DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song Of The Two Cupbearers.
by Thomas Moore

FIRST CUPBEARER.
Drink of this cup--Osiris sips
The same in his halls below;
And the same he gives, to cool the lips
Of the dead, who downward go.
Drink of this cup--the water within
Is fresh from Lethe's stream;
'Twill make the past, with all its sin,
And all its pain and sorrows, seem
Like a long forgotten dream;
The pleasure, whose charms
Are steeped in woe;
The knowledge, that harms
The soul to know;
The hope, that bright
As the lake of the waste,
Allures the sight
And mocks the taste;
The love, that binds
Its innocent wreath,
Where the serpent winds
In venom beneath!--
All that of evil or false, by thee
Hath ever been known or seen,
Shalt melt away in this cup, and be
Forgot as it never had been!
SECOND CUPBEARER.
Drink of this cup--when Isis led
Her boy of old to the beaming sky,
She mingled a draught divine and said.--
"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"
Thus do I say and sing to thee.
Heir of that boundless heaven on high,
Though frail and fallen and lost thou be,
"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"
*             *             *             *             *
And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,
Dreams of a former, happier day,
When heaven was still the spirit's home,
And her wings had not yet fallen away.
Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot,
That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,
What once hath been, what now is not.
But oh! what again shall brightly be!"
November.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Dry leaves upon the wall,
Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
A single frosted cluster on the grape
Still hangs--and that is all.
It hangs forgotten quite,--
Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,
Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,
The daggers of the night.
It knew the thrill of spring;
It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;
Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes
Of summer's whispering.
Through balmy morns of May;
Through fragrances of June and bright July,
And August, hot and still, it hung on high
And purpled day by day.
Of fair and mantling shapes,
No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;
And what then is this thing has come to thee
Among the other grapes,
Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,
Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,
To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
Thy place among the wine?
Ah! we are dull and blind.
The riddle is too hard for us to guess
The why of joy or of unhappiness,
Chosen or left behind.
But everywhere a host
Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:
Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
Left out to meet the frost.
Drink Of This Cup.
by Thomas Moore

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Never was philter formed with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distilled
To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one--
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden--
Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Comfort To A Lady Upon The Death Of Her Husband.
by Robert Herrick

Dry your sweet cheek, long drown'd with sorrow's rain,
Since, clouds dispers'd, suns gild the air again.
Seas chafe and fret, and beat, and overboil,
But turn soon after calm as balm or oil.
Winds have their time to rage; but when they cease
The leafy trees nod in a still-born peace.
Your storm is over; lady, now appear
Like to the peeping springtime of the year.
Off then with grave clothes; put fresh colours on,
And flow and flame in your vermilion.
Upon your cheek sat icicles awhile;
Now let the rose reign like a queen, and smile.
Western Refrain
by George Pope Morris

Droop not, brothers!
As we go,
O'er the mountains,
Under the boughs of mistletoe,
Log huts we'll rear,
While herds of deer and buffalo
Furnish the cheer.
File o'er the mountains--steady, boys
For game afar
We have our rifles ready, boys!--
Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
Like chaff, boys!--ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!--
Hah--hah--hah!
Cheer up, brothers!
As we go,
O'er the mountains,
When we've wood and prairie-land,
Won by our toil,
We'll reign like kings in fairy-land,
Lords of the soil!
Then westward ho! in legions, boys--
Fair Freedom's star
Points to her sunset regions, boys--
Aha!
Throw care to the winds,
Like chaff, boys!--ha!
And join in the laugh, boys!--
Hah--hah--hah!
The Capture
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Duck come switchin' 'cross de lot
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Hurry up an' hide de pot
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Duck's a mighty 'spicious fowl,
Slick as snake an' wise as owl;
Hol' dat dog, don't let him yowl!
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Th'ow dat co'n out kind o' slow
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Keep yo'se'f behin' de do'
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Lots o' food'll kill his feah,
Co'n is cheap but fowls is deah--
"Come, good ducky, come on heah."
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Ain't he fat and ain't he fine,
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Des can't wait to make him mine.
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
See him waddle when he walk,
'Sh! keep still and don't you talk!
Got you! Don't you daih to squawk!
Hi, oh, Miss Lady!
Nursery Rhyme. DCV. Local.
by Unknown

Driddlety drum, driddlety drum,
There you see the beggars are come;
Some are here, and some are there,
And some are gone to Chidley fair.
Upon Dundrige.
by Robert Herrick

Dundrige his issue hath; but is not styl'd,
For all his issue, father of one child.
To Pfrimmer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

