DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To The Miami
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Kiss me, Miami, thou most constant one!
I love thee more for that thou changest not.
When Winter comes with frigid blast,
Or when the blithesome Spring is past
And Summer's here with sunshine hot,
Or in sere Autumn, thou has still the pow'r
To charm alike, whate'er the hour.
Kiss me, Miami, with thy dewy lips;
Throbs fast my heart e'en as thine own breast beats.
My soul doth rise as rise thy waves,
As each on each the dark shore laves
And breaks in ripples and retreats.
There is a poem in thine every phase;
Thou still has sung through all thy days.
Tell me, Miami, how it was with thee
When years ago Tecumseh in his prime
His birch boat o'er thy waters sent,
And pitched upon thy banks his tent.
In that long-gone, poetic time,
Did some bronze bard thy flowing stream sit by
And sing thy praises, e'en as I?
Did some bronze lover 'neath this dark old tree
Whisper of love unto his Indian maid?
And didst thou list his murmurs deep,
And in thy bosom safely keep
The many raging vows they said?
Or didst thou tell to fish and frog and bird
The raptured scenes that there occurred?
But, O dear stream, what volumes thou couldst tell
To all who know thy language as I do,
Of life and love and jealous hate!
But now to tattle were too late,--
Thou who hast ever been so true.
Tell not to every passing idler here
All those sweet tales that reached thine ear.
But, silent stream, speak out and tell me this:
I say that men and things are still the same;
Were men as bold to do and dare?
Were women then as true and fair?
Did poets seek celestial flame,
The hero die to gain a laureled brow,
And women suffer, then as now?
Cavalier Tunes - II - Give A Rouse
by Robert Browning

I.
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
II.
Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
(Chorus.) King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
III.
To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's damned troopers shot him?
(Chorus.) King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
To John Johnston, Esq., On His Presenting Me With An Antique Bust Of Homer.
by William Cowper

Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:
Joy too and grief'much joy that there should be,
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou'like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
Upon Kings.
by Robert Herrick

Kings must be dauntless; subjects will contemn
Those who want hearts and wear a diadem.
Everymaid
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

King's Daughter!
Wouldst thou be all fair,
Without--within--
Peerless and beautiful,
A very Queen?
Know then:--
Not as men build unto the Silent One,--
With clang and clamour,
Traffic of rude voices,
Clink of steel on stone,
And din of hammer;--
Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.
But,--in the inmost shrine
Must thou begin,
And build with care
A Holy Place,
A place unseen,
Each stone a prayer.
Then, having built,
Thy shrine sweep bare
Of self and sin,
And all that might demean;
And, with endeavour,
Watching ever, praying ever,
Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:
So, by God's grace, it be fit place,--
His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.
Not as in earthly fane--where chase
Of steel on stone may strive to win
Some outward grace,--
Thy temple face is chiselled from within.
The Curse Of Hungary.
by John Milton Hay

King Saloman looked from his donjon bars,
Where the Danube clamours through sedge and sand,
And he cursed with a curse his revolting land, -
With a king's deep curse of treason and wars.
He said:    "May this false land know no truth!
May the good hearts die and the bad ones flourish,
And a greed of glory but live to nourish
Envy and hate in its restless youth.
"In the barren soil may the ploughshare rust,
While the sword grows bright with its fatal labour,
And blackens between each man and neighbour
The perilous cloud of a vague distrust!
"Be the noble idle, the peasant in thrall,
And each to the other as unknown things,
That with links of hatred and pride the kings
May forge firm fetters through each for all!
"May a king wrong them as they wronged their king
May he wring their hearts as they wrung mine,
Till they pour their blood for his revels like wine,
And to women and monks their birthright fling!"
The mad king died; but the rushing river
Still brawls by the spot where his donjon stands,
And its swift waves sigh to the conscious sands
That the curse of King Saloman works for ever.
For flowing by Pressbourg they heard the cheers
Ring out from the leal and cheated hearts
That were caught and chained by Theresa's arts, -
A man's cool head and a girl's hot tears!
And a star, scarce risen, they saw decline,
Where Orsova's hills looked coldly down,
As Kossuth buried the Iron Crown
And fled in the dark to the Turkish line.
And latest they saw in the summer glare
The Magyar nobles in pomp arrayed,
To shout as they saw, with his unfleshed blade,
A Hapsburg beating the harmless air.
But ever the same sad play they saw,
The same weak worship of sword and crown,
The noble crushing the humble down,
And moulding Wrong to a monstrous Law.
The donjon stands by the turbid river,
But Time is crumbling its battered towers;
And the slow light withers a despot's powers,
And a mad king's curse is not for ever!
The Minneapolis Case
by James Williams

