DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Araluen
by Henry Kendall

River, myrtle rimmed, and set
Deep amongst unfooted dells 
Daughter of grey hills of wet,
Born by mossed and yellow wells;
Now that soft September lays
Tender hands on thee and thine,
Let me think of blue-eyed days,
Star-like flowers and leaves of shine!
Cities soil the life with rust;
Water banks are cool and sweet;
River, tired of noise and dust,
Here I come to rest my feet.
Now the month from shade to sun
Fleets and sings supremest songs,
Now the wilful wood-winds run
Through the tangled cedar throngs.
Here are cushioned tufts and turns
Where the sumptuous noontide lies:
Here are seen by flags and ferns
Summer's large, luxurious eyes.
On this spot wan Winter casts
Eyes of ruth, and spares its green
From his bitter sea-nursed blasts,
Spears of rain and hailstones keen.
Rather here abideth Spring,
Lady of a lovely land,
Dear to leaf and fluttering wing,
Deep in blooms by breezes fanned.
Faithful friend beyond the main,
Friend that time nor change makes cold;
Now, like ghosts, return again
Pallid, perished days of old.
Ah, the days! the old, old theme,
Never stale, but never new,
Floating like a pleasant dream,
Back to me and back to you.
Since we rested on these slopes
Seasons fierce have beaten down
Ardent loves and blossoming hopes 
Loves that lift and hopes that crown.
But, believe me, still mine eyes
Often fill with light that springs
From divinity, which lies
Ever at the heart of things.
Solace do I sometimes find
Where you used to hear with me
Songs of stream and forest wind,
Tones of wave and harp-like tree.
Araluen home of dreams,
Fairer for its flowerful glade
Than the face of Persian streams
Or the slopes of Syrian shade;
Why should I still love it so,
Friend and brother far away?
Ask the winds that come and go,
What hath brought me here to-day.
Evermore of you I think,
When the leaves begin to fall,
Where our river breaks its brink,
And a rest is over all.
Evermore in quiet lands,
Friend of mine beyond the sea,
Memory comes with cunning hands,
Stays, and paints your face for me.
Howard At Atlanta
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Right in the track where Sherman
Ploughed his red furrow,
Out of the narrow cabin,
Up from the cellar's burrow,
Gathered the little black people,
With freedom newly dowered,
Where, beside their Northern teacher,
Stood the soldier, Howard.
He listened and heard the children
Of the poor and long-enslav'd
Reading the words of Jesus,
Singing the songs of David.
Behold! the dumb lips speaking,
The blind eyes seeing!
Bones of the Prophet's vision
Warmed into being!
Transformed he saw them passing
Their new life's portal!
Almost it seemed the mortal
Put on the immortal.
No more with the beasts of burden,
No more with stone and clod,
But crowned with glory and honor
In the image of God!
There was the human chattel
Its manhood taking;
There, in each dark, brown statue,
A soul was waking!
The man of many battles,
With tears his eyelids pressing,
Stretched over those dusky foreheads
His one-armed blessing.
And he said: "Who hears can never
Fear for or doubt you;
What shall I tell the children
Up North about you?"
Then ran round a whisper, a murmur,
Some answer devising;
And a little boy stood up: "General,
Tell'em we're rising!"
O black boy of Atlanta!
But half was spoken:
The slave's chain and the master's
Alike are broken.
The one curse of the races
Held both in tether:
They are rising, all are rising,
The black and white together!
O brave men and fair women!
Ill comes of hate and scorning:
Shall the dark faces only
Be turned to morning?
Make Time your sole avenger,
All-healing, all-redressing;
Meet Fate half-way, and make it
A joy and blessing
Fabulist
by Paul Cameron Brown

Riel veritably in a cockpit - 
Gabriel Dumont with his buffalo robe
peeking from behind
a blind at Duck Lake
all ingredients intact,
a gallow's walk inevitable
given a series of probable givens.
Given Riel is an illusionist
figuring 3 days back from the grave
- that an early prototype of the Gatling gun
is in effect, that a Ghost Dance
cannot stop bullets.
Superior numbers & discipline'
mandate the West will cringe
to the Queen's Red Coats;
what's more, the iron horse
icon "talking leaves" & the
superficiality of running
a plow over the land's back
all take their calculated toll.
By some obscure, parboiled magic
Riel is transformed to a living
room of today:
heir apparent to the French Canadian
empire (nightmare) or yuppie visionary
illuminaire?
In the Dominion soup kitchen,
the rest of the country acts
as a beggar clutching another pot.
The Highlander.
by Richard Hunter

