DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Rome - Building A New Street In The Ancient Quarter
by Thomas Hardy

(April, 1887)
These numbered cliffs and gnarls of masonry
Outskeleton Time's central city, Rome;
Whereof each arch, entablature, and dome
Lies bare in all its gaunt anatomy.
And cracking frieze and rotten metope
Express, as though they were an open tome
Top-lined with caustic monitory gnome;
"Dunces, Learn here to spell Humanity!"
And yet within these ruins' very shade
The singing workmen shape and set and join
Their frail new mansion's stuccoed cove and quoin
With no apparent sense that years abrade,
Though each rent wall their feeble works invade
Once shamed all such in power of pier and groin.
On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price.    I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?
The Dead (II)
by Rupert Brooke

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Music And Sleep.
by Madison Julius Cawein

These have a life that hath no part in death;
These circumscribe the soul and make it strong;
Between the breathing of a dream and song,
Building a world of beauty in a breath.
Unto the heart the voice of this one saith
Ideals, its emotions live among;
Unto the mind the other speaks a tongue
Of visions, where the guess, we christen faith,
May face the fact of immortality
As may a rose its unembodied scent,
Or star its own reflected radiance.
We do not know these save unconsciously.
To whose mysterious shadows God hath lent
No certain shape, no certain countenance.
Voices From Things Growing In A Churchyard
by Thomas Hardy

These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,
Sir or Madam,
A little girl here sepultured.
Once I flit-fluttered like a bird
Above the grass, as now I wave
In daisy shapes above my grave,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- I am one Bachelor Bowring, "Gent,"
Sir or Madam;
In shingled oak my bones were pent;
Hence more than a hundred years I spent
In my feat of change from a coffin-thrall
To a dancer in green as leaves on a wall.
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- I, these berries of juice and gloss,
Sir or Madam,
Am clean forgotten as Thomas Voss;
Thin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss
That covers my sod, and have entered this yew,
And turned to clusters ruddy of view,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,
Sir or Madam,
Am I this laurel that shades your head;
Into its veins I have stilly sped,
And made them of me; and my leaves now shine,
As did my satins superfine,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- I, who as innocent withwind climb,
Sir or Madam.
Am one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time
Kissed by men from many a clime,
Beneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze,
As now by glowworms and by bees,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- I'm old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,
Sir or Madam,
Aweary of life, and in scorn withdrew;
Till anon I clambered up anew
As ivy-green, when my ache was stayed,
And in that attire I have longtime gayed
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
- And so they breathe, these masks, to each
Sir or Madam
Who lingers there, and their lively speech
Affords an interpreter much to teach,
As their murmurous accents seem to come
Thence hitheraround in a radiant hum,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!
Why Flowers Change Colour
by Robert Herrick

These fresh beauties, we can prove,
Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come.
To  -  -
by Thomas Frederick Young

These lines, which on this leaf I write,
I trace with friendly thoughts of thee,
And hope, when o'er this page you glance,
You'll think a kindly thought of me.
And why should I this tribute ask?
Why crave from you this humble boon?
Because I knew you through life's morn,
And hope to know you in its noon.
Because the path of life we trod,
With youthful hearts so free from pain,
When both together went to school,
And wander'd gaily home again.
This, then, is why I ask of you,
As on this little page you look,
To think of me, with other friends,
Whose names are written in your book.
A Confession
by Madison Julius Cawein

These are the facts: - I was to blame:
I brought her here and wrought her shame:
She came with me all trustingly.
Lovely and innocent her face:
And in her perfect form, the grace
Of purity and modesty.
I think I loved her then: 'would dote
On her ambrosial breast and throat,
Young as a blossom's tenderness:
Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:
Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:
Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.
Three months passed by; three moons of fire;
When in me sickened all desire:
And in its place a devil, - who
Filled all my soul with deep disgust,
And on the victim of my lust
Turned eyes of loathing, - swiftly grew.
One night, when by my side she slept,
I rose: and leaning, while I kept
The dagger hid, I kissed her hair
And throat: and, when she smiled asleep,
Into her heart I drove it deep:
And left her dead, still smiling there.
Lithuanian Dolls /Consulate Front
by Paul Cameron Brown