(Tried in Minnesota in 1892)
Kind reader, tarry here, nor miss
The law of Minneapolis.
There was a carpenter called Brown,
A citizen of that great town,
Who stood his "inexpressive she"
A dollar's worth of comedy.
Was it a Gaiety burlesque,
Or labour of Norwegian desk?
Or did they spout in stagey tones
Morality by H. A. Jones?
Or tear romance to rags and set it
In heavy platitudes by Pettit?
I know not, and it matters not,
The subject I have clean forgot.
Sufficient that the pair did sit
In expectation in the pit,
An expectation not fulfilled,
'Twas otherwise by fortune willed.
Before this loving couple sat
In solitary state a hat--
A hat, I say, for in their wonder
They never noticed what was under,
The wearer must have been a "human,"
But might have been a man or woman.
'Twas like a mountain crowned with trees
Amid the pathless Pyrenees,
Or like a garden planned by Paxton,
Or colophon designed by Caxton,
So intricate the work; and flowers
Were trained to climb its soaring towers,
Convolvulus and candytuft,
And 'mid them water-wagtails stuffed.
Such splendour never yet, I wis,
Had shone in Minneapolis.
But Brown was in a sore dilemma,
A dollar he had paid for Emma
To see a play, and not a hat;
A dollar, it was dear at that.
And Emma--disappointment racked her,
She never saw a single actor.
So Brown, with visage thunder-black,
Demanded both his dollars back.
The man who took the cash said, "Sonny,
Our rule is not to give back money.
But if you'll come another night,
Maybe you'll get a better sight."
So Brown went home and nursed his sorrow,
His writ he issued on the morrow.
A hundred dollars was his claim,
And the young lady claimed the same.
The case was argued, on revision
Of pleadings, this was the decision:
"The theatre's defence is bad,
Brown paid for what he never had,
He paid when in the pit he sat
To see a play and not a hat.
To bring defendants to their senses,
I find for plaintiffs with expenses."
Justiti' columna sis,
Wise judge of Minneapolis!
Distance Betters Dignities.
by Robert Herrick

Kings must not oft be seen by public eyes:
State at a distance adds to dignities.
Kindness.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Kindness soothes the bitter anguish,
Kindness wipes the falling tear,
Kindness cheers us when we languish,
Kindness makes a friend more dear.
Kindness turns a pain to pleasure,
Kindness softens every woe,
Kindness is the greatest treasure,
That frail man enjoys below.
Then how can I, so frail a being,
Hope thy kindness to repay,
My great weakness plainly seeing,
Seeing plainer every day.
Oh, I never can repay thee!
That I but too plainly see;
But I trust thou wilt forgive me,
For the love I bear to thee.
To Dante
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and grown
In power, and ever growest, since thine own
Fair Florence honouring thy nativity,
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy,
Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me,
I, wearing but the garland of a day,
Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away.
The Merchantmen
by Rudyard Kipling