Right about, left about,
Halt and stand at ease!
Shoulder arms, attention,
Steady, if you please.
Order arms, present arms,
Forward, by your right!
Double, double, double,
Double to the fight!
The Calf. - To The Rev. Mr. James Steven.
by Robert Burns

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2 - "And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."
Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!
And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power,
You e'er should be a stot!
Tho', when some kind, connubial dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,
The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.
And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank among the nowte.
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
Wi' justice they may mark your head,
"Here lies a famous Bullock!"
The Working Monarch.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Rising early in the morning,
We proceed to light our fire;
Then our Majesty adorning
In its work-a-day attire,
We embark without delay
On the duties of the day.
First, we polish off some batches
Of political dispatches,
And foreign politicians circumvent;
Then, if business isn't heavy,
We may hold a Royal levee,
Or ratify some acts of Parliament;
Then we probably review the household troops 
With the usual "Shalloo humps!" and "Shalloo hoops!"
Or receive with ceremonial and state
An interesting Eastern Potentate,
After that we generally
Go and dress our private valet 
(It's rather a nervous duty he's a touchy little man)
Write some letters literary
For our private secretary 
He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.
Then, in view of cravings inner,
We go down and order dinner;
Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate 
Spend an hour in titivating
All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;
Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King;
Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;
But the privilege and pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!
After luncheon (making merry
On a bun and glass of sherry),
If we've nothing particular to do,
We may make a Proclamation,
Or receive a Deputation 
Then we possibly create a Peer or two.
Then we help a fellow creature on his path
With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:
Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State
To a festival, a function, or a fete.
Then we go and stand as sentry
At the Palace (private entry),
Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,
While the warrior on duty
Goes in search of beer and beauty
(And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).
He relieves us, if he's able,
Just in time to lay the table,
Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,
With a pleasure that's emphatic,
We retire to our attic
With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King,
But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;
And the culminating pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!
Niagara.
by Joseph Rodman Drake

I.
Roar, raging torrent! and thou, mighty river,
Pour thy white foam on the valley below;
Frown, ye dark mountains! and shadow for ever
The deep rocky bed where the wild rapids flow.
The green sunny glade, and the smooth flowing fountain,
Brighten the home of the coward and slave;
The flood and the forest, the rock and the mountain,
Rear on their bosoms the free and the brave.
II.
Nurslings of nature, I mark your bold bearing,
Pride in each aspect and strength in each form,
Hearts of warm impulse, and souls of high daring,
Born in the battle and rear'd in the storm.
The red levin flash and the thunder's dread rattle,
The rock-riven wave and the war trumpet's breath,
The din of the tempest, the yell of the battle,
Nerve your steeled bosoms to danger and death.
III.
High on the brow of the Alps' snowy towers
The mountain Swiss measures his rock-breasted moors,
O'er his lone cottage the avalanche lowers,
Round its rude portal the spring-torrent pours.
Sweet is his sleep amid peril and danger,
Warm is his greeting to kindred and friends,
Open his hand to the poor and the stranger,
Stern on his foeman his sabre descends.
IV.
Lo! where the tempest the dark waters sunder
Slumbers the sailor boy, reckless and brave,
Warm'd by the lighting and lulled by the thunder,
Fann'd by the whirlwind and rock'd on the wave;
Wildly the winter wind howls round his pillow,
Cold on his bosom the spray showers fall;
Creaks the strained mast at the rush of the billow,
Peaceful he slumbers, regardless of all.
V.
Mark how the cheek of the warrior flushes,
As the battle drum beats and the war torches glare;
Like a blast of the north to the onset he rushes,
And his wide-waving falchion gleams brightly in air.
Around him the death-shot of foemen are flying,
At his feet friends and comrades are yielding their breath;
He strikes to the groans of the wounded and dying,
But the war cry he strikes with is, 'conquest or death!'
VI.
Then pour thy broad wave like a flood from the heavens,
Each son that thou rearest, in the battle's wild shock,
When the death-speaking note of the trumpet is given,
Will charge like thy torrent or stand like thy rock.
Let his roof be the cloud and the rock be his pillow,
Let him stride the rough mountain, or toss on the foam,
He will strike fast and well on the field or the billow,
In triumph and glory, for God and his home!
A Song Of The Snow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Roaring winds that rocked the crow,
High in his eyrie,
All night long, and to and fro
Swung the cedar and drove the snow
Out of the North, have ceased to blow,
And dawn breaks fiery.
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn,
When the air is still and the clouds are gone,
And the snow lies deep on hill and lawn,
And the old clock ticks, 'Tis time! 't is time!
And the household rises with many a yawn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter dawn!
Sing Ho!
II.
Deep in the East a ruddy glow
Broadens and brightens,
Glints through the icicles, row on row,
Flames on the panes of the farmhouse low,
And over the miles of drifted snow
Silently whitens.
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky,
When the last star closes its icy eye,
And deep in the road the snow-drifts lie,
And the old clock ticks, ' T is late! 't is late!
And the flame on the hearth leaps red, leaps high
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter sky!
Sing Ho!
III.
Into the heav'n the sun comes slow,
All red and frowsy;
Out of the shed the muffled low
Of the cattle comes; and the rooster's crow
Sounds strangely distant beneath the snow
And dull and drowsy.
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn,
When the snow makes ghostly the wayside thorn,
And hills of pearl are the shocks of corn,
And the old clock ticks, Tick-tock, tick-tock;
And the goodman bustles about the barn
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter morn!
Sing Ho!
IV.
Now to their tasks the farmhands go,
Cheerily, cheerily:
The maid with her pail, her cheeks aglow;
And, blowing his fist, the man with his hoe
To trample a path through the crunching snow,
Merrily, merrily.
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day,
When ermine-capped are the stacks of hay,
And the wood-smoke pillars the air with gray,
And the old clock ticks, To work! lo work!
And the goodwife sings as she churns away
Sing, Ho, a song of the winter day!
Sing Ho!
Christmas Bells.
by Hattie Howard

