DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Daylight And Moonlight
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In broad daylight, and at noon,
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white,
As a school-boy's paper kite.
In broad daylight, yesterday,
I read a Poet's mystic lay;
And it seemed to me at most
As a phantom, or a ghost.
But at length the feverish day
Like a passion died away,
And the night, serene and still,
Fell on village, vale, and hill.
Then the moon, in all her pride,
Like a spirit glorified,
Filled and overflowed the night
With revelations of her light.
And the Poet's song again
Passed like music through my brain;
Night interpreted to me
All its grace and mystery.
Noli 'mulari
by Arthur Hugh Clough

In controversial foul impureness
The peace that is thy light to thee
Quench not: in faith and inner sureness
Possess thy soul and let it be.
No violence, perverse, persistent,
What cannot be can bring to be;
No zeal what is make more existent,
And strife but blinds the eyes that see.
What though in blood their souls embruing,
The great, the good, and wise they curse,
Still sinning, what they know not doing;
Stand still, forbear, nor make it worse.
By curses, by denunciation,
The coming fate they cannot stay;
Nor thou, by fiery indignation,
Though just, accelerate the day.
Alone
by Ambrose Bierce

In contact, lo! the flint and steel,
By sharp and flame, the thought reveal
That he the metal, she the stone,
Had cherished secretly alone. 
Booley Fito.
Promise
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.
Song of the Shingle-Splitters
by Henry Kendall

In dark wild woods, where the lone owl broods
And the dingoes nightly yell
Where the curlew's cry goes floating by,
We splitters of shingles dwell.
And all day through, from the time of the dew
To the hour when the mopoke calls,
Our mallets ring where the woodbirds sing
Sweet hymns by the waterfalls.
And all night long we are lulled by the song
Of gales in the grand old trees;
And in the brakes we can hear the lakes
And the moan of the distant seas.
For afar from heat and dust of street,
And hall and turret and dome,
In forest deep, where the torrents leap,
Is the shingle-splitter's home.
The dweller in town may lie upon down,
And own his palace and park:
We envy him not his prosperous lot,
Though we slumber on sheets of bark.
Our food is rough, but we have enough;
Our drink is better than wine:
For cool creeks flow wherever we go,
Shut in from the hot sunshine.
Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof,
And at the end of the days
We sit and smoke over yarn and joke,
By the bush-fire's sturdy blaze.
For away from din and sorrow and sin,
Where troubles but rarely come,
We jog along, like a merry song,
In the shingle-splitter's home.
What though our work be heavy, we shirk
From nothing beneath the sun;
And toil is sweet to those who can eat
And rest when the day is done.
In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime,
No sound of the Sunday bells;
But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles,
And God in the woodland dwells.
We listen to notes from the million throats
Of chorister birds on high,
Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees,
And our dome is the broad blue sky.
Oh! a brave, frank life, unsmitten by strife,
We live wherever we roam,
And our hearts are free as the great strong sea,
In the shingle-splitter's home.
In Cabin'd Ships At Sea
by Walt Whitman

In cabin'd ships, at sea,
The boundless blue on every side expanding,
With whistling winds and music of the waves - the large imperious waves - In such,
Or some lone bark, buoy'd on the dense marine,
Where, joyous, full of faith, spreading white sails,
She cleaves the ether, mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under many a star at night,
By sailors young and old, haply will I, a reminiscence of the land, be read,
In full rapport at last.
Here are our thoughts - voyagers' thoughts,
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said;
The sky o'erarches here - we feel the undulating deck beneath our feet,
We feel the long pulsation - ebb and flow of endless motion;
The tones of unseen mystery - the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world - the liquid-flowing syllables,
The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm,
The boundless vista, and the horizon far and dim, are all here,
And this is Ocean's poem.
Then falter not, O book! fulfil your destiny!
You, not a reminiscence of the land alone,
You too, as a lone bark, cleaving the ether - purpos'd I know
not whither - yet ever full of faith,
Consort to every ship that sails - sail you!
Bear forth to them, folded, my love - (Dear mariners! for you I fold it here, in every leaf;)
Speed on, my Book! spread your white sails, my little bark, athwart the imperious waves!
Chant on - sail on - bear o'er the boundless blue, from me, to every shore,
This song for mariners and all their ships.
Noli Aemulari
by Arthur Hugh Clough