King Solomon drew merchantmen,
Because of his desire
For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
From Tarshish unto Tyre,
With cedars out of Lebanon
Which Hiram rafted down;
But we be only sailormen
That use in London town.
Coastwise, cross-seas, round the world and back again,
Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits,
Plain-sail, storm-sail, lay your board and tack again,
And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!
We bring no store of ingots,
Of spice or precious stones,
But what we have we gathered
With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the Tropics,
In frost upon the floe,
And jeopardy of every wind
That does between them go.
And some we got by purchase,
And some we had by trade,
And some we found by courtesy
Of pike and carronade,
At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,
For charity to keep,
And light the rolling homeward-bound
That rowed a foot too deep!
By sport of bitter weather
We're walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
To the slings upon the yard.
Six oceans had their will of us
To carry all away,
Our galley's in the Baltic,
And our boom's in Mossel Bay.
We've floundered off the Texel,
Awash with sodden deals,
We've slipped from Valparaiso
With the Norther at our heels:
We've ratched beyond the Crossets
That tusk the Southern Pole,
And dipped our gunnels under
To the dread Agulhas roll.
Beyond all outer charting
We sailed where none have sailed,
And saw the land-lights burning
On islands none have hailed;
Our hair stood up for wonder,
But, when the night was done,
There danced the deep to windward
Blue-empty 'neath the sun!
Strange consorts rode beside us
And brought us evil luck;
The witch-fire climbed our channels,
And flared on vane and truck,
Till, through the red tornado,
That lashed us nigh to blind,
We saw The Dutchman plunging,
Full canvas, head to wind!
We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
That calls the black deep down,
Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
The Thing that may not drown.
On frozen bunt and gasket
The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
When, manned by more than signed with us,
We passed the Isle of Ghosts! 
And north, amid the hummocks,
A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Hendrick Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.
So dealt God's waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
With trade to lose or make,
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
In the tailing of our wake!
Let go, let go the anchors;
Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchor,
Ah, fools were we and blind,
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!
Coastwise, cross-seas, round the world and back again,
Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail, storm-sail, lay your board and tack again,
And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!
The Spanish Jew's Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Third
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

AZRAEL
King Solomon, before his palace gate
At evening, on the pavement tessellate
Was walking with a stranger from the East,
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast,
The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man,
And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan.
And as they walked the guest became aware
Of a white figure in the twilight air,
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise
His form and features seemed to recognize;
And in a whisper to the king he said:
"What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace
In the dim light the features of my face?"
The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;
It is the Angel men call Azrael,
'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"
And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near,
And speak to me, and take away my breath!
Save me from Azrael, save me from death!
O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind,
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."
The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky,
Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high,
And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase
On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze
With hidden fire, and rushing from the west
There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest
And lifted him from earth, and on they passed,
His shining garments streaming in the blast,
A silken banner o'er the walls upreared,
A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.
Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man
Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan,
Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer;
I was upon my way to seek him there."
INTERLUDE.
"O Edrehi, forbear to-night
Your ghostly legends of affright,
And let the Talmud rest in peace;
Spare us your dismal tales of death
That almost take away one's breath;
So doing, may your tribe increase."
Thus the Sicilian said; then went
And on the spinet's rattling keys
Played Marianina, like a breeze
From Naples and the Southern seas,
That brings us the delicious scent
Of citron and of orange trees,
And memories of soft days of ease
At Capri and Amalfi spent.
"Not so," the eager Poet said;
"At least, not so before I tell
The story of my Azrael,
An angel mortal as ourselves,
Which in an ancient tome I found
Upon a convent's dusty shelves,
Chained with an iron chain, and bound
In parchment, and with clasps of brass,
Lest from its prison, some dark day,
It might be stolen or steal away,
While the good friars were singing mass.
"It is a tale of Charlemagne,
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers
And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast,
With lightning flaming through its showers,
He swept across the Lombard plain,
Beleaguering with his warlike train
Pavia, the country's pride and boast,
The City of the Hundred Towers."
Thus heralded the tale began,
And thus in sober measure ran.
King Cole
by George MacDonald

King Cole he reigned in Aureoland,
But the sceptre was seldom in his hand
Far oftener was there his golden cup--
He ate too much, but he drank all up!
To be called a king and to be a king,
That is one thing and another thing!
So his majesty's head began to shake,
And his hands and his feet to swell and ache,
The doctors were called, but they dared not say
Your majesty drinks too much Tokay;
So out of the king's heart died all mirth,
And he thought there was nothing good on earth.
Then up rose the fool, whose every word
Was three parts wise and one part absurd.
Nuncle, he said, never mind the gout;
I will make you laugh till you laugh it out.
King Cole pushed away his full gold plate:
The jester he opened the palace gate,
Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim,
And on the dais-edge seated him;
Then caught up the king's own golden plate,
And set it beside him: oh, how he ate!
And the king took note, with a pleased surprise,
That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes,
With his arms and his legs and his body whole,
And laughed aloud from his heart and soul.
Then from his lordly chair got up,
And carried the man his own gold cup;
The goblet was deep and wide and full,
The poor man drank like a cow at a pool.
Said the king to the jester--I call it well done
To drink with two mouths instead of one!
Said the king to himself, as he took his seat,
It is quite as good to feed as to eat!
It is better, I do begin to think,
To give to the thirsty than to drink!
And now I have thought of it, said the king,
There might be more of this kind of thing!
The fool heard. The king had not long to wait:
The fool cried aloud at the palace-gate;
The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin,
Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin,
Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall,
And the king and the fool they fed them all;
And as with good things their plates they piled
The king grew merry as a little child.
On the morrow, early, he went abroad
And sought poor folk in their own abode--
Sought them till evening foggy and dim,
Did not wait till they came to him;
And every day after did what he could,
Gave them work and gave them food.
Thus he made war on the wintry weather,
And his health and the spring came back together.
But, lo, a change had passed on the king,
Like the change of the world in that same spring!
His face had grown noble and good to see,
And the crown sat well on his majesty.
Now he ate enough, and ate no more,
He drank about half what he drank before,
He reigned a real king in Aureoland,
Reigned with his head and his heart and his hand.
All this through the fool did come to pass.
And every Christmas-eve that was,
The palace-gates stood open wide
And the poor came in from every side,
And the king rose up and served them duly,
And his people loved him very truly.
To A Gentleman Who Had Sent Him A Newspaper, And Offered To Continue It Free Of Expense.
by Robert Burns

