DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Bouts Rimez[1]
by Jonathan Swift

ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA
Our schoolmaster may roar i' th' fit,
Of classic beauty, haec et illa;
Not all his birch inspires such wit
As th'ogling beams of Domitilla.
Let nobles toast, in bright champaign,
Nymphs higher born than Domitilla;
I'll drink her health, again, again,
In Berkeley's tar,[2] or sars'parilla.
At Goodman's Fields I've much admired
The postures strange of Monsieur Brilla;
But what are they to the soft step,
The gliding air of Domitilla?
Virgil has eternized in song
The flying footsteps of Camilla;[3]
Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong;
He might have dream'd of Domitilla.
Great Theodose condemn'd a town
For thinking ill of his Placilla:[4]
And deuce take London! if some knight
O' th' city wed not Domitilla.
Wheeler,[5] Sir George, in travels wise,
Gives us a medal of Plantilla;
But O! the empress has not eyes,
Nor lips, nor breast, like Domitilla.
Not all the wealth of plunder'd Italy,
Piled on the mules of king At-tila,
Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie)
Or garter, snatch'd from Domitilla.
Five years a nymph at certain hamlet,
Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a-
- bused much my heart, and was a damn'd let
To verse - but now for Domitilla.
Dan Pope consigns Belinda's watch
To the fair sylphid Momentilla,[6]
And thus I offer up my catch
To the snow-white hands of Domitilla.
On The Death Of Mr. Fox,[1] The Following Illiberal Impromptu Appeared In The "Morning Post."
by George Gordon Byron

"Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
To Which The Author Of These Pieces Sent The Following Reply For Insertion In The "Morning Chronicle."
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; 
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir'd in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending "'neath the weight" 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;" 
Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.-
Fox! shall, in Britain's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT, the patriot's 'palm' resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask.
(Southwell, Oct., 1806. [1])
The Primiti' To Parents.
by Robert Herrick

Our household-gods our parents be;
And manners good require that we
The first fruits give to them, who gave
Us hands to get what here we have.
Life
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Our lives seem filled with things of little worth;
A thousand petty cares arise each day
Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth,
Reminding us that we have feet of clay;
Yet we will not from path of duty stray
If we amidst them all cleave to the right;
Nor great nor small are actions in His sight;
Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way.
Our early dreams may not be realized;
The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace;
The constellations we so highly prized
Have vanished all--nor left the slightest trace
Of former glory in its azure face,
But high o'er all beams out the polar star
To guide us safe through rock and sandy bar;
Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace.
Great Spirits Supervive.
by Robert Herrick

Our mortal parts may wrapp'd in sear-cloths lie:
Great spirits never with their bodies die.
Ars Longa - A Song Of Pilgrimage
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Our hopes are wild imaginings,
Our schemes are airy castles,
Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings,
And we their slaves and vassals;
Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth,
Most ready to deceive is;
But age will own the bitter truth,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
The hill of life with eager feet
We climbed in merry morning,
But on the downward track we meet
The shades of twilight warning;
The shadows gaunt they fall aslant,
And those who scaled Ben Nevis,
Against the mole-hills toil and pant,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
The obstacles that barr'd our path
We seldom quail'd to dash on
In youth, for youth one motto hath,
'The will, the way must fashion.'
Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot,
Too ready to believe is,
But thin and cold our blood hath got,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
And 'art is long', and 'life is short',
And man is slow at learning;
And yet by divers dealings taught,
For divers follies yearning,
He owns at last, with grief downcast
(For man disposed to grieve is)
One adage old stands true and fast,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
We journey, manhood, youth, and age,
The matron, and the maiden,
Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage,
Loins girded, heavy laden:
Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng,
Most eager to achieve is,
Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon,
We travel brisk and cheery,
But some have laid them down ere noon,
And all at eve are weary;
The noontide glows with no repose,
And bitter chill the eve is,
The grasshopper a burden grows,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd,
The flint-stone galls and blisters,
Our brother's steps we cannot aid,
Ah me! nor aid our sister's:
The pit prepares its hidden snares,
The rock prepared to cleave is,
We cry, in falling unawares,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!
Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!
Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!
Oh! puppets we adjusted!
On barren land our seed is sand,
And torn the web we weave is,
The bruised reed hath pierced the hand,
'Ars longa, vita brevis.'
We, too, 'Job's comforters' have met,
With steps, like ours, unsteady,
They could not help themselves, and yet
To judge us they were ready;
Life's path is trod at last, and God
More ready to reprieve is,
They know who rest beneath the sod,
'Mors gratum, vita brevis.'
To H. W. Longfellow - Before His Departure For Europe, May 27, 1868
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Our Poet, who has taught the Western breeze
To waft his songs before him o'er the seas,
Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach
Borne on the spreading tide of English speech
Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.
Where shall the singing bird a stranger be
That finds a nest for him in every tree?
How shall he travel who can never go
Where his own voice the echoes do not know,
Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?
Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign
Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine,
Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres,
That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers,
That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!
Forgive the simple words that sound like praise;
The mist before me dims my gilded phrase;
Our speech at best is half alive and cold,
And save that tenderer moments make us bold
Our whitening lips would close, their truest truth untold.
We who behold our autumn sun below
The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer's bow,
Know well what parting means of friend from friend;
After the snows no freshening dews descend,
And what the frost has marred, the sunshine will not mend.
So we all count the months, the weeks, the days,
That keep thee from us in unwonted ways,
Grudging to alien hearths our widowed time;
And one has shaped a breath in artless rhyme
That sighs, "We track thee still through each remotest clime."
What wishes, longings, blessings, prayers shall be
The more than golden freight that floats with thee!
And know, whatever welcome thou shalt find, - 
Thou who hast won the hearts of half mankind, - 
The proudest, fondest love thou leavest still behind!
Nursery Rhyme. LXXVIII. Tales.
by Unknown

