DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Slave In The Dismal Swamp
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp
And a bloodhound's distant bay.
Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,
In bulrush and in brake;
Where waving mosses shroud the pine,
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine
Is spotted like the snake;
Where hardly a human foot could pass,
Or a human heart would dare,
On the quaking turf of the green morass
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,
Like a wild beast in his lair.
A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
Great scars deformed his face;
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.
All things above were bright and fair,
All things were glad and free;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty!
On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
And struck him to the earth!
Mnemosyne
by Madison Julius Cawein

In classic beauty, cold, immaculate,
A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands,
Upon her brow deep-chiselled love and hate,
That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.
Law and Poetry
by James Williams

In days of old did law and rime
A common pathway follow,
For Themis in the mythic time
Was sister of Apollo.
The Hindu statutes tripped in feet
As daintily as Dryads,
And law in Wales to be complete
Was versified in triads.
The wise Alfonso of Castile
Composed his code in metre
Thereby to make its flavour feel
A little bit the sweeter.
But law and rime were found to be
A trifle inconsistent,
And now in statutes poetry
Is wholly non-existent.
Still here and there some advocate
Before his fellows know it
Has had bestowed on him by fate
The laurel of the poet.
Let him who has been honoured so,
In truth a rara avis,
Find precedents in Cicero
And our Chief Justice Davis;
And more than all in Cino; he,
So plaintive a narrator
Of fair Selvaggia's cruelty,
Won fame as a glossator.
Let him remember Thomas More
And Scott and Alciatus,
And Grotius with an ample store
Of most divine afflatus.
But let him, if his bread and cheese
Depend on his profession,
Bethink him that the art of these
Was not their sole possession.
The stream that flows from Helicon
Is scarcely a Pactolus,
A richer prize is theirs who con
Dull treatises on dolus.
'Tis well that some bold spirits dare
To cut themselves asunder
From bonds of law like old Moli're,
While lawyers gaze in wonder.
The world had been a poorer place
Had Goethe lived by pleading
Or Tasso won a hopeless case
With Ariosto leading.
Tone's Grave.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

I.
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.
II.
Once I lay on that sod--it lies over Wolfe Tone--
And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed--
"Oh, bitter," I said, "is the patriot's meed;
III.
"For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic life and a governing mind--
A martyr for Ireland--his grave has no stone--
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown."
IV.
I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.
V.
There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,
And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they
On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play.
VI.
But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said:
"We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too--
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true."
VII.
My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band:
"Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain."
VIII.
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And freely around it let winter winds rave--
Far better they suit him--the ruin and gloom--
TILL IRELAND, A NATION, CAN BUILD HIM A TOMB.
Fertile Lands And Mammoth Cheese.
by James McIntyre

In barren district you may meet
Small fertile spot doth grow fine wheat,
There you may find the choicest fruits,
And great, round, smooth and solid roots.
But in conditions such as these
You cannot make a mammoth cheese,
Which will weigh eight thousand pounds,
But where large fertile farms abounds.
Big cheese is synonymous name,
With fertile district of the Thame,
Here dairy system's understood,
And they are made both large and good.
A Passage In The Moriae Encomium Of Erasmus. Imitated
by Matthew Prior

In awful pomp and melancholy state,
See settled Reason on the judgement-seat;
Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,
And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care;
Far from the throne the trembling Pleasures stand,
Chain'd up or exiled by her stern command.
Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen,
Till happy chance reverts the cruel scene;
And apish Folly, with her wild resort
Of wit and jest, disturbs the solemn court.
See the fantastic Minstrelsy advance
To breathe the song and animate the dance.
Bless'd the usurper! happy the surprise!
Her mimic postures catch our eager eyes;
Her jingling bells affect our captive ear,
And in the sights we see and sounds we hear,
Against our judgement she our sense employs,
The laws of troubled reason she drestroys,
And in their place rejoices to indite
Wild schemes of mirth and plans of loose delight.
Influence Of Natural Objects
by William Wordsworth

In Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination
in Boyhood and Early Youth
Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul,
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear, until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling Lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village clock tolled six -I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel
We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a Star;
Image that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
Joey's Job
by Edward Dyson

