DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Goblet.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Once I held a well-carved brimming goblet, 
In my two hands tightly clasp'd I held it,
Eagerly the sweet wine sipp'd I from it,
Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.
Amor enter'd in, and found me sitting,
And he gently smiled in modest fashion,
Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.
"Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel,
One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly;
Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it,
And with other nectar fill it for thee?"
Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise!
For to me, who long had yearn'd, he granted
Thee, my Lida, fill'd with soft affection.
When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly,
When I drink in love's long-hoarded balsam
From thy darling lips so true, so faithful,
Fill'd with bliss thus speak I to my spirit
"No! a vessel such as this, save Amor
Never god hath fashion'd or been lord of!
Such a form was ne'er produced by Vulcan
With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers!
On the leaf-crown'd mountains may Lyaeus
Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest,
Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress,
And himself watch o'er the fermentation:
Such a draught no toil can e'er procure him!"
My Literary Friend
by Henry Lawson

Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer's copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;
'The ideas are good,' he muttered, 'but the rhythm seems to halt.'
So I straighten'd up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen,
And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again.
'You've improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,' he said,
As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head.
So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time),
And I burnt the 'midnight taper' while I straightened up the rhyme.
'It is better now,' he muttered, 'you go on and you'll succeed,
'It has got a ring about it, the ideas are what you need.'
So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence),
And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense,
And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more, 
It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before.
Now the people say I'd never put such horrors into print
If I wasn't too conceited to accept a friendly hint,
And my dearest friends are certain that I'd profit in the end
If I'd always show my copy to a literary friend.
The Story Of Rud.
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,
Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,
Sang of the Sons of that Empire - told them they came of the Blood - 
Rubbing it under their noses. Read ye the Story of Rud!
Pleased was the Public to hear it - rose in their hundreds to sing - 
Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!
Thus do we wallop our foemen - roll 'em away in the mud - 
This is the People that we are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'
Later he pictured a Panic - later he pictured a Scare,
Pictured the burning of coast towns - skies in a reddening glare - 
Pictured the Mafficking Million - collared, abortive, alone - 
Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.
Sick was the Public to read it - passed it along to 'the Sports' - 
'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts' - 
Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low - 
'Say that it's like 'em - it may be - nobody ever need know.
'Rud., - would he drive us to Barracks - make of us militant hordes - 
Broke to the spit of the pom-pom - trained to the flashing of swords? - 
Pooh! It is these that he goes for - Sport is the bubble he pricks - 
Doubt not but we are The People - Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'
What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call:
'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all;
Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'?
Nay. But he passed from The People - left them to stew in their grease.
But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole
The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal,
Is it thus ye will fend the warning - thus ye will move the shame
From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game?
Still will ye pay at the turnstile - thronging the rope-ringed Match,
Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters the catch?
Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are found
In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and not in the seats around?
Not in the Saturday Squallers - men of a higher grade - 
That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played?
Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools
That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools?
Not doubting but ye are The People - ye are the Sons of The Blood?
Loafers and talkers and writers, - Read ye the Verses of Rud.!'
German Faith. [50]
by Friedrich Schiller

Once for the sceptre of Germany, fought with Bavarian Louis
Frederick, of Hapsburg descent, both being called to the throne.
But the envious fortune of war delivered the Austrian
Into the hands of the foe, who overcame him in fight.
With the throne he purchased his freedom, pledging his honor
For the victor to draw 'gainst his own people his sword;
But what he vowed when in chains, when free he could not accomplish,
So, of his own free accord, put on his fetters again.
Deeply moved, his foe embraced him, and from thenceforward
As a friend with a friend, pledged they the cup at the feast;
Arm-in-arm, the princes on one couch slumbered together.
While a still bloodier hate severed the nations apart.
'Gainst the army of Frederick Louis now went, and behind him
Left the foe he had fought, over Bavaria to watch.
"Ay, it is true! 'Tis really true! I have it in writing!"
Thus did the Pontifex cry, when he first heard of the news.
Once I Could Hail
by William Wordsworth

