DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Emperor's Progress. - A Study in Three Stages.
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

On the Busts of Nero in the Uffizj.
I.
A child of brighter than the morning's birth
And lovelier than all smiles that may be smiled
Save only of little children undefiled,
Sweet, perfect, witless of their own dear worth,
Live rose of love, mute melody of mirth,
Glad as a bird is when the woods are mild,
Adorable as is nothing save a child,
Hails with wide eyes and lips his life on earth,
His lovely life with all its heaven to be.
And whoso reads the name inscribed or hears
Feels his own heart a frozen well of tears,
Child, for deep dread and fearful pity of thee
Whom God would not let rather die than see
The incumbent horror of impending years.
II.
Man, that wast godlike being a child, and now,
No less than kinglike, art no more in sooth
For all thy grace and lordliness of youth,
The crown that bids men's branded foreheads bow
Much more has branded and bowed down thy brow
And gnawn upon it as with fire or tooth
Of steel or snake so sorely, that the truth
Seems here to bear false witness. Is it thou,
Child? and is all the summer of all thy spring
This? are the smiles that drew men's kisses down
All faded and transfigured to the frown
That grieves thy face? Art thou this weary thing?
Then is no slave's load heavier than a crown
And such a thrall no bondman as a king.
III.
Misery, beyond all men's most miserable,
Absolute, whole, defiant of defence,
Inevitable, inexplacable, intense,
More vast than heaven is high, more deep than hell,
Past cure or charm of solace or of spell,
Possesses and pervades the spirit and sense
Whereto the expanse of the earth pays tribute; whence
Breeds evil only, and broods on fumes that swell
Rank from the blood of brother and mother and wife.
'Misery of miseries, all is misery,' saith
The heavy fair-faced hateful head, at strife
With its own lusts that burn with feverous breath
Lips which the loathsome bitterness of life
Leaves fearful of the bitterness of death.
The Woods And The Woodman.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A certain wood-chopper lost or broke
From his axe's eye a bit of oak.
The forest must needs be somewhat spared
While such a loss was being repair'd.
Came the man at last, and humbly pray'd
That the woods would kindly lend to him - 
A moderate loan - a single limb,
Whereof might another helve be made,
And his axe should elsewhere drive its trade.
O, the oaks and firs that then might stand,
A pride and a joy throughout the land,
For their ancientness and glorious charms!
The innocent Forest lent him arms;
But bitter indeed was her regret;
For the wretch, his axe new-helved and whet,
Did nought but his benefactress spoil
Of the finest trees that graced her soil;
And ceaselessly was she made to groan,
Doing penance for that fatal loan.
Behold the world-stage and its actors,
Where benefits hurt benefactors! - 
A weary theme, and full of pain;
For where's the shade so cool and sweet,
Protecting strangers from the heat,
But might of such a wrong complain?
Alas! I vex myself in vain;
Ingratitude, do what I will,
Is sure to be the fashion still.
Cui Bono?
by Henry Kendall