Our saucy boy Dick,
Had a nice little stick
Cut from a hawthorn tree;
And with this pretty stick,
He thought he could beat
A boy much bigger than he.
But the boy turned round,
And hit him a rebound,
Which did so frighten poor Dick,
That, without more delay,
He ran quite away,
And over a hedge he jumped quick.
How can we Fool the Rooster?
by Alan L. Strang

Written when the clock was set ahead one hour on April 1, 1918.
Our Rooster wakes at half-past five
And crows with all his might,
He tries to wake the people up
Before the day is light.
When Daddy hears the rooster crow
He knows he should awake
And light the kitchen fire, so Ma
Can cook the Johnny cake.
Now, maybe we can fool my Dad
That it's half-past five when it's half-past four,
And maybe the system's the best we have had
To fool some thousands of people or more;
But, how can we fool that rooster?
I have always thought our rooster had
A clock inside of his head,
And I don't know how we can fix it so
We can set the clock ahead.
I asked my Dad, and he said to me,
"Why, son, you surely know
A rooster's instinct wakens him
And tells him when to crow."
Now the hands of the clock we can turn ahead,
We can fool the people and feel content;
But the thing that worries me night and day,
And on which my entire thought is bent
Is, how can we fool that rooster?
The Yelpers.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Our rides in all directions bend,
For business or for pleasure,
Yet yelpings on our steps attend,
And barkings without measure.
The dog that in our stable dwells,
After our heels is striding,
And all the while his noisy yells
But show that we are riding.
Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young
by George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

Our minds are married, but we are too young
For wedlock by the customs of this age
When parent homes pen each in separte cage
And only supper-earning songs are sung.
Times past, when medieval woods were green,
Babes were betrothed, and that betrothal brief.
Remember Romeo in love and grief
Those star-crossed lovers, Juliet was fourteen.
Times past, the caveman by his new-found fire
Rested beside his mate in woodsmoke's scent.
By our own fireside we shall rest content
Fifty years hence keep troth with hearts desire.
We shall remember, when our hair is white,
These clouded days revealed in radiant light.
Hope
by Joseph Addison

Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.
The Old Burying-Ground
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;
But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.
The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from that of Art.
A winding wall of mossy stone,
Frost-flung and broken, lines
A lonesome acre thinly grown
With grass and wandering vines.
Without the wall a birch-tree shows
Its drooped and tasselled head;
Within, a stag-horned sumach grows,
Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.
There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain
Like white ghosts come and go,
The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain,
The cow-bell tinkles slow.
Low moans the river from its bed,
The distant pines reply;
Like mourners shrinking from the dead,
They stand apart and sigh.
Unshaded smites the summer sun,
Unchecked the winter blast;
The school-girl learns the place to shun,
With glances backward cast.
For thus our fathers testified,
That he might read who ran,
The emptiness of human pride,
The nothingness of man.
They dared not plant the grave with flowers,
Nor dress the funeral sod,
Where, with a love as deep as ours,
They left their dead with God.
The hard and thorny path they kept
From beauty turned aside;
Nor missed they over those who slept
The grace to life denied.
Yet still the wilding flowers would blow,
The golden leaves would fall,
The seasons come, the seasons go,
And God be good to all.
Above the graves the' blackberry hung
In bloom and green its wreath,
And harebells swung as if they rung
The chimes of peace beneath.
The beauty Nature loves to share,
The gifts she hath for all,
The common light, the common air,
O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.
It knew the glow of eventide,
The sunrise and the noon,
And glorified and sanctified
It slept beneath the moon.
With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod,
Around the seasons ran,
And evermore the love of God
Rebuked the fear of man.
We dwell with fears on either hand,
Within a daily strife,
And spectral problems waiting stand
Before the gates of life.
The doubts we vainly seek to solve,
The truths we know, are one;
The known and nameless stars revolve
Around the Central Sun.
And if we reap as we have sown,
And take the dole we deal,
The law of pain is love alone,
The wounding is to heal.
Unharmed from change to change we glide,
We fall as in our dreams;
The far-off terror at our side
A smiling angel seems.
Secure on God's all-tender heart
Alike rest great and small;
Why fear to lose our little part,
When He is pledged for all?
O fearful heart and troubled brain
Take hope and strength from this,
That Nature never hints in vain,
Nor prophesies amiss.
Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave,
Her lights and airs are given
Alike to playground and the grave;
And over both is Heaven.
Duty's Path
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Out from the harbour of youth's bay
There leads the path of pleasure;
With eager steps we walk that way
To brim joy's largest measure.
But when with morn's departing beam
Goes youth's last precious minute,
We sigh "'Twas but a fevered dream -
There's nothing in it."
Then on our vision dawns afar
The goal of glory, gleaming
Like some great radiant solar star,
And sets us longing, dreaming.
Forgetting all things left behind,
We strain each nerve to win it,
But when 'tis ours -alas! we find
There's nothing in it.
We turn our sad, reluctant gaze
Upon the path of duty;
Its barren, uninviting ways
Are void of bloom and beauty.
Yet in that road, though dark and cold,
It seems as we begin it,
As we press on -lo! we behold
There's Heaven in it.
Columns
by Rudyard Kipling

Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.
'Ere comes the clerk with 'is lantern an' keys
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin 'again!)
" Surplus of everything, draw what you please
"For the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men."
"What are our orders an' where do we lay?"
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
"You came after dark, you will leave before day,
"You section, you pompom, you six' undred men!"
Down the tin street, 'alf awake an 'unfed,
'Ark to 'em blessin' the Gen'ral in bed!
Now by the church an' the outspan they wind,
Over the ridge an' it's all lef' be'ind
For the section, etc.
Soon they will camp as the dawn's growin' grey,
Roll up for coffee an' sleep while they may,
The section , etc.
Read their 'ome letters, their papers an' such,
For they'll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
With a section, etc.
'Untin' for shade as the long hours pass,
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
Lies the section, etc.
Dossin' or beatin' a shirt in the sun,
Watching chameleons or cleanin' a gun,
Waits the section, etc.
With nothin' but stillness as far as you please,
An' the silly mirage stringin' islands an' seas
Round the section, etc.
So they strips off their hide an' they grills in their bones,
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
Toward the section, etc.
An' the Mauser-bird stops an' the jackals begin
A the 'orse-guard comes up and the Gunners 'ook in
As a 'int the pompom an' six 'undred men . . . .
Off through the dark with the stars to rely on,
(Alpha Centauri an' somethin' Orion)
Moves the section, etc.
Same bloomin' 'ole which the ant-bear 'as broke,
Same bloomin' stumble an' same bloomin' joke
Down the section, etc.
Same "which is right?" where the cart-tracks divide,
Same "give it up" from the same clever guide
To the section, etc.
Same tumble-down on the same 'idden farm,
Same white-eyed Kaffir 'oo gives the alarm
Of the section, etc.
Same shootin' wild at the end o' the night,
Same flyin'-tackle, an' same messy fight,
By the section, etc.
Same ugly 'iccup an' same 'orrid squeal,
When it's too dark to see an' it's too late to feel
In the section, etc.
(Same batch of prisoners, 'airy an' still,
Watchin' their comrades bolt over the 'ill
From the section, etc.)
Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun
As 'e gets up displeasured to see what was done
By the section, etc.
Same splash o' pink on the stoep or the kraal,
An' the same quiet face which 'as finished with all
In the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men.
Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
'Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an 'six' 'undred men.
Maude Clare
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Out of the church she followed them
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.
'Son Thomas,' his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
'May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;
'Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell.'
My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kissed the bride.
'Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
Have brought my gift,' she said:
'To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
To bless the marriage-bed.
'Here's my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:
'Here's my half of the faded leaves
We plucked from budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily leaves,--
The lilies are budding now.'
He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He faltered in his place:
'Lady,' he said,--'Maude Clare,' he said,--
'Maude Clare:'--and hid his face.
She turn'd to Nell: 'My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;
Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew.
'Take my share of a fickle heart,
Mine of a paltry love:
Take it or leave it as you will,
I wash my hands thereof.'
'And what you leave,' said Nell, 'I'll take,
And what you spurn, I'll wear;
For he's my lord for better and worse,
And him I love, Maude Clare.
'Yea, though you're taller by the head,
More wise, and much more fair;
I'll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all, Maude Clare.'
The Winter Soldier: The Pool.
by Edward Shanks

