DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnet IX.
by Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa

Oh to be idle loving idleness!
But I am idle all in hate of me;
Ever in action's dream, in the false stress
Of purposed action never set to be.
Like a fierce beast self-penned in a bait-lair,
My will to act binds with excess my action,
Not-acting coils the thought with raged despair,
And acting rage doth paint despair distraction.
Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand,
Each gesture to deliver sinks the more;
The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand,
Though but more slowly useless, we've no power.
Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring,
Repurposed for next day's repurposing.
Winter Dream
by Aldous Leonard Huxley

Oh wind-swept towers,
Oh endlessly blossoming trees,
White clouds and lucid eyes,
And pools in the rocks whose unplumbed blue is pregnant
With who knows what of subtlety
And magical curves and limbs--
White Anadyomene and her shallow breasts
Mother-of-pearled with light.
And oh the April, April of straight soft hair,
Falling smooth as the mountain water and brown;
The April of little leaves unblinded,
Of rosy nipples and innocence
And the blue languor of weary eyelids.
Across a huge gulf I fling my voice
And my desires together:
Across a huge gulf ... on the other bank
Crouches April with her hair as smooth and straight and brown
As falling waters.
Oh brave curve upwards and outwards.
Oh despair of the downward tilting--
Despair still beautiful
As a great star one has watched all night
Wheeling down under the hills.
Silence widens and darkens;
Voice and desires have dropped out of sight.
I am all alone, dreaming she would come and kiss me.
Oh! Breathe Not His Name.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Things and the Man
by Rudyard Kipling

"And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren and they hated him yet the more.", Genesis xxxvii. 5.
Oh ye who hold the written clue
To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
Look! To your knee your baby brings
The oldest tale since Earth began,
The answer to your worryings:
"Once on a time there was a Man."
He, single-handed, met and slew
Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely 'mid his doubting crew,
"In all the loneliness of wings ",
He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
He locked the ranks, he launched the van
Straight at the grinning Teeth of Things.
"Once on a time there was a Man."
The peace of shocked Foundations flew
Before his ribald questionings.
He broke the Oracles in two,
And bared the paltry wires and strings.
He headed desert wanderings;
He led his soul, his cause, his clan
A little from the ruck of Things.
"Once on a time there was a Man."
Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the view
With episodes and underlings,
The meek historian deems them true
Nor heeds the song that Clio sings,
The simple central truth that stings
The mob to boo, the priest to ban;
Things never yet created things,
"Once on a time there was a Man."
A bolt is fallen from the blue.
A wakened realm full circle swings
Where Dothan's dreamer dreams anew
Of vast and farborne harvestings;
And unto him an Empire clings
That grips the purpose of his plan.
My Lords, how think you of these things?
Once, in our time, is there a Man?
A Song To Eleonora Duse In "Francesca da Rimini "
by Sara Teasdale

Oh would I were the roses, that lie against her hands,
The heavy burning roses she touches as she stands!
Dear hands that hold the roses, where mine would love to be,
Oh leave, oh leave the roses, and hold the hands of me!
She draws the heart from out them, she draws away their breath,
Oh would that I might perish and find so sweet a death!
My Boating Song.
by Horace Smith

I.
Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure,
A goblet, that's full to the brim,
And each man may take for his pleasure
The thing that's most pleasant to him;
Then let all, who are birds of my feather,
Throw heart and soul into my song;
Mark the time, pick it up all together,
And merrily row it along.
Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
II.
I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in
Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;
'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in
Your foil at the enemy's chest;
'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket,
Or lash round to leg for a four;
But somehow the glories of cricket
Depend on the state of the score.
But in boating, or losing or winning,
Though victory may not attend;
Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
III.
'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping,
To be in at the death of the fox;
Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping,
The river that roars o'er the rocks;
'Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant;
And yachting is certainly great;
But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant
To row in a rattling good eight.
Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
What matter what labour we spend?
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
IV.
Shove her off!    Half a stroke!    Now, get ready!
Five seconds!    Four, three, two, one, gun!
Well started!    Well rowed!    Keep her steady!
You'll want all your wind e'er you've done.
Now you're straight!    Let the pace become swifter!
Roll the wash to the left and the right!
Pick it up all together, and lift her,
As though she would bound out of sight!
Hurrah, Hall!    Hall, now you're winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
V.
Bump!    Bump!    O ye gods, how I pity
The ears those sweet sounds never heard;
More tuneful than loveliest ditty
E'er poured from the throat of a bird.
There's a prize for each honest endeavour,
But none for the man who's a shirk;
And the pluck that we've showed on the river,
Shall tell in the rest of our work.
At the last, whether losing or winning,
This thought with all memories blend,--
We forgot not to catch the beginning,
And we pulled it clean through to the end.
Oh, Arranmore, Loved Arranmore.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--
That Eden where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
As sunny and as vain!
Chorus Of Youths And Virgins
by Alexander Pope