These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones
not canisters of the Faith
but cannon-balls engraved
in tome-like stares so much
waxen shapes, these dust cloths
& spidery webs.
Dolls with eyes stare
lidless & forlorn
such eyes are cracks
minden shapes or basement eves
hogans of the human form.
I'm interested in the priapic
silence of such dolls - their
indolent aura in time
one long amber twilight
& the results are in
the shadows have produced twins
...hazy silhouettes rough-housing
in the dark, come passing headlights
although the stampede of noises
affects nought.
Ticker-tape & collage
in quick thick barrage
these lonesome dolls
slouching half-pinned
in their stalls - 
a cat transcends crouching his spine
then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change.
People are divisive, dolls less so.
the dolls know nothing of that.
Daisies Out At Sea.
by Eric Mackay

Daisies Out At Sea.
I.
These are the buds we bear beyond the surf, -
Enshrined in mould and turf, -
To take to fields far off, a land's salute
Of high and vast repute, -
The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire,
Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire,
But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire.
II.
O bright and gracious things that seem to glow
With frills of winter snow,
And little golden heads that know the sun,
And seasons half begun,
How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair,
In this their prison on the seaward air,
On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.
III.
Have they no memory of the inland grass, -
The fields where breezes pass,
And where the full-eyed children, out at play,
Make all the land so gay?
Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear,
Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier,
In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here?
IV.
O gems of earth! O trinkets of the spring!
The sun, your gentle king,
Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace,
In many a sacred place,
The godlike summer sun will miss ye all,
For he has foster'd all things, great and small,
Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball.
V.
But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene
The kirtles, tender-green,
And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers,
How will he throb for hours,
And wish the lark, the laureate of the light,
Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight,
And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.
VI.
Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told,
And deem'd it fairy-gold, -
And fairy-silver, - that ye bear withal;
Ye are so soft and small,
I weep for joy to find ye here to-day
So near to Heaven, and yet so far away,
In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray.
VII.
Ye are the cynosure of many eyes
Bright-blue as English skies, -
The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row,
As if intent to show
That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower
Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower,
Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.
VIII.
She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy,
As one may send a toy
To children's children, bred in other lands
By love-abiding hands.
And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam
To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home,
Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.
IX.
In England's name, in Shakespeare's, - and in ours,
Who bear these trusted flowers, -
There shall be heard a cheer from many throats,
A rush and roar of notes,
As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds;
And they who till the ground and tend the herds
Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.
X.
For England's sake, for England once again,
In pride and power and pain,
For England, aye! for England in the girth
Of all her joy and worth,
A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined,
And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind,
Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!
Thy Flowers Change Colour
by Robert Herrick

These fresh beauties, we can prove,
Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come.
These Are The Clouds
by William Butler Yeats

These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye;
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, so much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
Poppies
by Victor James Daley

These are the flowers of sleep
That nod in the heavy noon,
Ere the brown shades eastward creep
To a drowsy and dreamful tune,
These are the flowers of sleep.
Love's lilies are passion-pale,
But these on the sun-kissed flood
Of the corn, that rolls breast deep,
Burn redder than drops of blood
On a dead king's golden mail.
Heart's dearest, I would that we
These blooms of forgetfulness
Might bind on our brows, and steep
Our love in Lethe ere less
Grow its flame with thee or me.
When Time with his evil eye
The beautiful Love has slain,
There is nought to gain or keep
Thereafter, and all is vain.
Should we wait to see Love die?
Sweetheart, of the joys men reap
We have reaped; 'tis time to rest.
Why should we wake but to weep?
Sleep and forgetting is best,
These are the flowers of sleep.
The Overlander
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