In controversial foul impureness
The peace that is thy light to thee
Quench not: in faith and inner sureness
Possess thy soul and let it be.
No violence'perverse'persistent'
What cannot be can bring to be;
No zeal what is make more existent,
And strife but blinds the eyes that see.
What though in blood their souls embruing,
The great, the good and wise they curse,
Still sinning, what they know not doing;
Stand still, forbear, nor make it worse.
By curses, by denunciation,
The coming fate they cannot stay;
Nor thou, by fiery indignation,
Though just, accelerate the day.
To Clara Morris.
by Edwin C. Ranck

In days gone by, the poets wrote
Sweet verses to the ladies fair;
Described the nightingale's clear note,
Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.
To dare all for a woman's smile
Or breathe one's heart out in a rose--
Such trifles now are out of style,
The scented manuscript must close.
Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,
And that sweet singer Horace;
But I will sing of other days
In praise of Clara Morris.
Youth is but the joy of life,
Not the eternal moping;
We get no happiness from strife
Nor yet by blindly groping.
All the world's a stage you know
The men and women actors;
A little joy, a little woe--
These are but human factors.
The mellow days still come and go,
The earth is full of beauty;
If we would only think it so,
Life is not all a duty.
And you are young in heart not years,
Is this not true because
You mingle happiness with tears
And do not look for flaws?
Your silver hair is but the snow
That drifts above the roses,
And though the years may come and go
They can but scatter posies.
The Two Painters.
by Henry Austin Dobson

In Art some hold Themselves content
If they but compass what they meant;
Others prefer, their Purpose gained,
Still to find Something unattained--
Something whereto they vaguely grope
With no more Aid than that of Hope.
Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!
The prudent Follower of GAY
Declines to speak for either View,
But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.
Once--'twas in good Queen ANNA'S Time--
While yet in this benighted Clime
The GENIUS of the ARTS (now known
On mouldy Pediments alone)
Protected all the Men of Mark,
Two Painters met Her in the Park.
Whether She wore the Robe of Air
Portrayed by VERRIO and LAGUERRE;
Or, like BELINDA, trod this Earth,
Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,
And armed at every Point for Slaughter
With Essences and Orange-water,
I know not: but it seems that then,
After some talk of Brush and Pen,--
Some chat of Art both High and Low,
Of VAN'S "Goose-Pie" and KNELLER'S "Mot,"--
The Lady, as a Goddess should,
Bade Them ask of Her what They would.
"Then, Madam, my request," says BRISK,
Giving his Ramillie a whisk,
"Is that your Majesty will crown
My humble Efforts with Renown.
Let me, I beg it--Thanks to You--
Be praised for Everything I do,
Whether I paint a Man of Note,
Or only plan a Petticoat."
"Nay," quoth the other, "I confess"
(This One was plainer in his Dress,
And even poorly clad), "for me,
I scorn Your Popularity.
Why should I care to catch at once
The Point of View of every Dunce?
Let me do well, indeed, but find
The Fancy first, the Work behind;
Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...."
The Goddess both Petitions granted.
Each in his Way, achieved Success;
But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.
A Blind Singer.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

In covert of a leafy porch,
Where woodbine clings,
And roses drop their crimson leaves,
He sits and sings;
With soft brown crest erect to hear,
And drooping wings.
Shut in a narrow cage, which bars
His eager flight,
Shut in the darker prison-house
Of blinded sight,
Alike to him are sun and stars,
The day, the night.
But all the fervor of high noon,
Hushed, fragrant, strong,
And all the peace of moonlit nights
When nights are long,
And all the bliss of summer eves,
Breathe in his song.
The rustle of the fresh green woods,
The hum of bee,
The joy of flight, the perfumed waft
Of blossoming tree,
The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill
Of liberty,--
All blend and mix, while evermore,
Now and again,
A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,
A low refrain,
Caught from some shadowy memory
Of patient pain.
In midnight black, when all men sleep,
My singer wakes,
And pipes his lovely melodies,
And trills and shakes.
The dark sky bends to listen, but
No answer makes.
O, what is joy? In vain we grasp
Her purple wings;
Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell
With humble things;
She shares my sightless singer's cage,
And so--he sings.
The Duel. - A Serious Ballad.
by Thomas Hood