A clamour by day and a whisper by night,
And the Summer comes with the shining noons,
With the ripple of leaves, and the passionate light
Of the falling suns and the rising moons.
And the ripple of leaves and the purple and red
Die for the grapes and the gleam of the wheat,
And then you may pause with the splendours, or tread
On the yellow of Autumn with lingering feet.
You may halt with the face to a flying sea,
Or stand like a gloom in the gloom of things,
When the moon drops down and the desolate lea
Is troubled with thunder and desolate wings.
But alas for the grey of the wintering eves,
And the pondering storms and the ruin of rains;
And alas for the Spring like a flame in the leaves,
And the green of the woods and the gold of the lanes!
For, seeing all pathos is mixed with our past,
And knowing all sadness of storm and of surge
Is salt with our tears for the faith that was cast
Away like a weed o'er a bottomless verge,
I am lost for these tokens, and wearied of ways
Wedded with ways that are waning amain,
Like those that are filled with the trouble that slays;
Having drunk of their life to the lees that are pain.
And yet I would write to you! I who have turned
Away with a bitter disguise in the eyes,
And bitten the lips that have trembled and burned
Alone for you, darling, and breaking with sighs.
Because I have touched with my fingers a dress
That was Beauty's; because that the breath of thy mouth
Is sweetness that lingers; because of each tress
Showered down on thy shoulders; because of the drouth
That came in thy absence; because of the lights
In the Passion that grew to a level with thee
Is it well that our lives have been filled with the nights
And the days which have made it a sorrow to be?
Yea, thus having tasted all love with thy lips,
And having the warmth of thy hand in mine own,
Is it well that we wander, like parallel ships,
With the silence between us, aloof and alone?
With my face to the wall shall I sleep and forget
The shadow, the sweet sense of slumber denies,
If even I marvel at kindness, and fret,
And start while the tears are all wet in mine eyes?
Oh, darling of mine, standing here with the Past,
Trampled under our feet in the bitterest ways,
Is this speech like a ghost that it keeps us aghast
On the track of the thorns and in alien days?
When I know of you, love, how you break with our pain,
And sob for the sorrow of sorrowful dreams,
Like a stranger who stands in the wind and the rain
And watches and wails by impassable streams:
Like a stranger who droops on a brink and deplores,
With famishing hands and frost in the feet,
For the laughter alive on the opposite shores
With the fervour of fire and the wind of the wheat.
The Eagle, The Wild Sow, And The Cat.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A certain hollow tree
Was tenanted by three.
An eagle held a lofty bough,
The hollow root a wild wood sow,
A female cat between the two.
All busy with maternal labours,
They lived awhile obliging neighbours.
At last the cat's deceitful tongue
Broke up the peace of old and young.
Up climbing to the eagle's nest,
She said, with whisker'd lips compress'd,
'Our death, or, what as much we mothers fear,
That of our helpless offspring dear,
Is surely drawing near.
Beneath our feet, see you not how
Destruction's plotted by the sow?
Her constant digging, soon or late,
Our proud old castle will uproot.
And then - O, sad and shocking fate! - 
She'll eat our young ones, as the fruit!
Were there but hope of saving one,
'Twould soothe somewhat my bitter moan.'
Thus leaving apprehensions hideous,
Down went the puss perfidious
To where the sow, no longer digging,
Was in the very act of pigging.
'Good friend and neighbour,' whisper'd she,
'I warn you on your guard to be.
Your pigs should you but leave a minute,
This eagle here will seize them in it.
Speak not of this, I beg, at all,
Lest on my head her wrath should fall.'
Another breast with fear inspired,
With fiendish joy the cat retired.
The eagle ventured no egress
To feed her young, the sow still less.
Fools they, to think that any curse
Than ghastly famine could be worse!
Both staid at home, resolved and obstinate,
To save their young ones from impending fate, - 
The royal bird for fear of mine,
For fear of royal claws the swine.
All died, at length, with hunger,
The older and the younger;
There staid, of eagle race or boar,
Not one this side of death's dread door; - 
A sad misfortune, which
The wicked cats made rich.
O, what is there of hellish plot
The treacherous tongue dares not!
Of all the ills Pandora's box[2] outpour'd,
Deceit, I think, is most to be abhorr'd.
The Poet And The Critics.
by Henry Austin Dobson

If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly--Quis custodiet?
A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;--
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side?--Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,--more Imitation;--
Some Accidents of Inspiration;--
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;--
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.
In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;--
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from POPE!
But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as--Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter.
The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.--These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,--
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.--The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.
Sorely discomfited, our Bard
Worked for another ten Years--hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less,-
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.--The Author may, in Time....
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.--These little Songs display....
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
There is no MORAL to this Tale.
The Lady's Song.[1]
by John Dryden

A Choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green;
The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen:
But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires;
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more;
For we will perform what the Deity swore:
But if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx return.
Gourds
by Paul Cameron Brown

A cemetery overgrown
such that each tombstone is a pauper fungus
crowded, dark with leaves,
or hollow gourds hideous,
in a forest sleep.
A Vision of Legal Shadows
by James Williams