Semichorus.
Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which Nature has imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?
Chorus.
Love's purer flames the Gods approve;
The Gods and Brutus bent to love:
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wand'ring, self-consuming fire,
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.
Semichorus.
Oh source of ev'ry social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother husband, friend?
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.
Chorus.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises;
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
Morning Lament.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Oh thou cruel deadly-lovely maiden,
Tell me what great sin have I committed,
That thou keep'st me to the rack thus fasten'd,
That thou hast thy solemn promise broken?
'Twas but yestere'en that thou with fondness
Press'd my hand, and these sweet accents murmured:
"Yes, I'll come, I'll come when morn approacheth,
Come, my friend, full surely to thy chamber."
On the latch I left my doors, unfasten'd,
Having first with care tried all the hinges,
And rejoic'd right well to find they creak'd not.
What a night of expectation pass'd I!
For I watch'd, and ev'ry chime I number'd;
If perchance I slept a few short moments,
Still my heart remain'd awake forever,
And awoke me from my gentle slumbers.
Yes, then bless'd I night's o'erhanging darkness,
That so calmly cover'd all things round me;
I enjoy'd the universal silence,
While I listen'd ever in the silence,
If perchance the slightest sounds were stirring.
"Had she only thoughts, my thoughts resembling,
Had she only feelings, like my feelings,
She would not await the dawn of morning.
But, ere this, would surely have been with me."
Skipp'd a kitten on the floor above me,
Scratch'd a mouse a panel in the corner,
Was there in the house the slightest motion,
Ever hoped I that I heard thy footstep,
Ever thought I that I heard thee coming.
And so lay I long, and ever longer,
And already was the daylight dawning,
And both here and there were signs of movement.
"Is it yon door? Were it my door only!"
In my bed I lean'd upon my elbow,
Looking tow'rd the door, now half-apparent,
If perchance it might not be in motion.
Both the wings upon the latch continued,
On the quiet hinges calmly hanging.
And the day grew bright and brighter ever;
And I heard my neighbour's door unbolted,
As he went to earn his daily wages,
And ere long I heard the waggons rumbling,
And the city gates were also open'd,
While the market-place, in ev'ry corner,
Teem'd with life and bustle and confusion.
In the house was going now and coming
Up and down the stairs, and doors were creaking
Backwards now, now forwards, footsteps clatter'd
Yet, as though it were a thing all-living,
From my cherish'd hope I could not tear me.
When at length the sun, in hated splendour.
Fell upon my walls, upon my windows,
Up I sprang, and hasten'd to the garden,
There to blend my breath, so hot and yearning,
With the cool refreshing morning breezes,
And, it might be, even there to meet thee:
But I cannot find thee in the arbour,
Or the avenue of lofty lindens.
The Broken Heart.
by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Oh think not with love's soft token,
Or music my heart to thrill 
For its strings its strings are broken,
And the chords would fain be still!
Oh think not to waken the measure
Of joy on a ruined lute 
Think not to waken pleasure,
Where grief sits mourning and mute.
The pearls that gleam in the billow,
But darken the gloom of the deep 
And laughter plants the pillow
With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.
The gems that gleam on the finger
Of her who is sleeping and cold,
But wring the hearts that linger.
And dream of the love they told.
My bosom is but a grave,
My breast a voiceless choir 
Speak not to the echoless cave,
Touch not the broken lyre!
The Tree
by Sara Teasdale

Oh to be free of myself,
With nothing left to remember,
To have my heart as bare
As a tree in December;
Resting, as a tree rests
After its leaves are gone,
Waiting no more for a rain at night
Nor for the red at dawn;
But still, oh so still
While the winds come and go,
With no more fear of the hard frost
Or the bright burden of snow;
And heedless, heedless
If anyone pass and see
On the white page of the sky
Its thin black tracery.
Oh! Blame Not The Bard.[1]
by Thomas Moore