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."
In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell - 
I'll pop it into you.
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's.
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give - 
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral now
Be doomed to have a ball.
I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?
Said Mr, B., I do agree - 
But think of Honor's Courts!
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.
But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun:
Why can't we aim above, as if
We had called out the sun?
Soup into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end!
To Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
by Alexander Pope

1 In beauty or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared;
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To yield to a lady was hard.
2 Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied:
So Papists refuse
The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
3 'Twas a woman at first
(Indeed she was cursed)
In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree
The laws should decree
To the first possessor the right.
4 Then bravely, fair dame,
Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;
And let men receive,
From a second bright Eve,
The knowledge of right and of wrong.
5 But if the first Eve
Hard doom did receive,
When only one apple had she,
What a punishment new
Shall be found out for you,
Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree!
To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
by Alexander Pope

I
In beauty, or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared:
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To yield to a lady was hard.
II
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied;
So Papists refuse
The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
III
'Twas a woman at first
(Indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree
The laws should decree
To the first possessor the right.
IV
Then bravely, fair dame,
Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;
And let men receive,
From a second bright Eve,
The knowledge of right and of wrong.
V
But if the first Eve
Hard doom did receive,
When only one apple had she,
What a punishment new
Shall be found out for you,
Who tasting, have robb'd the whole tree?
Lips And Eyes.
by Thomas Carew

In Celia's face a question did arise,
Which were more beautiful, her lips or eyes ?
We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts.
From us, repli'd the lips, proceed those blisses
Which lovers reap by kind words and sweet kisses.
Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid oriental pearl a shower ;
Whereat the lips, moved with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweet smile unlock'd their pearly treasure
And bad Love judge, whether did add more grace
Weeping or smiling pearls to Celia's face.
Honoro Butler And Lord Kenmare (1720)
by James Stephens

In bloom and bud the bees are busily
Storing against the winter their sweet hoard
That shall be rifled ere the autumn be
Past, or the winter comes with silver sword
To fright the bees, until the merry round
Tells them that sweets again are to be found.
The lusty tide is flowing by in ease,
Telling of joy along its brimming way;
Far in its waters is an isle of trees
Whereto the sun will go at end of day,
As who in secret place and dear is hid,
And scarce can rouse him thence tho' he be chid.
Now justice comes all trouble to repair,
And cheeks that had been wan are coloured well,
The untilled moor is comely, and the air
Hath a great round of song from bird in dell,
And bird on wing and bird on forest tree,
And from each place and space where bird may be.
The languid are made strong, the strong grow stronger,
There is no grievance here, and no distress,
The woeful are not woeful any longer,
The rose hath put on her a finer dress,
And every girl to bloom adds bloom again,
And every man hath heart beyond all men.
For the Star of Munster, Pearl of the Golden Bough,
Comes joyfully this day of days to wed
Her choice of all whom fame hath loved till now,
And who chose her from all that love instead:
The Joy of the Flock, the Bud of the Branch is she,
Crown of the Irish Pride and Chivalry.
He is a chief and prince, well famed is he,
The love of thousands unto him does run;
And all days were before and all will be,
He was and will be loved by every one;
And she and he be loved by all no less
Who courage love, and love, and loveliness.
The nobles of the province take their wine,
And drink a merry health to groom and bride;
They shall be drunken ere the sun decline,
And all their merrymaking lay aside
In deep, sweet sleep that seals a merry day
Until the dawn, when they shall ride away,
Leaving those two who now are one behind.
O Moon! pour on the silence all thy beams,
And for this night be beautiful and kind;
Weave in their sleep thy best and dearest dreams;
And fortune them in their own land to be
Safe from all evil chance, and from all enmity.
The Sonnets CXLI - In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes
by William Shakespeare