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme."
'Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Reliques.'
Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky)
The Moon re-entering her monthly round,
No faculty yet given me to espy
The dusky Shape within her arms imbound,
That thin memento of effulgence lost
Which some have named her Predecessor's ghost.
Young, like the Crescent that above me shone,
Nought I perceived within it dull or dim;
All that appeared was suitable to One
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim;
To expectations spreading with wild growth,
And hope that kept with me her plighted troth.
I saw (ambition quickening at the view)
A silver boat launched on a boundless flood;
A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw
Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood;
But not a hint from under-ground, no sign
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine.
Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move
Before me? nothing blemished the fair sight;
On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love,
Cynthia, who puts the 'little' stars to flight,
And by that thinning magnifies the great,
For exaltation of her sovereign state.
And when I learned to mark the spectral Shape
As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time,
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape;
Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime,
To see or not to see, as best may please
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease.
Now, dazzling Stranger! when thou meet'st my glance,
Thy dark Associate ever I discern;
Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance
While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern;
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain.
So changes mortal Life with fleeting years;
A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring
The timely insight that can temper fears,
And from vicissitude remove its sting;
While Faith aspires to seats in that domain
Where joys are perfect, neither wax nor wane.
The Offering Of The New Law, The One Oblation Once Offered
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)
Once I thought to sit so high
In the Palace of the sky;
Now, I thank God for His Grace,
If I may fill the lowest place.
Once I thought to scale so soon
Heights above the changing moon;
Now, I thank God for delay - 
To-day, it yet is called to-day.
While I stumble, halt and blind,
Lo! He waiteth to be kind;
Bless me soon, or bless me slow,
Except He bless, I let not go.
Once for earth I laid my plan,
Once I leaned on strength of man,
When my hope was swept aside,
I stayed my broken heart on pride:
Broken reed hath pierced my hand;
Fell my house I built on sand;
Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin,
Fightings without and fears within:
Yet, a tree, He feeds my root;
Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit;
Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns,
He seeks for me among the thorns.
With Thine Image stamped of old,
Find Thy coin more choice than gold;
Known to Thee by name, recall
To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.
Sacrifice and Offering
None there is that I can bring,
None, save what is Thine alone:
I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own - 
Broken Body, Blood Outpoured,
These I bring, my God, my Lord;
Wine of Life, and Living Bread,
With these for me Thy Board is spread.
Song Of Seventy Horses
by Rudyard Kipling

Once again the Steamer at Calais, the tackles
Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her!
Sign-refill, and let me away with my horses
(Seventy Thundering Horses!)
Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough, it is France
Whether the throat-closing brick fields by Lille, or her pav'es
Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco;
Or that wind we shave by, the brutal North-Easter,
Rasping the newly dunged Somme.
(Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether the dappled Argonne, the cloud-shadows packing
Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven
Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them
Feeding their never-quenched lights.
(Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether that gale where Biscay jammed in the corner
Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated
Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands
Make themselves dance in the mist.
(Breathe, breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!
Whether the broken, honey-hued, honey-combed limestone
Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom
Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward,
Sleepily noisy, the Sea.
(Tes, it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough, it is France
Whether the Massif in Spring, the multiplied lacets
Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under
Turbaned snow, pushing up the heaven of Summer
Though the stark moors lie black.
(Neigh through the icicled tunnels;) 'It is enough, it is France!'
In The Wayland Willows.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Once I met a soncy maid,
Soncy maid, soncy maid,
Once I met a soncy maid
In the Wayland willows.
All her hair was goldy brown,
Goldy brown, goldy brown,
In the sun a single braid
To her waist hung down.
Honey bees, honey bees,
You are roving fellows!
Idly went the doxy wind
In the Wayland willows.
There I caught her eye a-dance,
Through the catkins downy.
"Heigho, Brownie-pate," said I;
"Heigho," said my Brownie.
Then I kissed my soncy maid,
Soncy maid, soncy maid,
Kissed and kissed my soncy maid
In the Wayland willows.
Goldy eyes and goldy hair,
And little gypsy bosom,
Chin and lip and shoulder tip,
Blossom after blossom!
Hand in hand and cheek by cheek
All the morning weather!
How the yellow butterflies
Danced and winked together!
Till the day went down the hill
Where the shadows waded.
"Heigho, Soncy!" "Heigho, me!"
Then I did as day did.
All her tousled beauty bright
And teasing as before,
I left her there in sweet despair,
A soncy maid no more.
The Origin of Yankee Doodle.
by George Pope Morris

