DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Decay
by John Clare

O Poesy is on the wane,
For Fancy's visions all unfitting;
I hardly know her face again,
Nature herself seems on the flitting.
The fields grow old and common things,
The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;
And spots, where still a beauty clings,
Are sighing "going! all a-going!"
O Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.
The bank with brambles overspread,
And little molehills round about it,
Was more to me than laurel shades,
With paths of gravel finely clouted;
And streaking here and streaking there,
Through shaven grass and many a border,
With rutty lanes had no compare,
And heaths were in a richer order.
But Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.
I sat beside the pasture stream,
When Beauty's self was sitting by,
The fields did more than Eden seem
Nor could I tell the reason why.
I often drank when not adry
To pledge her health in draughts divine;
Smiles made it nectar from the sky,
Love turned een water into wine.
O Poesy is on the wane,
I cannot find her face again.
The sun those mornings used to find,
Its clouds were other-country mountains,
And heaven looked downward on the mind,
Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.
Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey
Turned mist--the sun, a homeless ranger,
Pursues alone his naked way,
Unnoticed like a very stranger.
O Poesy is on the wane,
Nor love nor joy is mine again.
Love's sun went down without a frown,
For very joy it used to grieve us;
I often think the West is gone,
Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.
The stream it is a common stream,
Where we on Sundays used to ramble,
The sky hangs oer a broken dream,
The bramble's dwindled to a bramble!
O Poesy is on the wane,
I cannot find her haunts again.
Mere withered stalks and fading trees,
And pastures spread with hills and rushes,
Are all my fading vision sees;
Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes!
When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,
Their marble pillars overswelling,
And Danger paused to pluck the flowers
That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.
Yes, Poesy is on the wane,
Nor joy nor fear is mine again.
Aye, Poesy hath passed away,
And Fancy's visions undeceive us;
The night hath ta'en the place of day,
And why should passing shadows grieve us?
I thought the flowers upon the hills
Were flowers from Adam's open gardens;
But I have had my summer thrills,
And I have had my heart's rewardings.
So Poesy is on the wane,
I hardly know her face again.
And Friendship it hath burned away,
Like to a very ember cooling,
A make-believe on April day
That sent the simple heart a-fooling;
Mere jesting in an earnest way,
Deceiving on and still deceiving;
And Hope is but a fancy-play,
And Joy the art of true believing;
For Poesy is on the wane,
O could I feel her faith again!
Astraea
by John Greenleaf Whittier

"Jove means to settle
Astraea in her seat again,
And let down his golden chain
An age of better metal."
- Ben Johnson 1615
O poet rare and old!
Thy words are prophecies;
Forward the age of gold,
The new Saturnian lies.
The universal prayer
And hope are not in vain;
Rise, brothers! and prepare
The way for Saturn's reign.
Perish shall all which takes
From labor's board and can;
Perish shall all which makes
A spaniel of the man!
Free from its bonds the mind,
The body from the rod;
Broken all chains that bind
The image of our God.
Just men no longer pine
Behind their prison-bars;
Through the rent dungeon shine
The free sun and the stars.
Earth own, at last, untrod
By sect, or caste, or clan,
The fatherhood of God,
The brotherhood of man!
Fraud fail, craft perish, forth
The money-changers driven,
And God's will done on earth,
As now in heaven
To Postumus
by Eugene Field

O Postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past,
And piety will never check the wrinkles coming fast,
The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made,
And death, which unimpeded comes to bear us to the shade.
Old friend, although the tearless Pluto you may strive to please,
And seek each year with thrice one hundred bullocks to appease,
Who keeps the thrice-huge Geryon and Tityus his slaves,
Imprisoned fast forevermore with cold and sombre waves,
Yet must that flood so terrible be sailed by mortals all;
Whether perchance we may be kings and live in royal hall,
Or lowly peasants struggling long with poverty and dearth,
Still must we cross who live upon the favors of the earth.
And all in vain from bloody war and contest we are free,
And from the waves that hoarsely break upon the Adrian Sea;
For our frail bodies all in vain our helpless terror grows
In gloomy autumn seasons, when the baneful south wind blows.
Alas! the black Cocytus, wandering to the world below,
That languid river to behold we of this earth must go;
To see the grim Danaides, that miserable race,
And Sisyphus of 'olus, condemned to endless chase.
Behind you must you leave your home and land and wife so dear,
And of the trees, except the hated cypresses, you rear,
And which around the funeral piles as signs of mourning grow,
Not one will follow you, their short-lived master, there below.
Your worthier heir the precious C'cuban shall drink galore,
Now with a hundred keys preserved and guarded in your store,
And stain the pavements, pouring out in waste the nectar proud,
Better than that with which the pontiffs' feasts have been endowed.
Gettysburg.
by Herman Melville