In days before the trouble Jo was rated as a slob.
He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job.
He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom friends had he,
A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality.
He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the grass,
Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin' moments pass.
Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often got a clout,
And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the devil out.
The one consistent member of the Never Trouble Club,
He put a satin finish on the frontage of the pub.
His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from polishin' the pine;
But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was divine.
Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed at as a fool,
He found the conversation too exhaustin' as a rule;
Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his feet and yawn,
His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants displayin' brawn:
And if the copper chanced along 'twas beautyful to see
Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest memory.
Then came the universal nark. The Kaiser let her rip.
They cleared the ring. The scrap was for the whole world's championship.
Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy beneath his hat,
And every day he crept to see the drillin' on the flat.
He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes in butcher's blue,
For the burst of inspiration that would tell him what to do.
He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelled out in the night.
Jo understood'he'd all these years been spoilin' for a fight!
Right into things he flung himself. He took his kit and gun,
Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily in the sun.
'Gorstruth,' he said, with shining eyes, 'it means a frightful war,
'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven meant me for.'
Jo went away a corporal and fought again the Turk,
And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the work.
If anythin' was doin' it would presently come out
That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there or thereabout.
He got a batch of medals, and a glorious renown
Attached all of a sudden to the name of Sergeant Brown.
Then people talked of Joey as the dearest friend they had;
They were chummy with his uncles, or acquainted with his dad.
Joe goes to France, and presently he figure as the best
Two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the West,
And men of every age at home and high and low degree,
We gather now, once went to school with Sergeant Brown, V.C.
Then Hayes and Jo, in Flanders met, and very proud was Hayes
To shake a townsman by the hand, and sing the hero's praise,
'Oh, yes,' says Jo, 'I'm doin' well, 'n' yet I might do more.
If I was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war
I'd lay out every Fritz on earth, but, strike me, what a yob
A man would be to work himself out of a flamnin' job!'
Now Jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin' up the pace.
Ha 'Record' says Lieutenant Brown's an honor to the place.
The town gets special mention every time he scores. We bet
If peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be Field-Marshal yet.
Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all our people know
That Providence began this war to find a grip for Jo!
The Charm
by Rupert Brooke

In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing, to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .
Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dew and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.
And still the darkness ebbs about your bed.
Quiet, and strange, and loving-kind, you sleep.
And holy joy about the earth is shed;
And holiness upon the deep.
Theniel Menzies' Bonnie Mary.
by Robert Burns

Tune. - "The Ruffian's Rant."
I.
In coming by the brig o' Dye,
At Darlet we a blink did tarry;
As day was dawin in the sky,
We drank a health to bonnie Mary.
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
II.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white,
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry;
And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile,
The rosy checks o' bonnie Mary.
III.
We lap and danced the lee lang day,
Till piper lads were wae and weary;
But Charlie gat the spring to pay,
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
Senlin, A Biography: Part 01: His Dark Origins - 08
by Conrad Potter Aiken

In cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise,
One yellow star sings over a peak of snow,
And melts and vanishes in a light like roses.
Through slanting mist, black rocks appear and glow.
The clouds flow downward, slowly as grey glaciers,
Or up to a pale rose-azure pass.
Blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders,
From boulders to white grass.
Icicles on the pine tree melt
And softly flash in the sun:
In long straight lines the star-drops fall
One by one.
Is a voice heard while the shadows still are long,
Borne slowly down on the sparkling air?
Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence?
Is someone among the high snows there?
Where the blue stream flows coldly among the meadows
And mist still clings to rock and tree
Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight
Looks darkly up, to see
The calm unmoving peak of snow-white silence,
The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky . . .
Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges,
To nod before the dwindling sun and die.
'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain,
Something forgotten now, that once I knew . . .'
We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence,
Our shadows descend before us, long and blue.
Fiction And Fact
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In books I read, how men have lived and died,
With hopeless love deep in their bosoms hidden.
While she for whom they long in secret sighed,
Went on her way, nor guessed this flame unbidden.
In real life, I never chanced to see
The woman who was loved, and did not know it,
And observation proves this fact to me:
No man can love a woman and not show it.
First-Day Thoughts
by John Greenleaf Whittier

In calm and cool and silence, once again
I find my old accustomed place among
My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue
Shall utter words; where never hymn is sung,
Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung,
Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!
There, syllabled by silence, let me hear
The still small voice which reached the prophet's ear;
Read in my heart a still diviner law
Than Israel's leader on his tables saw!
There let me strive with each besetting sin,
Recall my wandering fancies, and restrain
The sore disquiet of a restless brain;
And, as the path of duty is made plain,
May grace be given that I may walk therein,
Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain,
With backward glances and reluctant tread,
Making a merit of his coward dread,
But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown,
Walking as one to pleasant service led;
Doing God's will as if it were my own,
Yet trusting not in mine, but in His strength alone
Light And Warmth.
by Friedrich Schiller

In cheerful faith that fears no ill
The good man doth the world begin;
And dreams that all without shall still
Reflect the trusting soul within.
Warm with the noble vows of youth,
Hallowing his true arm to the truth;
Yet is the littleness of all
So soon to sad experience shown,
That crowds but teach him to recall
And centre thought on self alone;
Till love, no more, emotion knows,
And the heart freezes to repose.
Alas! though truth may light bestow,
Not always warmth the beams impart,
Blest he who gains the boon to know,
Nor buys the knowledge with the heart.
For warmth and light a blessing both to be,
Feel as the enthusiast as the world-wise see.
A Man
by Thomas Hardy