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2]
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam
Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!
In Memoriam. - Mrs. Payne,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Wife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia.
Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years
Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime
Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause,
Thy self-denial and humility.
Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,
And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,
Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep
With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.
--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts
Was link'd so tenderly,--who found in thee
Solace for exile from his native shore,
Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.
He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,
Thy purity, thy sublimated search
For added holiness. With angel hand
Press thou thy pattern on us,--we who dwell
Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,
Forgetful of our heathen brother's need.
Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe
Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,
Their discipline perfected. For thy will
Was subjugated to the Will Divine,
And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul
Hath won the victory.
Petition.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Oh thou sweet maiden fair,
Thou with the raven hair,
Why to the window go?
While gazing down below,
Art standing vainly there?
Oh, if thou stood'st for me,
And lett'st the latch but fly,
How happy should I be!
How soon would I leap high!
The Martyrs.
by Archibald Lampman

Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign
Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw
Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,
Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,
Seeing before you that divine face shine;
Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,
Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,
White souls whose beauty made their world divine:
Yet still across life's tangled storms we see,
Following the cross, your pale procession led,
One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,
Self-abnegation, love, humility,
Your faces shining toward the bended head,
The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
If" And "Perhaps."
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope!
Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea,
And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,
From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee.
"If mutely the slave will endure and obey,
"Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains,
"His masters perhaps at some far distant day
"May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains."
Wise "if" and "perhaps!"--precious salve for our wounds,
If he who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes,
Could check the free spring-tide of Mind that resounds,
Even now at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.
But, no, 'tis in vain--the grand impulse is given--
Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim;
And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven,
Be theirs who have forged them the guilt and the shame.
"If the slave will be silent!"--vain Soldier, beware--
There is a dead silence the wronged may assume,
When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair,
But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;--
When the blush that long burned on the suppliant's cheek,
Gives place to the avenger's pale, resolute hue;
And the tongue that once threatened, disdaining to speak,
Consigns to the arm the high office--to do.
If men in that silence should think of the hour
When proudly their fathers in panoply stood,
Presenting alike a bold front-work of power
To the despot on land and the foe on the flood:--
That hour when a Voice had come forth from the west,
To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms;
And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest,
That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!
If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall
That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day
At length seemed to break thro' a long night of thrall,
And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;--
If Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good,
Tho' swiftly its light died away from his chain,
Tho' darkly it set in a nation's best blood,
Now wants but invoking to shine out again;
If--if, I say--breathings like these should come o'er
The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come,
Then,--perhaps--ay, perhaps--but I dare not say more;
Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute--I am dumb.
The Trip To Mars
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! by and by we shall hear the cry,
'This is the way to Mars.'
Come take a trip, on the morning Ship;
It sails by the Isle of Stars.
'A glorious view of planets new
We promise by night and day.
Past dying suns our good ship runs,
And we pause at the Milky Way.'
I am almost sure we will take that tour
Together, my dear, my dear.
For, ever have we, by land and sea,
Gone journeying far and near.
Out over the deep - o'er mountain steep,
We have travelled mile on mile;
And to sail away to the Martian Bay,
Oh! that were a trip worth while.
Our ship will race through seas of space
Up into the Realms of Light,
Till the whirling ball of the earth grows small,
And is utterly lost to sight.
Through the nebulous spawn where planets are born,
We shall pass with sails well furled,
And with eager eyes we will scan the skies,
For the sights of a new-made world.
From the derelict barque of a sun gone dark,
Adrift on our fair ship's path,
A beacon star shall guide us afar,
And far from the comet's wrath.
Oh! many a start of pulse and heart
We have felt at the sights of land.
But what would we do if the dream came true,
And we sighted the Martian strand?
So, if some day you come and say,
They are sailing to Mars, I hear.
I want you to know I am ready to go, - 
All ready, my dear, my dear.
The Practical Joker
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!
What keen enjoyment springs
From cheap and simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and trouble brew
For every one but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,
Its unexpected flash
Burns eyebrows and moustache;
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense suggests
You keep it for your guests -
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,
And much amusement bides
In common butter-slides.
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.
Coal scuttles, recollect,
Produce the same effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense -
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence (it's all you'll have to pay),
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,
And turnip-heads on posts
Make very decent ghosts:
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waist-coat pockets
Burnt cork and walnut juice
Are not without their use.
No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles -
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people's backs -
Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles -
And treacle on a chair
Will make a Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts -
And cobblers' wax
For ladies' skirts -
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors -
And water jugs
On open doors -
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!
In May
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh to have you in May,
To talk with you under the trees,
Dreaming throughout the day,
Drinking the wine-like breeze,
Oh it were sweet to think
That May should be ours again,
Hoping it not, I shrink,
Out of the sight of men.
May brings the flowers to bloom,
It brings the green leaves to the tree,
And the fatally sweet perfume,
Of what you once were to me.