Once in a time old Johnny Bull
Flew in a raging fury,
And swore that Jonathan should have
No trials, sir, by jury;
That no elections should be held
Across the briny waters:
"And now," said he, "I'll tax the tea
Of all his sons and daughters."
Then down he sate in burly state,
And blustered like a grandee,
And in derision made a tune
Called "Yankee doodle dandy."
"Yankee doodle"--these are the facts--
"Yankee doodle dandy;
My son of wax, your tea I'll tax--
You--Yankee doodle dandy!"
John sent the tea from o'er the sea
With heavy duties rated;
But whether hyson or bohea,
I never heard it stated.
Then Jonathan to pout began--
He laid a strong embargo--
"I'll drink no tea, by Jove!"--so he
Threw overboard the cargo.
Next Johnny sent an armament,
Big looks and words to bandy,
Whose martial band, when near the land,
Played--"Yankee doodle dandy."
"Yankee doodle--keep it up!
Yankee doodle dandy!
I'll poison with a tax your cup--
You--Yankee doodle dandy!"
A long war then they had, in which
John was at last defeated;
And "Yankee doodle" was the march
To which his troops retreated.
Young Jonathan, to see them fly,
Could not restrain his laughter:
"That tune," said he, "suits to a T,
I'll sing it ever after!"
Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace,
Was flushed with beer and brandy,
E'en while he swore to sing no more
This--"Yankee doodle dandy."
Yankee doodle--ho! ha! he!
Yankee doodle dandy--
We kept the tune, but not the tea,
Yankee doodle dandy!
I've told you now the origin
Of this most lively ditty,
Which Johnny Bull pronounces "dull
And silly!"--what a pity!
With "Hail Columbia!" it is sung,
In chorus full and hearty--
On land and main we breathe the strain,
John made for his tea-party.
No matter how we rhyme the words,
The music speaks them handy,
And where's the fair can't sing the air
Of "Yankee doodle dandy!"
"Yankee doodle--firm and true--
Yankee doodle dandy,
Yankee doodle, doodle doo!
Yankee doodle dandy!"
His Soul
by Victor James Daley

Once from the world of living men
I passed, by a strange fancy led,
To a still City of the Dead,
To call upon a citizen.
He had been famous in his day;
Much talked of, written of, and praised
For virtues my small soul amazed,
And yet I thought his heart was clay.
He was too full of grace for me:
His friends said, on a marble stone,
His soul sat somewhere near the Throne
I did not know; I called to see.
His name and fame were on the door,
A most superior tomb indeed,
Much railed, and gilt, and filigreed;
He occupied the lower floor.
I knocked - a worm crawled from its hole:
I looked - and knew it for his soul.
Andy Battle
by Walter De La Mare

Once and there was a young sailor, yeo ho!
And he sailed out over the say
For the isles where pink coral and palm branches blow,
And the fire-flies turn night into day,
Yeo ho!
And the fire-flies turn night into day.
But the Dolphin went down in a tempest, yeo ho!
And with three forsook sailors ashore,
The portingales took him wh'ere sugar-canes grow,
Their slave for to be evermore,
Yeo ho!
Their slave for to be evermore.
With his musket for mother and brother, yeo ho!
He warred with the Cannibals drear,
in forests where panthers pad soft to and fro,
And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear,
Yeo ho!
And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear.
Now lean with long travail, all wasted with woe,
With a monkey for messmate and friend,
He sits 'neath the Cross in the cankering snow,
And waites for his sorrowful end,
Yeo ho!
And waits for his sorrowful end.
Weather
by Ambrose Bierce

Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth,
From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote
On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote
For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow:
"Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow."
Freedom
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Once I wished I might rehearse
Freedom's paean in my verse,
That the slave who caught the strain
Should throb until he snapped his chain,
But the Spirit said, 'Not so;
Speak it not, or speak it low;
Name not lightly to be said,
Gift too precious to be prayed,
Passion not to be expressed
But by heaving of the breast:
Yet,--wouldst thou the mountain find
Where this deity is shrined,
Who gives to seas and sunset skies
Their unspent beauty of surprise,
And, when it lists him, waken can
Brute or savage into man;
Or, if in thy heart he shine,
Blends the starry fates with thine,
Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee,
And makes thy thoughts archangels be;
Freedom's secret wilt thou know?--
Counsel not with flesh and blood;
Loiter not for cloak or food;
Right thou feelest, rush to do.'
A Dream - Sonnet
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
The Bottle And The Bird.
by Eugene Field