The Check.
(July, 1863.)
O pride of the days in prime of the months
Now trebled in great renown,
When before the ark of our holy cause
Fell Dagon down - 
Dagon foredoomed, who, armed and targed,
Never his impious heart enlarged
Beyond that hour; god walled his power,
And there the last invader charged.
He charged, and in that charge condensed
His all of hate and all of fire;
He sought to blast us in his scorn,
And wither us in his ire.
Before him went the shriek of shells - 
Aerial screamings, taunts and yells;
Then the three waves in flashed advance
Surged, but were met, and back they set:
Pride was repelled by sterner pride,
And Right is a strong-hold yet.
Before our lines it seemed a beach
Which wild September gales have strown
With havoc on wreck, and dashed therewith
Pale crews unknown - 
Men, arms, and steeds. The evening sun
Died on the face of each lifeless one,
And died along the winding marge of fight
And searching-parties lone.
Sloped on the hill the mounds were green,
Our center held that place of graves,
And some still hold it in their swoon,
And over these a glory waves.
The warrior-monument, crashed in fight,[8]
Shall soar transfigured in loftier light,
A meaning ampler bear;
Soldier and priest with hymn and prayer
Have laid the stone, and every bone
Shall rest in honor there.
8. Among numerous head-stones or monuments on Cemetery Hill, marred or destroyed by the enemy's concentrated fire, was one, somewhat conspicuous, of a Federal officer killed before Richmond in 1862. 
On the 4th of July 1865, the Gettysburg National Cemetery, on the same height with the original burial-ground, was consecrated, and the corner-stone laid of a commemorative pile.
O Pulchritudo
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

O Saint whose thousand shrines our feet have trod
And our eyes loved thy lamp's eternal beam,
Dim earthly radiance of the Unknown God,
Hope of the darkness, light of them that dream,
Far off, far off and faint, O glimmer on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.
O Word whose meaning every sense hath sought,
Voice of the teeming field and grassy mound,
Deep-whispering fountain of the wells of thought,
Will of the wind and soul of all sweet sound,
Far off, far off and faint, O murmur on
Till we thy pilgrims from the road are gone.
To A Rose
by Richard Le Gallienne

O rose! forbear to flaunt yourself,
All bloom and dew - 
I once, sad-hearted as I am,
Was young as you.
But, one by one, the petals fell
Earthward to rot;
Only a berry testifies
A rose forgot.
Saw Ye My Phely. (Quasi Dicat Phillis.)
by Robert Burns

Tune - "When she came ben she bobbit."
I.
O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love!
She winna come hame to her Willy.
II.
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.
III.
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.
O Radiance Of Life's Morning.
by Jean Blewett

O Radiance of life's morning! O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years! O full, O perfect joy!
The hills of earth touch heaven, the heaven of blue and gold,
And angel voices swell the song of love and peace untold!
O radiance of life's morning!
The dew within the rose,
The fragrance fresh from Eden
That freights each breeze that blows!
Dear Christ, the wine of Cana pour out in rich supply,
These hearts keep young with gladness while all the years go by!
O radiance of life's morning!
O gold without alloy!
O love that lives through all the years,
O full, O perfect joy!
The Realm Of Azure
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