(Lines on reading "Driftwood.")
Driftwood gathered here and there
Along the beach of time;
Now and then a chip of truth
'Mid boards and boughs of rhyme;
Driftwood gathered day by day,--
The cypress and the oak,--
Twigs that in some former time
From sturdy home trees broke.
Did this wood come floating thick
All along down "Injin Crik?"
Or did kind tides bring it thee
From the past's receding sea
Down the stream of memory?
Dick's Variety
by Jonathan Swift

Dull uniformity in fools
I hate, who gape and sneer by rules;
You, Mullinix, and slobbering C -    - 
Who every day and hour the same are
That vulgar talent I despise
Of pissing in the rabble's eyes.
And when I listen to the noise
Of idiots roaring to the boys;
To better judgment still submitting,
I own I see but little wit in:
Such pastimes, when our taste is nice,
Can please at most but once or twice.
But then consider Dick, you'll find
His genius of superior kind;
He never muddles in the dirt,
Nor scours the streets without a shirt;
Though Dick, I dare presume to say,
Could do such feats as well as they.
Dick I could venture everywhere,
Let the boys pelt him if they dare,
He'd have them tried at the assizes
For priests and jesuits in disguises;
Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender,
And listing troops for the Pretender.
But Dick can f - t, and dance, and frisk,
No other monkey half so brisk;
Now has the speaker by his ears,
Next moment in the House of Peers;
Now scolding at my Lady Eustace,
Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.[1]
Presto! begone; with t'other hop
He's powdering in a barber's shop;
Now at the antichamber thrusting
His nose, to get the circle just in;
And damns his blood that in the rear
He sees a single Tory there:
Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant,
Again he'll tell him, and again on't[2]
To a Star.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Dreary and dismal and dark
Is the night of life to me,
With nothing but clouds in the heaven above,
Cruelly hiding the star that I love,
Whose radiance was rapture to see.
While the blasts from the cold frozen North
Are biting right in to my soul -
While the pitiless blasts from the bleak, barren shore
Of the crystalline ocean incessantly roar,
And the tempests that sweep from the pole.
Oh! the gloom of the dark, dreary night,
Concealing the star that I love!
Oh! how bitter the anguish, bereft of its beam!
While the beings around me are such that I seem
In a dungeon of demons to move.
Oh! when will the clouds clear away?
And brighten the heaven above?
Oh! when to the starry-lit realm of the sky
In a golden car of thy beams shall I fly
To live with the star that I love?
The Leaves Of Lign Aloes.
by Jean Ingelow

Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes,
O honey-dew! drop from the tree.
Float up through your clear river shallows,
White lilies, beloved of the bee.
Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee,
Her bounty drops soft as the dew,
And spotless in honor confess thee,
As lilies are spotless in hue.
On the roof stands yon white stork awaking,
His feathers flush rosy the while,
For, lo! from the blushing east breaking,
The sun sheds the bloom of his smile.
Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain;
We doubt it no more," let them say,
"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain
Shall roll back its folds for the day."
A Bacchanalian Verse.
by Robert Herrick

Drink up
Your cup,
But not spill wine;
For if you
Do,
'Tis an ill sign;
That we
Foresee
You are cloy'd here,
If so, no
Ho,
But avoid here.
At Night
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Dreary! weary!
Weary! dreary!
Sighs my soul this lonely night.
Farewell gladness!
Welcome sadness!
Vanished are my visions bright.
Stars are shining!
Winds are pining!
In the sky and o'er the sea;
Shine forever
Stars! but never
Can the starlight gladden me.
Stars! you nightly
Sparkle brightly,
Scattered o'er your azure dome;
While earth's turning,
There you're burning,
Beacons of a better home.
Stars! you brighten
And you lighten
Many a heart-grief here below;
But your gleaming
And your beaming
Cannot chase away my woe.
Stars! you're shining,
I am pining --
I am dark, but you are bright;
Hanging o'er me
And before me
Is a night you cannot light.
Night of sorrow,
Whose to-morrow
I may never, never see,
Till upon me
And around me
Dawns a bright eternity.
Winds! you're sighing,
And you're crying,
Like a mourner o'er a tomb;
Whither go ye,
Whither blow ye,
Wailing through the midnight gloom?
Chanting lowly,
Softly, lowly,
Like the voice of one in woe;
Winds so lonely,
Why thus moan ye?
Say, what makes you sorrow so?
Are you grieving
For your leaving
Scenes where all is fair and gay?
For the flowers
In their bowers,
You have met with on your way?
For fond faces,
For dear places,
That you've seen as on you swept?
Are you sighing,
Are you crying,
O'er the memories they have left?
Earth is sleeping
While you're sweeping
Through night's solemn silence by;
On forever,
Pausing never --
How I love to hear you sigh!
Men are dreaming,
Stars are gleaming
In the far-off heaven's blue;
Bosom aching,
Musing, waking,
Midnight winds, I sigh with you!
Duncan Gray.
by Robert Burns