A case at chambers left for my opinion
Had taxed my brain until the noon of night,
I read old law, and loathed the long dominion
Of fiction over right.
I had consulted Coke and Cruise and Chitty,
The works where ancient learning reigns supreme,
Until exhausted nature, moved with pity,
Sent me a bookman's dream.
Six figures, all gigantic as Gargantua,
Floated before my eyes, and all the six
Were shades like those that once the bard of Mantua
Saw by the shore of Styx.
The first was one with countenance imperious,
His toga dim with centuries of dust;
"My name," quoth he, "is Aulus and Agerius,[B]
My voice is hoarse with rust.
"Yet once I played my part in law proceedings,
And writers wrote of one they never saw,
I gave their point to formul' and pleadings,
I lived but in the law."
The second had a countenance perfidious;
What wonder? Pr'tors launched their formul'
In vain against Numerius Negidius,
And not a whit cared he.
With voice of high contempt he greeted Aulus;
"In interdicts thou wast mine enemy,
Once passed no day that students did not call us
As parties, me and thee.
"On paper I was plaintiff or defendant,
On paper thou wast evermore the same;
We lived apart, a life that was transcendant,
For it was but a name.
"I hate thee, Aulus, hate thee," low he muttered,
"It was by thee that I was always tricked,
My unsubstantial bread I ate unbuttered
In dread of interdict.
"And yet 'twas but the sentiment I hated:
Like thee I ne'er was drunk e'en vi or clam,[C]
With wine that was no wine my thirst was sated.
Like thee I was a sham."
Two country hinds in 'broidered smocks next followed,
Each trundled him a cart-wheel by the spokes,
Oblivion now their names hath well-nigh swallowed,
For they were Stiles and Nokes.
They spake no word, for speech to them was grievous,
With bovine eyes they supplicated me;
"We wot not what ye will, but prithee leave us,
Unlettered folk are we."
"Go," said I, "simple ones, and break your fallows,
Crush autumn apples in the cider press,
Law, gaffer Stiles, thy humble name still hallows,
Contracted to J. S."
Another pair of later time succeeded,
With buckles on their shoes and silken hose,
A garb that told it was to them who heeded
John Doe's and Richard Roe's.
"Ah me! I was a casual ejector,[D]
In the brave days of old," I heard one say;
"I knew Elizabeth, the Lord Protector
I spake with yesterday."
To whom in contradiction snarled the other,
"There was no living blood our veins to fill.
Both you and I were nought but shadows, brother,
And we are shadows still."
Room for a lady, room, as at Megiddo
The hosts made way for passage of the king,
For from the darkness crept there forth a widow
In weeds and wedding ring.
"I am the widow, I, whereof the singers
Of Scotland sang, their cruel words so smote
My tender heart, that ofttimes itched my fingers
To take them by the throat.
"He scoffed at me, dour bachelor of Glasgow,[E]
If I existed not for him, the knave,
'Twas all his fault who let some bonnie lass go
Unwedded to her grave."
Spring Dirge
by Victor James Daley

A child came singing through the dusty town
A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear,
Forgetting for a space their ancient fear
Of evil days and death and fortune's frown.
She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born
In the green fields beyond the far hills' bound;
And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned,
Would cross the city's threshold on the morn.
And each caged bird in every house anigh,
Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain
Of Love and Hope and fair days come again,
Till all who heard forgot they had to die.
And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid
That heard the song of this sweet sorceress;
The Past grew to a dream of old distress,
And merry were the hearts of man and maid.
So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn,
Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom,
And men knew only by a strange perfume
That she had softly entered and withdrawn.
But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes
Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid,
Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade
To charm men's souls at set of sun or rise.
For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair,
Like a fair flower plucked and flung away,
Dead in the street the little maiden lay
Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care.
Alas! must this be still the bitter doom
Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth,
Who make for men a morning song of mirth
While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom?
They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod,
Sing one last song, and die as that song dies.
There is no human hand to close their eyes,
And very heavy is the hand of God.
The Christian Slave
by John Greenleaf Whittier

A Christian! going, gone!
Who bids for God's own image? for his grace,
Which that poor victim of the market-place
Hath in her suffering won?
My God! can such things be?
Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done
Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one
Is even done to Thee?
In that sad victim, then,
Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand;
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!
A Christian up for sale!
Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame,
Her patience shall not fail!
A heathen hand might deal
Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years:
But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears,
Ye neither heed nor feel.
Con well thy lesson o'er,
Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
The outcast and the poor.
But wisely shut the ray
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart,
And to her darkened mind alone impart
One stern command, Obey!3
So shalt thou deftly raise
The market price of human flesh; and while
On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave, reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom first and best,
Thy poor disciples. sell.
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla feels
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day:
But our poor slave in vain.
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes;
Its rites will only swell his market price,
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh, from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell;
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain;
Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry,
Filling the arches of the hollow sky,
How long, O God, how long
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXV. Jingles.
by Unknown

A cat came fiddling out of a barn,
With a pair of bag-pipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee,
The mouse has married the humble-bee;
Pipe, cat, - dance, mouse,
We'll have a wedding at our good house.
The Maiden (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