O realm of azure! O realm of light and colour, of youth and happiness! I have beheld thee in dream. We were together, a few, in a beautiful little boat, gaily decked out. Like a swan's breast the white sail swelled below the streamers frolicking in the wind.
I knew not who were with me; but in all my soul I felt that they were young, light-hearted, happy as I!
But I looked not indeed on them. I beheld all round the boundless blue of the sea, dimpled with scales of gold, and overhead the same boundless sea of blue, and in it, triumphant and mirthful, it seemed, moved the sun.
And among us, ever and anon, rose laughter, ringing and gleeful as the laughter of the gods!
And on a sudden, from one man's lips or another's, would flow words, songs of divine beauty and inspiration, and power ... it seemed the sky itself echoed back a greeting to them, and the sea quivered in unison.... Then followed again the blissful stillness.
Riding lightly over the soft waves, swiftly our little boat sped on. No wind drove it along; our own lightly beating hearts guided it. At our will it floated, obedient as a living thing.
We came on islands, enchanted islands, half-transparent with the prismatic lights of precious stones, of amethysts and emeralds. Odours of bewildering fragrance rose from the rounded shores; some of these islands showered on us a rain of roses and valley lilies; from others birds darted up, with long wings of rainbow hues.
The birds flew circling above us; the lilies and roses melted away in the pearly foam that glided by the smooth sides of our boat.
And, with the flowers and the birds, sounds floated to us, sounds sweet as honey ... women's voices, one fancied, in them.... And all about us, sky, sea, the heaving sail aloft, the gurgling water at the rudder - all spoke of love, of happy love!
And she, the beloved of each of us - she was there ... unseen and close.
One moment more, and behold, her eyes will shine upon thee, her smile will blossom on thee.... Her hand will take thy hand and guide thee to the land of joy that fades not!
O realm of azure! In dream have I beheld thee.
June 1878.
A Fragment
by James Elroy Flecker

O pouring westering streams
Shouting that I have leapt the mountain bar,
Down curve on curve my journey's white way gleams -
My road along the river of return.
I know the countries where the white moons burn,
And heavy star on star
Dips on the pale and crystal desert hills.
I know the river of the sun that fills
With founts of gold the lakes of Orient sky.
*        *        *        *        *
And I have heard a voice of broken seas
And from the cliffs a cry.
Ah still they learn, those cave-eared Cyclades,
The Triton's friendly or his fearful horn,
And why the deep sea-bells but seldom chime,
And how those waves and with what spell-swept rhyme
In years of morning, on a summer's morn
Whispering round his castle on the coast,
Lured young Achilles from his haunted sleep
And drave him out to dive beyond those deep
Dim purple windows of the empty swell,
His ivory body flitting like a ghost
Over the holes where flat blind fishes dwell,
All to embrace his mother thron'd in her shell.
The Boy's Appeal.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

O say, dear sister, are you coming
Forth to the fields with me?
The very air is gaily ringing
With hum of bird and bee,
And crowds of swallows now are chirping
Up in our ancient thorn,
And earth and air are both rejoicing,
On this gay summer morn.
Shall we hie unto the streamlet's side
To seek our little boat,
And, plying our oars with right good will,
Over its bright waves float?
Or shall we loll on the grassy bank
For hours dreamy, still,
To draw from its depths some silv'ry prize,
Reward of angler's skill?
I do not talk of the tempting game
The forest covers hide,
So dear to the sportsman - plovers shy,
Pheasants with eye of pride,
For I know your timid nature shrinks
From flash of fire-arm bright,
And the birds themselves hear not the din
With more intense affright.
But we may tread the cool wood's paths,
And wander there for hours,
Discovering hidden fairy dells,
Be-gemmed with lovely flowers;
And while you weave them in varied wreaths;
In oaks of giant size
I'll seek for nests of cunning shape - 
I, too, must win some prize.
Then, sister, listen! squander not
These hours of precious time
With stupid book or useless work - 
It is indeed a crime;
But haste with me to the wood-lands green,
Where forest warblers sing
And bees are humming - like them, too,
We must be on the wing.
June
by James Whitcomb Riley

O queenly month of indolent repose!
I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,
As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom
I nestle like a drowsy child and doze
The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws
The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom
And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom
Before thy listless feet. The lily blows
A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;
And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear,
Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;
While faint and far away, yet pure and clear,
A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:
All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!
Verses To A Child
by Anne Bronte