I.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
II.
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
III.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to, France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
IV.
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg grew sick, as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings:
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
V.
Duncan was a lad o' grace.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Prefixed to William Browne's Britannia's Pastorals (1613). - To his Friend the AVTHOR.
by Michael Drayton

Driue forth thy Flocke, young Pastor, to that Plaine,
Where our old Shepheards wont their flocks to feed;
To those cleare walkes, where many a skilfull Swaine
To'ards the calme eu'ning, tun'd his pleasant Reede,
Those, to the Muses once so sacred, Downes,
As no rude foote might there presume to stand:
(Now made the way of the vnworthiest Clownes,
Dig'd and plow'd vp with each vnhallowed hand)
If possible thou canst, redeeme those places,
Where, by the brim of many a siluer Spring,
The learned Maydens, and delightfull Graces
Often haue sate to heare our Shepheards sing:
Where on those Pines the neighb'ring Groues among,
(Now vtterly neglected in these dayes)
Our Garlands, Pipes, and Cornamutes were hong
The monuments of our deserued praise.
So may thy Sheepe like, so thy Lambes increase,
And from the Wolfe feede euer safe and free!
So maist thou thriue, among the learned prease,
As thou young Shepheard art belou'd of mee!
The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad
by Robert Herrick

Dull to myself, and almost dead to these
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since everything
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
Sick is the land to th' heart, and doth endure
More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.
But if that golden age would come again
And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were
As when the sweet Maria lived here;
I should delight to have my curls half drown'd
In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd.
And once more yet (ere I am laid out dead)
Knock at a star with my exalted head.
A Song From A Sandhill
by Barcroft Boake

Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly
The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip
First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.
Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?
How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?
P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:
The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry:
The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip;
He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! and one's 'nap' is far from dry:
'Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try:
I'd sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip:
There's cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.
Pat, pat, pat! how it patters on the land!
'Tis certainly consoling to be camped upon the sand:
There's naught but mud and water over yonder on the flat,
Where the spots of rain are splashing with their pat, pat, pat.
Rain, rain, rain! and the day is nearly done:
I wonder shall we see another rising of the sun?
Has the sky shut down and stifled him; or will he come again
And stop the cursed clatter of this rain, rain, rain?
Drop, drop, drop! monotonous as Life,
With now and then a western breeze that cuts one like a knife:
Sputter on the fire: is it never going to stop?
Has the weather-clerk gone crazy, with his drop, drop, drop?
Drip, drip, drip! the squatter wouldn't say
'Thank God!' so earnestly if he were camped in it to-day.
'Tis in at last: I knew it! there's a pool about my hip:
Oh, 'tis maddening and sadd'ning, with its drip, drip, drip!
The Seasons' Comfort
by Arthur Shearly Cripps

Dry thine eyes, Doll! the stars above us shine;
God of His goodness made them mine and thine;
His silver have we gotten, and His gold,
Whilst there's a sun to call us in the morn
To ply the hook among amid the yellow corn,
That such a mine of pretty gems doth hold:
For there's the poppy half in sorrow,
Greeting sleepy-eyed the morrow,
And the corn-flower, dainty tire for a sweetheart sunny-poll'd.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! the woods are all our own,
The woods that soon shall take a braver tone,
What time the frosts first silver Nature's hair;
The birds shall sing their best for thee and me;
And every sunrise listeners will we be,
And so of singing get the goodliest share;
When the thrushes sing so sweetly,
We would fain be footing featly,
But our hearts dance time instead in the throbbing matin air.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! there's Love to feed our fire,
Not for the buying, but for the desire;
Winter ne'er quenched a blaze so bravely fed.
And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best:
In winter earlier sink the suns to rest,
And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped;
When in the embers glowing
There'll be love-charms worth the knowing,
Or, at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead.
To Youth
by Robert Herrick

Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may;
The morrow's life too late is; Live to-day.
The Taste For Nothingness
by Charles Baudelaire

