so, unconsciously,
As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm,
Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace,
To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.
Kitchener's School
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh, Hubshee, carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast! 
This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest. 
It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years; 
Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs. 
He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust: 
He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust: 
He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong: 
He said:, "Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long." 
He said:, "Go safely, being abased. I have accomplished my vow." 
That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now! 
He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise: 
He is preparing a second host, an army to make you wise. 
Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again, 
But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouths of his chosen men. 
He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes, 
But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes. 
Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live, 
He begs for money to bring you learning, and all the English give. 
It is their treasure, it is their pleasure, thus are their hearts inclined: 
For Allah created the English mad, the maddest of all mankind! 
They do not consider the Meaning of Things; they consult not creed nor clan. 
Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man! 
They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool, 
They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school. 
How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar's worth, 
By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth? 
But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange, 
Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change: 
Till these make come and go great boats or engines upon the rail 
(But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail); 
Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their own blood; 
And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that that Law is good. 
Certainly they were mad from of old; but I think one new thing, 
That the magic whereby they work their magic, wherefrom their fortunes spring, 
May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return. 
Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and learn! 
Certainly also is Kitchener mad. But one sure thing I know, 
If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go! 
Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast, 
For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in jest.
The Pumpkin
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie
The Rover
by Robert William Service

I
Oh, how good it is to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
Just my dog and pipe and I, underneath the vast sky;
Trail to try and goal to win, white road and cool inn;
Fields to lure a lad afar, clear spring and still star;
Lilting feet that never tire, green dingle, fagot fire;
None to hurry, none to hold, heather hill and hushed fold;
Nature like a picture book, laughing leaf and bright brook;
Every day a jewel bright, set serenely in the night;
Every night a holy shrine, radiant for a day divine.
Weathered cheek and kindly eye, let the wanderer go by.
Woman-love and wistful heart, let the gipsy one depart.
For the farness and the road are his glory and his goad.
Oh, the lilt of youth and Spring! Eyes laugh and lips sing.
Yea, but it is good to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
II
Yet how good it is to come
Home at last, home, home!
On the clover swings the bee, overhead's the hale tree;
Sky of turquoise gleams through, yonder glints the lake's blue.
In a hammock let's swing, weary of wandering;
Tired of wild, uncertain lands, strange faces, faint hands.
Has the wondrous world gone cold? Am I growing old, old?
Grey and weary . . . let me dream, glide on the tranquil stream.
Oh, what joyous days I've had, full, fervid, gay, glad!
Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range.
From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best.
And if there's a little bit of woman-love with it,
I will count my life content, God-blest and well spent. . . .
Oh but it is good to be
Foot-loose and heart-free!
Yet how good it is to come
Home at last, home, home!
Heart Of A Hundred Sorrows
by Theodosia Garrison

Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows,
Whose pity is great therefore,
The gift that thy children bring thee
Is ever a sorrow more.
Sure of thy dear compassion,
Concerned for our own relief,
Ever and ever we seek thee,
And each with his gift of grief.
Oh, not to reprove my brothers,
Yet I, who am less than less,
Would bring thee my joy of being
The rose of my happiness.
The spirit that makes my singing
The gladness without alloy,
Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows,
I bring thee a little joy.
Love's Fashion
by John Charles McNeill

Oh, I can jest with Margaret
And laugh a gay good-night,
But when I take my Helen's hand
I dare not clasp it tight.
I dare not hold her dear white hand
More than a quivering space,
And I should bless a breeze that blew
Her hair into my face.
'T is Margaret I call sweet names:
Helen is too, too dear
For me to stammer little words
Of love into her ear.
So now, good-night, fair Margaret,
And kiss me e'er we part!
But one dumb touch of Helen's hand,
And, oh, my heart, my heart!
Christmas Eve
by Eugene Field

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.
A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
Protest
by John Charles McNeill

Oh, I am weary, weary, weary
Of Pan and oaten quills
And little songs that, from the dictionary,
Learn lore of streams and hills,
Of studied laughter, mocking what is merry,
And calculated thrills!
Are we grown old and past the time of singing?
Is ardor quenched in art
Till art is but a formal figure, bringing
A money-measured heart,
Procrustean cut, and, with old echoes, ringing
Its bells about the mart?
The race moves on, and leaves no wildernesses
Where rugged voices cry;
It reads its prayer, and with set phrase it blesses
The souls of men who die,
And step by even step its rank progresses,
An army marshalled by.
If it be better so, that Babel noises,
Losing all course and ken,
And grief that wails and gladness that rejoices
Should never wake again
To shock a world of modulated voices
And mediocre men,
Then he is blest who wears the painted feather
And may not turn about
To dusks when muses romped the dewy heather
In unrestricted rout
And dawns when, if the stars had sung together,
The sons of God would shout!
The Merry Maid
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, I am grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
I set my throat against the air,
I laugh at simple folk!
There's little kind and little fair
Is worth its weight in smoke
To me, that's grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
Lass, if to sleep you would repair
As peaceful as you woke,
Best not besiege your lover there
For just the words he spoke
To me, that's grown so free from care
Since my heart broke!
I Dream
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, I have dreams.    I sometimes dream of Life
In the full meaning of that splendid word.
Its subtle music which few men have heard,
Though all may hear it, sounding through earth's strife.
Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed
Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust;
Its treasures which no touch of time can rust,
Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst,
Its certain purpose, its serene repose,
Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes,
This is my dream of Life.
Yes, I have dreams.    I ofttimes dream of Love
As radiant and brilliant as a star.
As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar
Which glorifies vast worlds of space above.
Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath,
Before it bursts in fury; and as deep
As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep,
And sad as birth, and beautiful as death.
As fervent as the fondest soul could crave,
Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave.
This is my dream of Love.
Yes, yes, I dream.    One oft-recurring dream
Is beautiful and comforting and blest,
Complete with certain promises of rest,
Divine content, and ecstasy supreme.
When that strange essence, author of all faith,
That subtle something, which cries for the light,
Like a lost child who wanders in the night,
Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death,
Shall find eternal progress, or sublime
And satisfying slumber for all time.
This is my dream of Death.