1
O raise those eyes to me again
And smile again so joyously,
And fear not, love; it was not pain
Nor grief that drew these tears from me;
Beloved child, thou canst not tell
The thoughts that in my bosom dwell
Whene'er I look on thee!
2
Thou knowest not that a glance of thine
Can bring back long departed years
And that thy blue eyes' magic shine
Can overflow my own with tears,
And that each feature soft and fair
And every curl of golden hair,
Some sweet remembrance bears.
3
Just then thou didst recall to me
A distant long forgotten scene,
One smile, and one sweet word from thee
Dispelled the years that rolled between;
I was a little child again,
And every after joy and pain
Seemed never to have been.
4
Tall forest trees waved over me,
To hide me from the heat of day,
And by my side a child like thee
Among the summer flowerets lay.
He was thy sire, thou merry child.
Like thee he spoke, like thee he smiled,
Like thee he used to play.
5
O those were calm and happy days,
We loved each other fondly then;
But human love too soon decays,
And ours can never bloom again.
I never thought to see the day
When Florian's friendship would decay
Like those of colder men.
6
Now, Flora, thou hast but begun
To sail on life's deceitful sea,
O do not err as I have done,
For I have trusted foolishly;
The faith of every friend I loved
I never doubted till I proved
Their heart's inconstancy.
7
'Tis mournful to look back upon
Those long departed joys and cares,
But I will weep since thou alone
Art witness to my streaming tears.
This lingering love will not depart,
I cannot banish from my heart
The friend of childish years.
8
But though thy father loves me not,
Yet I shall still be loved by thee,
And though I am by him forgot,
Say wilt thou not remember me!
I will not cause thy heart to ache;
For thy regretted father's sake
I'll love and cherish thee.
The Wrathful
by Nizar Qabbani

O pupils of Gaza...
Teach us...
A little of what you have
For we have forgotten...
Teach us...
To be men
For we have men...
dough they become...
Teach us...
How the rocks become
in the children's hands,
precious diamond...
How it becomes
The child's bicycle, a mine
And the silk ribbon...
An ambush...
How the feeding bottle nipple...
If detained not
Turns into a knife....
O pupils of Gaza
Care not...
about our broadcasts...
And hear us not...
Strike...
Strike...
With all your powers
And firmly in your hands take matters
And ask us not...
We the people of arithmetic...
And of addition...
And of subtraction...
Your wars do carry on
And abstain from us...
We're the deserters
from the service,
Your ropes do bring
And hang us...
We're mortals...
Who possess not tombs
And orphans...
who possess not masters
We kept already to our rooms...
And we asked you
To fight the dragon...
We've diminished, before you
A thousand century...
And you've grown
Within a month-Centuries...
O pupils of Gaza...
Return not...
To our writings... And read us not
We're your fathers...
Do resemble us not...
We're your idols...
Do worship us not...
We engage in
Political lies...
And repression...
And we build graves...
And jails...
Liberate us...
From the fear problem in us...
And expel
The opium from our heads...
Teach us...
The art of adherence to the Land,
And leave not...
The Messiah saddened...
O our beloved children
Salam...
May Allah render your day
Jasmine....
From the cracks of ruined earth
You emerged forth
And planted in our wound
Musk rose...
This is the revolution of notebooks...
And ink...
Do become on the lips
melodies...
Shower us...
Heroism, and pride
And from our ugliness wash us
Wash us...
Fear neither Moses...
Nor Moses' spell...
And ready yourself
To harvest the olives
Verily this Jewish age
is an illusion...
That shall collapse...
Albeit sureness we possess....
O madmen of Gaza...
A thousand welcome....
in madmen,
If they liberate us
Verily the age of political reason
has long bygone....
Do teach us madness....
O Poortith Cauld.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "I had a horse."
I.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' twere na' for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?
II.
This warld's wealth when I think on,
It's pride, and a' the lave o't
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't!
III.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
IV.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
V.
How blest the humble cotter's fate![1]
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?
The Ancient Printerman
by James Whitcomb Riley