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks:
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin';
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in:
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a--s yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So, gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790.
The Silkworm.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

D' altrui pietoso.
Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
Raiment in my outworn mortality!
That, changing like the snake, I might be free
To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!
King Arthur And The Captive Maiden.
by John Campbell

(Translated From The Gaelic. Taken down in Gaelic by Dewar.)
King Arthur on a journey went,
His men and he on hunting bent.
Came to the hill for victories known;
He, and Sir Balva, armed alone.
The King of Britain dreamed at night
Of fairest maid 'neath Heaven's light.
Her face's beauteous hues so clear
More than all gold to him were dear.
Yet all unknown where dwelt the maid,
His doubt and awe the search delayed.
For better were a battle stern
Than, blindly wandering, still to yearn.
Then spoke Sir Balva, kindly, meek,
"It is my wish this maid to seek.
Let me now take my Squire and hound,
And search until the maid be found."
Then seven weeks, with toil and pain,
We travelled wearily the main.
No harbour gave our ship a home,
No land kept off the drifting foam.
But high above the rough sea wave,
We saw a smooth-walled castle brave.
Its gables shone with glass. We laughed,
"Ah many a drink-horn there is quaffed."
Then sailing to its base there fell
A chain that lashed the ocean swell.
I seized it, fearless, hand o'er hand
I climbed upon the frowning land,
And seated on a golden chair,
I found a maiden wondrous fair,
Holding a mirror on her knee,
Her vesture beautiful to see.
I blest her, whose sad voice replied,
"Grief here thy blessing doth betide.
O comer from the sea, thou'lt feel
The heart of stone, the blade of steel"
Though merciless he be, yet know,
His sword can deal my heart no blow.
His love or hatred I despise
If gained the favour of thine eyes.
"The giant's star-white sword alone,"
Said she, "can wring from him a groan.
O hide thee in some place secure,
Or, gallant knight, thy death is sure."
Sir Balva heard the giant roar,
"What wave-thrown stranger climbed our shore?"
Her voice replied, "Now come, nor wait,
My soul, for thee my love is great.
Put thou thy head upon my knee,
I'll sweetly play the harp to thee."
He rested, and a laugh displayed
The white teeth of the blue-eyed maid.
The wild harp-music sweetly rung,
And sweeter still her tuneful tongue.
And on his eyes, by sea winds fanned,
Sleep laid full soon his tranquil hand.
Then took they off his star-white sword
And slew the Castle's Giant Lord.
Thus how the captive maid was found,
Oft heard they of The Table Round.
Fantasia - The Young Girl's Poem
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew!
Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal!
Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!
Clemency In Kings.
by Robert Herrick

Kings must not only cherish up the good,
But must be niggards of the meanest blood.
In The Night
by Richard Le Gallienne

'Kiss me, dear Love!' -
But there was none to hear,
Only the darkness round about my bed
And hollow silence, for thy face had fled,
Though in my dreaming it had come so near.
I slept again and it came back to me,
Burning within the hollow arch of night
Like some fair flame of sacrificial light,
And all my soul sprang up to mix with thee -
'Kiss me, my love!
Ah, Love, thy face how fair!'
So did I cry, but still thou wert not there.