Ring out, O bells, in joyful chime!
Again we hail the Christmas time;
In melting, mellow atmosphere,
The crown and glory of the year.
When bitterness, distrust, and awe
Dissolve, like ice in winter's thaw,
Beneath the genial touches of
Amenity, good will, and love.
When flowers of affection grow,
Like edelweiss mid alpine snow,
In lives severe and beautiless,
Unused to warmth or tenderness.
Let goodness, grace, and gratitude
Revive in music's interlude,
And p'an notes, till time shall cease,
Proclaim the blessed reign of peace.
Ring, Christmas bells! for at the sound
Sweet memories of Him abound
Who laid aside a diadem
To be the babe of Bethlehem.
Wishing
by William Allingham

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm tree for our king!
Nay stay! I wish I were an Elm tree,
A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing.
Oh no! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!
Well tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For mother's kisssweeter this
Than any other thing.
Ring-A-Ring.
by Kate Greenaway

Ring-a-ring of little boys.
Ring-a-ring of girls;
All around all around,
Twists and twirls.
You are merry children;
"Yes, we are."
Where do you come from?
"Not very far.
"We live in the mountain,
We live in the tree;
And I live in the river-bed,
And you won't catch me!"
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXV. Games.
by Unknown

[A number of boys and girls stand round one in the middle, who repeats the following lines, counting the children until one is counted out by the end of the verses.]
Ring me (1), ring me (2), ring me rary (3),
As I go round (4), ring by ring (5),
A virgin (6) goes a maying (7),
Here's a flower (8), and there's a flower (9),
Growing in my lady's garden (10),
If you set your foot awry (11),
Gentle John will make you cry (12),
If you set your foot amiss (13),
Gentle John (14) will give you a kiss.
[The child upon whom (14) falls is then taken out, and forced to select one of the other sex. The middle child then proceeds.]
This [lady or gentleman] is none of ours,
Has put [him or her] self in [the selected child's] power,
So clap all hands, and ring all bells, and make the wedding o'er.
[All clap hands.]
[If the child taken by lot joins in the clapping, the selected child is rejected, and I believe takes the middle place. Otherwise, I think, there is a salute.]
Ring O' Roses
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Ring a ring o' roses,
A pocket full of posies;
Hush! hush! hush!
And we all tumble down.
Right Here At Home.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom,
Where strangers allus joke us when they come,
And brag o' their old States and interprize - 
Yit settle here; and 'fore they realize,
They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!
Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness:
We hear the World's lots grander - likely so, - 
We'll take the World's word fer it and not go. - 
We know its ways aint our ways - so we'll stay
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.
Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do
Man's plenty rich enough - and knows it, too,
And's got a' extry dollar, any time,
To boost a feller up 'at wants to climb
And 's got the git-up in him to go in
And git there, like he purt'-nigh allus kin!
Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us! - 
Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's';
And where a common feller's jes as good
As ary other in the neighborhood:
The World at large don't worry you and me
Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!
Right here at home, boys - jes right where we air! - 
Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere:
Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows
Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes, - 
All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight,
Right here at home, boys, ef we size 'em right.
Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place
Is sacerd to us as our mother's face,
Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled
And kissed us - dyin' so and rickonciled,
Seein' us all at home here - none astray - 
Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.
Love And Desire.
by Friedrich Schiller