Out of that noise and hurry of large life
The river flings me in an idle pool:
The waters still go on with stir and strife
And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful
Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,
Reflected in that movement.    Beauty there
Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow
Thicker and keener in that lovely air
Above the river.    Here small sticks and straws
Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,
Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws
In this unmoving death, where joy is not,
Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten
And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.
The Squatter's Daughter
by Henry Lawson

Out in the west, where runs are wide,
And days than ours are hotter,
Not very far from Lachlan Side
There dwelt a wealthy squatter.
Of old opinions he was full, 
An Englishman, his sire,
Was hated long where peasants pull
Their forelocks to the squire.
He loved the good old British laws,
And Royalty's regalia,
And oft was heard to growl because
They wouldn't fit Australia.
This squatter had a lovely child, 
An angel bright we thought her;
And all the stockmen rude and wild
Adored the squatter's daughter.
But on a bright eventful morn,
A swell of northern nation, 
A lordling, brought his languid yawn
And eyeglass to the station.
He coveted the squatter's wealth;
He saw the squatter's daughter:
And, what is more than heart or health,
His empty title bought her.
And 'Yes', the father made her say
In spite of tears and kissing;
But early on the wedding day
The station found her missing.
And madder still the squatter grew,
And madder still the lover;
When by-and-by a-missing too,
A stockman they discover.
Then on the squatter's brow the frown
Went blacker still and blacker;
He sent a man to bring from town
A trooper and a tracker.
The dusty rascal saw the trail;
He never saw it plainer;
The reason why he came to fail
Will take a shrewd explainer.
A day and night the party lose;
The track the tracker parried;
And then a stockman brought the news, 
'The runaways were married!'
The squatter swore that he'd forgive,
Perhaps, when he forgot her;
But he'd disown her while he'd live,
And while they called him squatter.
But as the empty months went o'er,
To ease his heart's vexation
He brought his bold young son-in-law
To manage stock and station.
And glad was he that he forgave,
Because a something had he
To keep his gray hairs from the grave,
And call him 'Dear Grand Daddy'.
To Democratic victories
In after years he'd listen;
And, strange to say, to things like these
His aged eyes would glisten.
The lordling took another girl
Not quite of his desire,
And went to where the farmers twirl
Their forelocks to the squire.
Now often to the station comes
An old and wrinkled tracker:
They cheer his heart with plenty rum,
And 'plenty pheller bacca'.
Misapprehension
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song,
With my heart's blood imbued,
Instinct with passion, tremulously strong,
With grief subdued;
Breathing a fortitude
Pain-bought.
And one who claimed much love for what I wrought,
Read and considered it,
And spoke:
"Ay, brother,--'t is well writ,
But where's the joke?"
The People's Fleet
by Alfred Noyes

Out of her darkened fishing-ports they go,
A fleet of little ships, whose every name--
Daffodil, Sea-lark, Rose and Surf and Snow,
Burns in this blackness like an altar-flame;
Out of her past they sail, three thousand strong,
The people's fleet that never knew its worth,
And every name is a broken phrase of song
To some remembered loveliness on earth.
There's Barbara Cowie, Comely Bank and May,
Christened, at home, in worlds of dawn and dew:
There's Ruth and Kindly Light and Robin Gray
With Mizpah. (May that simple prayer come true!)
Out of old England's inmost heart they sail,
A fleet of memories that can never fail.
The Memory Of Martha
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Out in de night a sad bird moans,
An', oh, but hit 's moughty lonely;
Times I kin sing, but mos' I groans,
Fu' oh, but hit 's moughty lonely!
Is you sleepin' well dis evenin', Marfy, deah?
W'en I calls you fom de cabin, kin you hyeah?
'T ain't de same ol' place to me,
Nuffin' 's lak hit used to be,
W'en I knowed dat you was allus some'ers near.
Down by de road de shadders grows,
An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely;
Seem lak de ve'y moonlight knows,
An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely!
Does you know, I's cryin' fu' you, oh, my wife?
Does you know dey ain't no joy no mo' in life?
An' my only t'ought is dis,
Dat I's honin' fu' de bliss
Fu' to quit dis groun' o' worriment an' strife.
Dah on de baid my banjo lays,
An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely;
Can't even sta't a chune o' praise,
An', oh, but hit's moughty lonely!
Oh, hit's moughty slow a-waitin' hyeah below.
Is you watchin' fu' me, Marfy, at de do'?
Ef you is, in spite o' sin,
Dey'll be sho' to let me in,
Wen dey sees yo' face a-shinin', den dey'll know.