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,
And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights
We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights;
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,
He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!
There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine--
A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:
"Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate--
How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches
That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;
To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred
What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!
What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!
And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then
Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,
But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!
The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,
Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.
Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right
If ever it has been your wont to train around at night;
How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,
And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!
How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,
And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie--
I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;
Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine--
I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!
So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day--
Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay;
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard
Of the large cold bottle, _not_ the small hot bird.
Early Spring
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Once more the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And domes the red-plow'd hills
With loving blue;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The throstles too.
II.
Opens a door in heaven;
From skies of glass
A Jacob's ladder falls
On greening grass,
And o'er the mountain-walls
Young angels pass.
III.
Before them fleets the shower,
And burst the buds,
And shine the level lands,
And flash the floods;
The stars are from their hands
Flung thro' the woods,
IV.
The woods with living airs
How softly fann'd,
Light airs from where the deep,
All down the sand,
Is breathing in his sleep,
Heard by the land.
V.
O, follow, leaping blood,
The season's lure!
O heart, look down and up
Serene, secure,
Warm as the crocus cup,
Like snowdrops, pure!
VI.
Past, Future glimpse and fade
Thro' some slight spell,
A gleam from yonder vale,
Some far blue fell,
And sympathies, how frail,
In sound and smell!
VII.
Till at thy chuckled note,
Thou twinkling bird,
The fairy fancies range,
And, lightly stirr'd,
Ring little bells of change
From word to word.
VIII.
For now the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And thaws the cold, and fills
The flower with dew;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The poets too.
To My Mother
by John Le Gay Brereton

Once more the Christian festival is near,
And I, for whom each day repeats all days
Continuously in ecstasy of praise,
Love's birthday lasting through the unending year,
Am dreaming how the spirit draws me sheer
From farthest wandering in the illusive maze
To that white centre whose creative blaze
Spun me aloft and sets me tremulous here.
And since all heaven is figured in my heart,
As in a dewdrop ere it change and live
There shines the glory of the eternal dome,
Mother, to you the showering meteors dart
Of free affection, fancies fugitive,
And flare, with increasing heat and splendour, home.
The Tomb.
by John Clare

Once musing o'er an old effaced stone,
Longing to know whose dust it did conceal,
I anxious ponder'd o'er what might reveal,
And sought the seeming date with weeds o'ergrown;
But that prov'd fruitless--both the date and name
Had been for ages in oblivion thrown.
The dim remains of sculptur'd ornament
Gave proof sufficient 'twas reward for fame:
This did my searching view so much torment,
That Time I question'd to expose the same;
But soon a check--"And what is it to thee
Whose dust lies here?--since thou wilt quickly be
Forgot like him:--then Time shall bid thee go
To heaven's pure bliss, or hell's tormenting woe."
Way In A Crowd.
by Robert Herrick

Once on a Lord Mayor's Day, in Cheapside, when
Skulls could not well pass through that scum of men,
For quick despatch Skulls made no longer stay
Than but to breathe, and everyone gave way;
For, as he breathed, the people swore from thence
A fart flew out, or a sir-reverence.
The Cross Roads
by Henry Lawson

Once more I write a line to you,
While darker shadows fall;
Dear friends of mine who have been true,
And steadfast through it all.
If I have written bitter rhymes,
With many lines that halt,
And if I have been false at times
It was not all my fault.
To Heaven's decree I would not bow,
And I sank very low,
The bitter things are written now,
And we must let them go.
But I feel softened as I write;
The better spirit springs,
And I am very sad to-night
Because of many things.
The friendships that I have abused,
The trust I did betray,
The talents that I have misused,
The gifts I threw away.
The things that did me little good,
And,well my cheeks might burn,
The kindly letters that I should
Have answered by return.
But you might deem them answered now,
And answered from my heart;
And injured friends will understand
'Tis I who feel the smart.
But I have done with barren strife
And dark imaginings,
And in my future work and life
Will seek the better things.