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
The Maori Pig Market
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold
The billows are ceaselessly combing,
Away in a village all tranquil and old
I came on a market where porkers were sold,
A market for pigs in the gloaming.
And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig
The lands of their forefathers roaming,
Were weighing their swine, whether little or big,
For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig,
The weight of the pig in the gloaming.
And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate,
The while that his porker was foaming
And squealing like fifty, that Maori sedate,
He leant on the pig just to add to its weight,
He leant on the pig in the gloaming.
Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout,
O'Grady, I think, his cognomen,
Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout,
With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out
By the side of his pig in the gloaming.
A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin,
And I thought it was time to be homing,
For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin
'Midst war-cries of "Pakeha!" "Batherashin!"
As I fled from the spot in the gloaming.
The Old Snake Fence.
by James McIntyre

In early times the pioneer
When a few acres he did clear,
He found 'an ample recompense
For splitting rails and making fence.
Though it was crooked as a snake,
And zigzag style did not awake,
He thought it was a thing of beauty,
Yet in its day it did its duty.
And though the old snake fence must fall,
'Twas easy made, axe, wedge and maul,
Were all the tools the pioneer
Required the old rail fence to rear.
And the old pioneer could boast
Of fence that did not need a post,
To build it now is waste of timber,
And fertile lands it doth cumber.
And pine stump fence with its sharp roots
Will long endure and ward off brutes,
For the crops they ample shield
And do protect each separate field.
But old style fence doth waste much land,
Where weeds do grow and bush expand,
And thistle down doth blow from thence,
So folks build wire and the board fence.
Song Of Fellowship.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

In ev'ry hour of joy
That love and wine prolong,
The moments we'll employ
To carol forth this song!
We're gathered in His name,
Whose power hath brought us here;
He kindled first our flame,
He bids it burn more clear.
Then gladly glow to-night,
And let our hearts combine!
Up! quaff with fresh delight
This glass of sparkling wine!
Up! hail the joyous hour,
And let your kiss be true;
With each new bond of power
The old becomes the new!
Who in our circle lives,
And is not happy there?
True liberty it gives,
And brother's love so fair.
Thus heart and heart through life
With mutual love are fill'd;
And by no causeless strife
Our union e'er is chill'd.
Our hopes a God has crown'd
With life-discernment free,
And all we view around,
Renews our ecstasy.
Ne'er by caprice oppress'd,
Our bliss is ne'er destroy'd;
More freely throbs our breast,
By fancies ne'er alloy'd.
Where'er our foot we set,
The more life's path extends,
And brighter, brighter yet
Our gaze on high ascends.
We know no grief or pain,
Though all things fall and rise;
Long may we thus remain!
Eternal be our ties!
Desperation And Madness Of Guilt, The
by Thomas Oldham

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!
Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;
No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse
Through all the blackness of eternity!
Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand
Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.
I seek not mercy, no! long sought in vain
While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,
Wasting its life in agonizing groans,
And floods of scalding tears, but now no more;
Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!
Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;
'Twould taint creation were it not confined.
Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,
A mountain of impenetrable ice,
In whose unfathom'd centre lies my soul,
Imprison'd, numb'd, buried in conscious death.
O could I cease to think! cease quite to be!
O could I live in torments! writhe in hell!
Raptures to this! Rouse, rouse to life, my soul,
In madness of despair, O burst thy tomb;
Call God and devils to behold thy guilt,
And blast thee.    ("It lightens.")
See, what sudden blaze! they come!
Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there!
There lies my murder'd babe: now strike! avenge!
("It thunders.")
Overwhelming stroke!
("She falls upon the ground insensible:
at length, coming to herself")
Ah! am I conscious still?
Not blasted then? does this one little spark
Amidst a universe of solid gloom
Still live? I'll try to quench it with my blood.
Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point;
My blood flows fast, it animates my heart.
The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark,
It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight:
See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd child
Comes with a troop of demons to conduct
My soul to hell; they seize me for their prey,
They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh!
("She dies.")