O Printerman of sallow face,
And look of absent guile,
Is it the 'copy' on your 'case'
That causes you to smile?
Or is it some old treasure scrap
You call from Memory's file?
"I fain would guess its mystery -
For often I can trace
A fellow dreamer's history
Whene'er it haunts the face;
Your fancy's running riot
In a retrospective race!
"Ah, Printerman, you're straying
Afar from 'stick' and type -
Your heart has 'gone a-maying,'
And you taste old kisses, ripe
Again on lips that pucker
At your old asthmatic pipe!
"You are dreaming of old pleasures
That have faded from your view;
And the music-burdened measures
Of the laughs you listen to
Are now but angel-echoes -
O, have I spoken true?"
The ancient Printer hinted
With a motion full of grace
To where the words were printed
On a card above his "case," -
"'I am deaf and dumb!" I left him
With a smile upon his face.
Widow Bedott To Elder Sniffles
by Frances Miriam "Berry" Whitcher

O reverend sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a-lying there
Down sick with influenzy.
A body'd thought it was enough
To mourn your wife's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a-follerin' arter.
But sickness and affliction
Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.
O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 'twouldn't create surprise.
It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;
That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.
Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot
By your faithful and affectionate friend,
Priscilla Pool Bedott.
Sonnet CXXVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti.
EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.
O scatter'd steps! O vague and busy thoughts!
O firm-set memory! O fierce desire!
O passion powerful! O failing heart!
O eyes of mine, not eyes, but fountains now!
O leaf, which honourest illustrious brows,
Sole sign of double valour, and best crown!
O painful life, O error oft and sweet!
That make me search the lone plains and hard hills.
O beauteous face! where Love together placed
The spurs and curb, to strive with which is vain,
They prick and turn me so at his sole will.
O gentle amorous souls, if such there be!
And you, O naked spirits of mere dust,
Tarry and see how great my suffering is!
MACGREGOR.
Sonnet XXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Apollo, s' ancor vive il bel desio.
HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND.
O Phoebus, if that fond desire remains,
Which fired thy breast near the Thessalian wave;
If those bright tresses, which such pleasure gave,
Through lapse of years thy memory not disdains;
From sluggish frosts, from rude inclement rains.
Which last the while thy beams our region leave,
That honour'd sacred tree from peril save,
Whose name of dear accordance waked our pains!
And, by that amorous hope which soothed thy care,
What time expectant thou wert doom'd to sigh
Dispel those vapours which disturb our sky!
So shall we both behold our favorite fair
With wonder, seated on the grassy mead,
And forming with her arms herself a shade.
NOTT.
If live the fair desire, Apollo, yet
Which fired thy spirit once on Peneus' shore,
And if the bright hair loved so well of yore
In lapse of years thou dost not now forget,
From the long frost, from seasons rude and keen,
Which last while hides itself thy kindling brow,
Defend this consecrate and honour'd bough,
Which snared thee erst, whose slave I since have been.
And, by the virtue of the love so dear
Which soothed, sustain'd thee in that early strife,
Our air from raw and lowering vapours clear:
So shall we see our lady, to new life
Restored, her seat upon the greensward take,
Where her own graceful arms a sweet shade o'er her make.
MACGREGOR.
Jock, To The First Army
by Violet Jacob

O Rab an' Dave an' rantin' Jim,
The geans were turnin' reid
When Scotland saw yer line grow dim,
Wi' the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken,
Like strangers ye maun gang - 
"We've sic a wale[1] o' Angus men
That we canna weary lang."
An' little Wat - my brither Wat - 
Man, are ye aye the same?
Or is yon sma' white hoose forgot
Doon by the strath at hame?
An' div' ye mind foo aft we trod
The Isla's banks before? - 
- "My place is wi' the Hosts o' God,
But I mind me o' Strathmore."
It's daith comes skirling through the sky,
Below there's naucht but pain,
We canna see whaur deid men lie
For the drivin' o' the rain;
Ye a' hae passed frae fear an' doot.
Ye're far frae airthly ill - 
- "We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,
An' we fecht for Scotland still."
O Say, Thou Best And Brightest.
by Thomas Moore

O say, thou best and brightest,
My first love and my last.
When he, whom now thou slightest,
From life's dark scene hath past,
Will kinder thoughts then move thee?
Will pity wake one thrill
For him who lived to love thee,
And dying loved thee still?
If when, that hour recalling
From which he dates his woes,
Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling,
Ah, blush not while it flows;
But, all the past forgiving,
Bend gently o'er his shrine,
And say, "This heart, when living,
"With all its faults, was mine."