Rightly said, Schlosser! Man loves what he has; what he has not, desireth;
None but the wealthy minds love; poor minds desire alone.
Joy-Bells
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells
To the green-vista'd gladness of the past
That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells
To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.
What means this metal in windy belfries hung
When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells
Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue
Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.
Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim
That "if our Lord returned He'd fight for us."
So let our bells and bishops do the same,
Shoulder to shoulder with the motor bus.
Moallaka
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Rise and hold up the curved glass,
And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.
Pour wine for us, whose golden colour
Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.
Pour us wine to make us generous
And carelessly happy in the old way.
Pour us wine that gives the miser
A sumptuous generosity and disregard.
O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup
When it should have been moving to the right;
And yet the one of us three that you would not serve
Is not the least worthy.
How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek,
And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin!
More cups! more cups! for death will have his day;
His are we and he ours.
*             *             *             *             *
By herself she is fearless
And gives her arms to the air,
The limbs of a long camel that has not borne.
She gives the air her breasts,
Unfingered ivory.
She gives the air her long self and her curved self,
And hips so round and heavy that they are tired.
All these noble abundances of girlhood
Make the doors divinely narrow and myself insane.
Columns of marble and ivory in the old way,
And anklets chinking in gold and musical bracelets.
Without her I am a she-camel that has lost,
And howls in the sand at night.
Without her I am as sad as an old mother
Hearing of the death of her many sons.
From the Arabic of Amr Ebn Kultum (seventh century).
The Present.
by Friedrich Schiller

Ring and staff, oh to me on a Rhenish flask ye are welcome!
Him a true shepherd I call, who thus gives drink to his sheep.
Draught thrice blest! It is by the Muse I have won thee, the Muse, too,
Sends thee, and even the church places upon thee her seal.
The Douglas Tragedy
by George Wharton Edwards

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,
"And put on your armour so bright;
Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi'
Before that it be light.
"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
And put on your armour so bright,
And take better care of your youngest sister,
For your eldest's awa' the last night."
He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,
With a buglet horn hung down by his side
And lightly they rode away.
Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,
To see what he could see,
And there he spied her seven brethren bold
Come riding o'er the lea.
"Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said,
"And hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brethren bold,
And your father I make a stand."
She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
And never shed one tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa'
And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,
"For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many a ane,
But a father I can never get mair."
O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That were redder than the wine.
"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said,
"O whether will ye gang or bide?"
"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,
"For you have left me nae other guide."
He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,
With a buglet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away.
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they came to yon wan water,
And there they lighted down.
They lighted down to tak a drink
Of the spring that ran sae clear;
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,
And sair she 'gan to fear.
"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says,
"For I fear that you are slain!"
"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,
That shines in the water sae plain."
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they came to his mother's ha' door,
And there they lighted down.
"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"Get up, and let me in!
Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"For this night my fair lady I've win.
"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says,
"O mak it braid and deep!
And lay Lady Margaret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep."
Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Margaret lang ere day:
And all true lovers that go thegither,
May they have mair luck than they!
Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk,
Lady Margaret in Marie's quire;
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,
And out o' the knight's a brier.
And they twa met, and they twa plat
And fain they wad be near;
And a' the world might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.
But bye and rade the black Douglas
And wow but he was rough!
For he pulled up the bonny brier,
And flanged in St. Marie's Loch.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - X - Struggle Of The Britons Against The Barbarians
by William Wordsworth

Rise! they 'have' risen: of brave Aneurin ask
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends:
The Spirit of Caractacus descends
Upon the Patriots, animates their task;
Amazement runs before the towering casque
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field
The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield:
Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask
The Host that followed Urien as he strode
O'er heaps of slain; from Cambrian wood and moss
Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross;
Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode,
Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords,
And everlasting deeds to burning words!
Roaring.
by Robert Herrick

Roaring is nothing but a weeping part
Forced from the mighty dolour of the heart.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXLVI. Charms.
by Unknown

Robert Rowley rolled a round roll round,
A round roll Robert Rowley rolled round;
Where rolled the round roll Robert Rowley rolled round?
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXXVIII. Games.
by Unknown

[A play with the face. The child exclaims:]
Ring the bell!             giving a lock of its hair a pull.
Knock at the door!     tapping its forehead.
Draw the latch!            pulling up its nose.
And walk in!                 opening its mouth and putting in its finger.