(IN MEMORY OF H. OF M.)
I
In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile,
Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade
In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed. -
On burgher, squire, and clown
It smiled the long street down for near a mile
II
But evil days beset that domicile;
The stately beauties of its roof and wall
Passed into sordid hands. Condemned to fall
Were cornice, quoin, and cove,
And all that art had wove in antique style.
III
Among the hired dismantlers entered there
One till the moment of his task untold.
When charged therewith he gazed, and answered bold:
"Be needy I or no,
I will not help lay low a house so fair!
IV
"Hunger is hard. But since the terms be such -
No wage, or labour stained with the disgrace
Of wrecking what our age cannot replace
To save its tasteless soul -
I'll do without your dole. Life is not much!
V
Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went,
And wandered workless; for it seemed unwise
To close with one who dared to criticize
And carp on points of taste:
To work where they were placed rude men were meant.
VI
Years whiled. He aged, sank, sickened, and was not:
And it was said, "A man intractable
And curst is gone." None sighed to hear his knell,
None sought his churchyard-place;
His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot.
VII
The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide,
And but a few recall its ancient mould;
Yet when I pass the spot I long to hold
As truth what fancy saith:
"His protest lives where deathless things abide!"
Incident At Bruges
by William Wordsworth

In Bruges town is many a street
Whence busy life hath fled;
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet
The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade
Flung from a Convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.
The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet, for 'English' words
Had fallen upon the ear.
It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;
But, where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the Nun,
'Twas through an iron grate.
Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,
If even a passing Stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe'er thou be!
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee?
Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified
By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the Maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gaily o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?
How A Princess Was Wooed From Habitual Sadness
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

In days of old the King of Saxe
Had singular opinions,
For with a weighty battle-axe
He brutalized his minions,
And, when he'd nothing to employ
His mind, he chose a village,
And with an air of savage joy
Delivered it to pillage.
But what aroused within his breast
A rage well-nigh primeval
Was, most of all, his daughter, dressed
In fashion medi'val:
The gowns that pleased this maiden's eye
Were simple as Utopia,
And for a hat she had a high
Inverted cornucopia.
In all her life she'd never smiled,
Her sadness was abysmal:
The boisterous monarch found his child
Unutterably dismal.
He therefore said the prince who made
Her laughter from its shell come,
Besides in ducats being paid,
Might wed the girl, and welcome!
I ought to say, ere I forget,
She was uncommon comely--
(Who ever read a Grimm tale yet,
In which the girl was homely?)
And so the King's announcement drew
Nine princes in a column.
But all in vain. The princess grew,
If anything, more solemn.
One read her "Innocents Abroad,"
The next wore clothes eccentric,
The third one swallowed half his sword,
As in the circus-tent trick.
Thus eight of them into her cool
Reserve but deeper shoved her:
There was but one authentic fool--
The prince who really loved her!
He'd alternate between the height
Of hope and deep abasement,
He caught distressing colds at night,
By watching 'neath her casement:
He did what I have done, I know,
And you, I do not doubt it,--
Instead of bottling up his woe,
He bored his friends about it!
In brooding on the ways of Fate
Long hours he daily wasted,
His food remained upon his plate,
'Twas scarcely touched or tasted:
He said the bitter things of love,
All lovers, save a few, say,
And learned by heart the verses of
Swinburne, and A. de Musset!
This attitude his wished-for bride
To silent laughter goaded,
Until he talked of suicide,
And then the girl exploded!
"You make me laugh, and so," she said,
"I'll marry you next season."
(Not half the people who are wed
Have half so good a reason!)
The Moral: The deliberate clown
Can never beat love's barriers down:
'Tis better to be like the owl,
Comic because so grave a fowl.
From him we well may take our cue--
By him be taught, to wit, to woo!
Love Cannot Die
by John Clare

In crime and enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die,
Who say to us in slander's breath
That love belongs to sin and death.
From heaven it came on angel's wing
To bloom on earth, eternal spring;
In falsehood's enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die.
Twas born upon an angel's breast.
The softest dreams, the sweetest rest,
The brightest sun, the bluest sky,
Are love's own home and canopy.
The thought that cheers this heart of mine
Is that of love; love so divine
They sin who say in slander's breath
That love belongs to sin and death.
The sweetest voice that lips contain,
The sweetest thought that leaves the brain,
The sweetest feeling of the heart--
There's pleasure in its very smart.
The scent of rose and cinnamon
Is not like love remembered on;
In falsehood's enmity they lie
Who sin and tell us love can die.
The Bench Of Boors
by Herman Melville

In bed I muse on Tenier's boors,
Embrowned and beery losels all;
A wakeful brain
Elaborates pain:
Within low doors the slugs of boors
Laze and yawn and doze again.
In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors,
Their hazy hovel warm and small:
Thought's ampler bound
But chill is found:
Within low doors the basking boors
Snugly hug the ember-mound.
Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors
Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall:
Thought's eager sight
Aches--overbright!
Within low doors the boozy boors
Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.
Chingery Wangery Chan
by Louisa May Alcott

"In China there lived a little man,
His name was Chingery Wangery Chan."
"His legs were short, his feet were small,
And this little man could not walk at all."
"Chingery changery ri co day,
Ekel tekel happy man;
Uron odesko canty oh, oh,
Gallopy wallopy China go."
"Miss Ki Hi was short and squat,
She had money and he had not
So off to her he resolved to go,
And play her a tune on his little banjo."
"Whang fun li,
Tang hua ki,
Hong Kong do ra me!
Ah sin lo,
Pan to fo,
Tsing up chin leute!"
"Miss Ki Hi heard his notes of love,
And held her wash-bowl up above
It fell upon the little man,
And this was the end of Chingery Chan,"