A certain damsel of considerable pride made up her mind to choose a husband who should be young, well-built, and handsome; of agreeable manners and - note these two points - neither cold nor jealous. Moreover, she held it necessary that he should have means, high birth, intellect; in fact, everything. But whoever was endowed with everything?
The fates were evidently anxious to do their best for her, for they sent her some most noteworthy suitors. But these the proud beauty found not half good enough. "What, men like those! You propose them for me! Why they are pitiable! Look at them - fine types, indeed!" According to her one was a dullard; another's nose was impossible. With this it was one thing; with that it was another; for superior people are disdainful above all things.
After these eligible gentlemen had been dismissed, came others of less worth, and at these too she mocked. "Why," said she, "I would not bemean myself to open the door to such. They must think me very anxious to be married. Thank Heaven my single state causes me no regrets."
The maiden contented herself with such notions until advancing age made her step down from her pedestal. Adieu then to all suitors. One year passed and then another. Her anxiety increased, and after anger came grief. She felt that those little smiles and glances which, at the bidding of love, lurk in the countenances of fair maidens were day by day deserting her. Finally, when love himself departed, her features gave pleasure to none. Then she had recourse to those hundred little ruses and tricks of the toilet to repair the ravages of time; but nothing that she could do arrested the depredations of that despicable thief. One may repair a house gone to ruin: but the same thing is not possible with a face!
Her refined ladyship now sang to a different tune, for her mirror advised her to take a husband without delay. Perhaps also her heart harboured the wish. Even superior persons may have longings! This one at last made a choice that people would at one time have thought impossible; for she was very pleased and happy in marrying an ugly cripple.
Nocturne.
by Edwin C. Ranck

A cat duet.
A silhouette.
A high brick wall,
An awful squall.
A moonlit night,
A mortal fight.
A man in bed,
Sticks out his head.
Gee Whiz!
The man has riz.
His arm draws back
A big bootjack--
A loud swish,
Squish!
"What's that?"
A dead cat.
The Frogs Asking A King.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A certain commonwealth aquatic,
Grown tired of order democratic,
By clamouring in the ears of Jove, effected
Its being to a monarch's power subjected.
Jove flung it down, at first, a king pacific.
Who nathless fell with such a splash terrific,
The marshy folks, a foolish race and timid,
Made breathless haste to get from him hid.
They dived into the mud beneath the water,
Or found among the reeds and rushes quarter.
And long it was they dared not see
The dreadful face of majesty,
Supposing that some monstrous frog
Had been sent down to rule the bog.
The king was really a log,
Whose gravity inspired with awe
The first that, from his hiding-place
Forth venturing, astonish'd, saw
The royal blockhead's face.
With trembling and with fear,
At last he drew quite near.
Another follow'd, and another yet,
Till quite a crowd at last were met;
Who, growing fast and strangely bolder,
Perch'd soon upon the royal shoulder.
His gracious majesty kept still,
And let his people work their will.
Clack, clack! what din beset the ears of Jove?
'We want a king,' the people said, 'to move!'
The god straight sent them down a crane,
Who caught and slew them without measure,
And gulp'd their carcasses at pleasure;
Whereat the frogs more wofully complain.
'What! what!' great Jupiter replied;
'By your desires must I be tied?
Think you such government is bad?
You should have kept what first you had;
Which having blindly fail'd to do,
It had been prudent still for you
To let that former king suffice,
More meek and mild, if not so wise.
With this now make yourselves content,
Lest for your sins a worse be sent.'
Life's Chequer-Board
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

"'Tis all a Chequer-Board of Nights and Days,
Where Detiny with men for pieces plays,
Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays."
Omar Khayyam.
A Chequer-Board of mingled Light and Shade?
And We the Pieces on it deftly laid?
Moved and removed, without a word to say,
By the Same Hand that Board and Pieces made?
No Pieces we in any Fateful Game,
Nor free to shift on Destiny the blame;
Each Soul doth tend its own immortal flame,
Fans it to Heaven, or smothers it in shame.
Verses On A Cat.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
A cat in distress,
Nothing more, nor less;
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye,
As I am a sinner,
It waits for some dinner
To stuff out its own little belly.
2.
You would not easily guess
All the modes of distress
Which torture the tenants of earth;
And the various evils,
Which like so many devils,
Attend the poor souls from their birth.
3.
Some a living require,
And others desire
An old fellow out of the way;
And which is the best
I leave to be guessed,
For I cannot pretend to say.
4.
One wants society,
Another variety,
Others a tranquil life;
Some want food,
Others, as good,
Only want a wife.
5.
But this poor little cat
Only wanted a rat,
To stuff out its own little maw;
And it were as good
SOME people had such food,
To make them HOLD THEIR JAW!
Casha
by Paul Cameron Brown

A child-like fawn
moistened nudging &
joyous breath,
an allowance for leave
as her gentle hand
budges my sibling cupping.
And walking in a field of gardens
- our Jardin des Plantes - 
a molecule in depth
flowery pennons
near Picardy wet.
Casha tendrils here pinion the eye,
little Annabel Lee
with the sunshine wet in her parting hand
that all the birds in grace sigh
at Saint Francis breathless.