Dull soul, to whom the battle once was sweet,
Hope, who had spurred your ardour and your fame
Will no more ride you! Lie down without shame
Old horse, who makes his way on stumbling feet.
Give up, my heart, and sleep your stolid sleep.
For you old rover, spirit sadly spent,
Love is no longer fair, nor is dispute;
Farewell to brass alarms, sighs of the flute!
Pleasures, give up a heart grown impotent!
The Spring, once wonderful, has lost its scent!
And Time engulfs me in its steady tide,
As blizzards cover corpses with their snow;
And poised on high I watch the world below,
No longer looking for a place to hide.
Avalanche, sweep me off within your slide!
Rimmon
by Rudyard Kipling

Duly with knees that feign to quake,
Bent head and shaded brow,,
Yet once again, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow.
The curtains part, the trumpet blares,
And the eunuchs howl aloud;
And the gilt, swag-bellied idol glares
Insolent over the crowd.
"This is Rimmon, Lord of the Earth,
"Fear Him and bow the knee!"
And I watch my comrades hide their mirth
That rode to the wars with me.
For we remember the sun and the sand
And the rocks whereon we trod,
Ere we came to a scorched and a scornful land
That did not know our God;
As we remember the sacrifice,
Dead men an hundred laid,
Slain while they served His mysteries,
And that He would not aid,
Not though we gashed ourselves and wept,
For the high-priest bade us wait;
Saying He went on a journey or slept,
Or was drunk or had taken a mate.
(Praise ye Rimmon, King of Kings,
Who ruleth Earth and Sky!
And again I bow as the censer swings
And the God Enthroned goes by.)
Ay, we remember His sacred ark
And the virtuous men that knelt
To the dark and the hush behind the dark
Wherein we dreamed He dwelt;
A Twilight Moth.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on her state
Of gold and purple in the marbled west,
Thou comest forth like some embodied trait,
Or dim conceit, a lily-bud confessed;
Or, of a rose, the visible wish; that, white,
Goes softly messengering through the night,
Whom each expectant flower makes its guest.
All day the primroses have thought of thee,
Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat;
All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly
Veiled snowy faces, that no bee might greet
Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;
Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last,
Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet.
Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's
Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks
The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays
Nocturnes of fragrance, thy winged shadow links
In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith;
O bearer of their order's shibboleth,
Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.
What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear
That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,
A syllabled silence that no man may hear,
As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?
What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,
Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,
Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox?
O voyager of that universe which lies
Between the four walls of this garden fair,
Whose constellations are the fireflies
That wheel their instant courses everywhere,
'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one sees
Mimic Bo'tes and the Pleiades,
Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air.
Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer,
Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest
Mab or king Oberon; or, haply, her
His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.
O for the herb, the magic euphrasy,
That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah, me!
And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!
Ramon
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Drunk and senseless in his place,
Prone and sprawling on his face,
More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,
By his great pump out of gear,
Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,
Overhead,
Angry tones that called his name,
Oaths and cries of bitter blame,
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
'To the man who'll bring to me,'
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,
'Bring the sot alive or dead,
I will give to him,' he said,
'Fifteen hundred pesos down,
Just to set the rascal's crown
Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,
Stops the pumps that suck the death
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!'
No one answered; for a cry
From the shaft rose up on high,
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,
Came the miners each, the bolder
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,
Grappling, clinging to their hold or
Letting go,
As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well,
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!
'To the man who sets them free,'
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,
'Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man,' said he,
'Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!'
'Hold your peace!' some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;
'There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!'
Then they held their breath with awe,
Pulling on the rope, and saw
Fainting figures reappear,
On the black rope swinging clear,
Fastened by some skillful hand from below;
Till a score the level gained,
And but one alone remained,
He the hero and the last,
He whose skillful hand made fast
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Haggard, gasping, down dropped he
At the feet of Harry Lee,
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
'I have come,' he gasped, 'to claim
Both rewards. Senor, my name
Is Ramon!
I'm the drunken engineer,
I'm the coward, Senor'    Here
He fell over, by that sign,
Dead as stone!
Love
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Dreaming of love, the ardent mind of youth
Conceives it one with passion's brief delights,
With keen desire and rapture.    But, in truth,
These are but milestones to sublime heights
After the highways, swept by strong emotions,
Where wild winds blow and blazing sun rays beat,
After the billows of tempestuous oceans,
Fair mountain summits wait the lover's feet.
The path is narrow, but the view is wide,
And beauteous the outlook towards the west
Happy are they who walk there side by side,
Leaving below the valleys of unrest,
And on the radiant altitudes above
Know the serene intensity of love.