There's a trade you all know well'
It's bringing cattle over'
I'll tell you all about the time
When I became a drover.
I made up my mind to try the spec,
To the Clarence I did wander,
And bought a mob of duffers there
To begin as an overlander.
Chorus
Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
Don't let the bottle stand there,
For to-night we'll drink the health
Of every overlander.
Next morning counted the cattle
Saw the outfit ready to start,
Saw all the lads well mounted,
And their swags put in a cart.
All kinds of men I had
From France, Germany, and Flanders;
Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
In the mob of overlanders.
Next morning I set out
When the grass was green and young;
And they swore they'd break my snout
If I did not move along.
I said, 'You're very hard;
Take care, don't raise my dander,
For I'm a regular knowing card,
The Queensland overlander.'
'Tis true we pay no license,
And our run is rather large;
'Tis not often they can catch us,
So they cannot make a charge.
They think we live on store beef,
But no, I'm not a gander;
When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
'He'll do,' says the overlander.
One day a squatter rode up.
Says he, 'You're on my run;
I've got two boys as witnesses.
Consider your stock in pound.'
I tried to coax, then bounce him,
But my tin I had to squander,
For he put threepence a head
On the mob of the overlander.
The pretty girls in Brisbane
Were hanging out their duds.
I wished to have a chat with them,
So steered straight for the tubs.
Some dirty urchins saw me,
And soon they raised my dander,
Crying, 'Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
Here comes an overlander!'
In town we drain the wine cup,
And go to see the play,
And never think to be hard up
For how to pass the day.
Each has a sweetheart there,
Dressed out in all her grandeur'
Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
'She's a plum,' says the overlander.
For The Old
by Madison Julius Cawein

These are the things I pray Heaven send us still,
To blow the ashes of the years away,
Or keep aglow forever 'neath their gray
The fire that warms when Life's old house grows chill:
First Faith, that gazed into our youth's bright eyes;
Courage, that helped us onward, rain or sun;
Then Hope, who captained all our deeds well done;
And, last, the dream of Love that never dies.
These Carols
by Walt Whitman

These Carols, sung to cheer my passage through the world I see,
For completion, I dedicate to the Invisible World.
The Young Glass-Stainer
by Thomas Hardy

"These Gothic windows, how they wear me out
With cusp and foil, and nothing straight or square,
Crude colours, leaden borders roundabout,
And fitting in Peter here, and Matthew there!
"What a vocation! Here do I draw now
The abnormal, loving the Hellenic norm;
Martha I paint, and dream of Hera's brow,
Mary, and think of Aphrodite's form."
Nov. 1893.
The Discovery
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

These are the days of elfs and fays:
Who says that with the dreams of myth,
These imps and elves disport themselves?
Ah no, along the paths of song
Do all the tiny folk belong.
Round all our homes,
Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling,
Then nightly fling their lanterns out.
And shout on shout, they join the rout,
And sing, and sing, within the sweet enchanted ring.
Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's smile,
Once paused I, listening for a while,
And heard the lay, unknown by day,--
The fairies' dancing roundelay.
Queen Mab was there, her shimmering hair
Each fairy prince's heart's despair.
She smiled to see their sparkling glee,
And once I ween, she smiled at me.
Since when, you may by night or day,
Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay;
But, hear me, stay!
I've learned the way to find Queen
Mab and elf and fay.
Where e'er by streams, the moonlight gleams,
Or on a meadow softly beams,
There, footing round on dew-lit ground,
The fairy folk may all be found.
To My friends
by Henry Lawson

These are songs of the Friends I neglected, 
And the Foes, too, in part;
These are songs that were mostly rejected, 
But songs from my heart.
Yours truly,
Henry Lawson.
Sydney, 19/9/1910
A Glimpse Of China. "Caste."
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

These Chinese toil and yet they do not starve,
And they obey, and yet they are not slaves.
It is the "free-born" fuddled Englishmen
That grovel rotting in their living graves.
These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips;
They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan.
Their degradation has escaped at least
That choicest curse of all - the gentleman!
Poem: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?
House or Window Flies
by John Clare

These little window dwellers, in cottages and halls, were always
entertaining to me; after dancing in the window all day from sunrise
to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the
sugar, and be welcome all summer long. They look like things of mind
or fairies, and seem pleased or dull as the weather permits. In many
clean cottages and genteel houses, they are allowed every liberty to
creep, fly, or do as they like; and seldom or ever do wrong. In fact
they are the small or dwarfish portion of our own family, and so many
fairy familiars that we know and treat as one of ourselves.
Indian Summer.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, --
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
Shivaree
by Paul Cameron Brown

These kettle bells.
Is it the axe-murderer,
with green garbage bag
in the shadows?
No. Green trees so thick
their tops are folded hands
or knotted knuckles
to make perilous shrubbery
by the garden wall.
Yet this is a state of mind
and shards of multi-coloured
glass dot the top of stones.
Interesting. Should a sociopath put
out his shingle, come calling,
a much under-estimated, rude uttering
would take place.
Still bees are active in the night air,
not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft
thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity
to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to
individual seconds. Still and stricken still.
Yet "what ifs" come slithering
as if serpents along
a pasture floor.
The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,
To embarcation upon conquests.
To embolden and make one's mark,
however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.
Horrible. The dirty laundry of just one
over-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.
One single blossom out of place and "killer".
Off-kilter. Out of whack. The
pickle short of a jar syndrome.
Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-calls
withered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos and
rifle-butts.
Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrong
soured by too many visits and skunky beers from the
Orchid Lounge.
Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,
thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.
Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faint
blinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creek
breaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottom
by their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the window
only its night. The echo of moths lost to the stars
with each jarring knock.
These Little Songs
by William Allingham

These little Songs,
Found here and there,
Floating in air
By forest and lea,
Or hill-side heather,
In houses and throngs,
Or down by the sea,
Have come together,
How, I can't tell:
But I know full well
No witty goose-wing
On an inkstand begot 'em;
Remember each place
And moment of grace,
In summer or spring,
Winter or autumn
By sun, moon, stars,
Or a coal in the bars,
In market or church,
Graveyard or dance,
When they came without search,
Were found as by chance.
A word, a line,
You may say are mine;
But the best in the songs,
Whatever it be,
To you, and to me,
And to no one belongs
Presentation to the Authorities, by Privates, of Colors captured in Battles ending in the Surrender of Lee.
by Herman Melville

These flags of armies overthrown - 
Flags fallen beneath the sovereign one
In end foredoomed which closes war;
We here, the captors, lay before
The altar which of right claims all - 
Our Country. And as freely we,
Revering ever her sacred call,
Could lay our lives down - though life be
Thrice loved and precious to the sense
Of such as reap the recompense
Of life imperiled for just cause - 
Imperiled, and yet preserved;
While comrades, whom Duty as strongly nerved,
Whose wives were all as dear, lie low.
But these flags given, glad we go
To waiting homes with vindicated laws.
The King's Ankus
by Rudyard Kipling

These are the Four that are never content, that have never be filled since the Dews began,
Jacala's mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the Eyes of Man.
Villanelle Of Things Amusing
by Frank Gelett Burgess

These are the things that make me laugh
Life's a preposterous farce, say I!
And I've missed of too many jokes by half.
The high-heeled antics of colt and calf,
The men who think they can act, and try
These are the things that make me laugh.
The hard-boiled poses in photograph,
The groom still wearing his wedding tie
And I've missed of too many jokes by half!
These are the bubbles I gayly quaff
With the rank conceit of the new-born fly
These are the things that make me laugh!
For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff,
And people will tickle me till I die
And I've missed of too many jokes by half!
So write me down in my epitaph
As one too fond of his health to cry
These are the things that make me laugh,
And I've missed of too many jokes by half!
The Earth Laments for Day
by Henry Kendall

There's music wafting on the air,
The evening winds are sighing
Among the trees and yonder stream
Is mournfully replying,
Lamenting loud the sunny light
That in the west is dying.
The moon is rising o'er the hill,
Her slanting rays are creeping
Where Nature lies profoundly still
In happy quiet sleeping,
And resting on her face, they'll find
The earth is wet with weeping.
She mourneth for the lovely day,
Now deep in darkness shaded;
She sheds the dewy tear because
Of morning's mantle faded;
She misses from her breast the garb
In which the moon array'd it.
The evening queen will strive in vain
To break the spell which bound her;
A million stars can never throw
Departed warmth around her;
They all must pass away and leave
The earth as they had found her.
But why should gentle Nature weep
That night has overtaken
The wearied world that needed sleep,
Refreshed to re-awaken,
So richer light might burst around,
The gloomy shadows breaking?
Oh, can she not from yonder sky
That gleams above her, borrow
A single ray, or find a way
To check the tear of sorrow?
A beam of hope would last her till
The dawning of to-morrow.
The Trosachs
by William Wordsworth

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!