DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Nunc Te Bacche Canam.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

'Tis done!    Henceforth nor joy nor woe
Can make or mar my fate;
I gaze around, above, below,
And all is desolate.
Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom;
The mourner to be merry;
But bid no ray to cheer the tomb
In which my hopes I bury!
I never thought the world was fair;
That 'Truth must reign victorious';
I knew that Honesty was rare;
Wealth only meritorious.
I knew that Women might deceive,
And sometimes cared for money;
That Lovers who in Love believe
Find gall as well as honey.
I knew that "wondrous Classic lore"
Meant something most pedantic;
That Mathematics were a bore,
And Morals un-romantic.
I knew my own beloved light-blue
Might much improve their rowing:
In fact, I knew a thing or two
Decidedly worth knowing.
But thou! - Fool, fool, I thought that thou
At least wert something glorious;
I saw thy polished ivory brow,
And could not feel censorious.
I thought I saw thee smile - but that
Was all imagination;
Upon the garden seat I sat,
And gazed in adoration.
I plucked a newly-budding rose,
Our lips then met together;
We spoke not - but a lover knows
How lips two lives can tether.
We parted!    I believed thee true;
I asked for no love-token;
But now thy form no more I view - 
My Pipe, my Pipe, thou'rt broken!
Broken! - and when the Sun's warm rays
Illumine hill and heather,
I think of all the pleasant days
We might have had together.
When Lucifer's phosphoric beam
Shines e'er the Lake's dim water,
O then, my Beautiful, I dream
Of thee, the salt sea's daughter.
O why did Death thy beauty snatch
And leave me lone and blighted,
Before the Hymeneal match
Our young loves had united?
I knew thou wert not made of clay,
I loved thee with devotion,
Soft emanation of the spray!
Bright, foam-born child of Ocean!
One night I saw an unknown star,
Methought it gently nodded;
I saw, or seemed to see, afar
Thy spirit disembodied.
Cleansed from the stain of smoke and oil,
My tears it bade me wipe,
And there, relieved from earthly toil,
I saw my Meerschaum pipe.
Men offer me the noisome weed;
But nought can calm my sorrow;
Nor joy nor misery I heed;
I care not for the morrow.
Pipeless and friendless, tempest-tost
I fade, I faint, I languish;
He only who has loved and lost
Can measure all my anguish.
Inter Vias
by Archibald Lampman

'Tis a land where no hurricane falls,
But the infinite azure regards
Its waters for ever, its walls
Of granite, its limitless swards;
Where the fens to their innermost pool
With the chorus of May are aring,
And the glades are wind-winnowed and cool
With perpetual spring;
Where folded and half withdrawn
The delicate wind-flowers blow,
And the bloodroot kindles at dawn
Her spiritual taper of snow;
Where the limits are met and spanned
By a waste that no husbandman tills,
And the earth-old pine forests stand
In the hollows of hills.
'Tis the land that our babies behold,
Deep gazing when none are aware;
And the great-hearted seers of old
And the poets have known it, and there
Made halt by the well-heads of truth
On their difficult pilgrimage
From the rose-ruddy gardens of youth
To the summits of age.
Now too, as of old, it is sweet
With a presence remote and serene;
Still its byways are pressed by the feet
Of the mother immortal, its queen:
The huntress whose tresses, flung free,
And her fillets of gold, upon earth,
They only have honour to see
Who are dreamers from birth.
In her calm and her beauty supreme,
They have found her at dawn or at eve,
By the marge of some motionless stream,
Or where shadows rebuild or unweave
In a murmurous alley of pine,
Looking upward in silent surprise,
A figure, slow-moving, divine,
With inscrutable eyes.
The Origin Of The Harp.
by Thomas Moore

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same--
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.
Mirage.
by Eric Mackay

I.
'Tis a legend of a lover,
'Tis a ballad to be sung,
In the gloaming, - under cover, -
By a minstrel who is young;
By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue.
II.
I, who know it, think upon it,
Not unhappy, tho' in tears,
And I gather in a sonnet
All the glory of the years;
And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.
III.
Ah! I see her as she faced me,
In the sinless summer days,
When her little hands embraced me,
And I saddened at her gaze,
Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?
IV.
Will she cling to me as kindly
When the childish faith is lost?
Will she pray for me as blindly,
Or but weigh the wish and cost,
Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd?
V.
Oh! I swear by all I honour,
By the graves that I endow,
By the grace I set upon her,
That I meant the early vow, -
Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now.
VI.
But her maiden troth is broken,
And her mind is ill at ease,
And she sends me back no token
From her home beyond the seas;
And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees.
VII.
Yes, for pardon freely granted;
For she wrong'd me, understand.
And my life is disenchanted,
As I wander through the land
With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band.
VIII.
Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,
Hers the tenderest eyes of all!
In her hair she had the traces
Of a heavenly coronal,
Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall.
IX.
She was fairer than a vision;
Like a vision, too, has flown.
I who flushed at her decision,
Lo! I languish here alone;
And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own.
X.
Not for her, sweet sainted creature!
Could I curse her to her face?
Could I look on form and feature,
And deny the inner grace?
Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place.
XI.
And I told her, in mad fashion,
That I loved her, - would incline
All my life to this one passion,
And would kneel as at a shrine;
And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine.
XII.
Now in dreams alone I meet her
With my lowly human praise;
She is sweeter and completer,
And she smiles on me always;
But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days.
Christmas
by Wilfred S. Skeats

'Tis Christmas day; the bells ring out
The joyous tidings far and near,
And children hail with gladsome shout
The merry sound of Christmas cheer.
'Tis Christmas day, the children's day,
When He was born a little child,
To take Creation's sin away,
And purify the Truth defiled.
He taught the world to walk by faith,
And, lest their feet should go astray,
He trod Himself the faithful path,
And showed His followers the way.
He taught a Hope to all oppressed
By Sorrow's weight or Sin's remorse;
Himself the contrite sinner blessed,
To give His words a greater force.
Oh! ye who tread in Trial's way,
Nor scarce can murmuring resist,
Remember, on His natal day,
The faithful suffering of Christ.
And ye, whose thoughts in memory trace
A darkened life of wrongful deeds,
Look up and see His kindly face,
Who now for your allegiance pleads.
Oh! Christians, to your name be true,
Cast all your faithlessness away,
And let your hope be born anew
On this, your Saviour's natal day.
A May Night On The Mountains
by Henry Lawson

'Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long 'small hours' of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.
Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
Are better than we, or worse?
Are they exempted from deaths and births,
And have they greater powers,
And greater heavens, and greater earths,
And greater Gods than ours?
Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth,
Are they cursed for pleasure's sake,
Do they make their hells in their reckless youth
Ere they know what hells they make?
And do they toil through each weary hour
Till the tedious day is o'er,
For food that gives but the fleeting power
To toil and strive for more?
On The Death Of Miss Fanny V. Apthorp.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just given to the upward sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel
That she will no more come - that from her cheek
The delicate flush has faded, and the light
Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,
That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere - the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And, in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish! It is like
The melting of a star into the sky
While you are gazing on it, or a dream
In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.
Monument Of Moor The Robber. [65]
by Friedrich Schiller

'Tis ended!
Welcome! 'tis ended
Oh thou sinner majestic,
All thy terrible part is now played!
Noble abased one!
Thou, of thy race beginner and ender!
Wondrous son of her fearfulest humor,
Mother Nature's blunder sublime!
Through cloud-covered night a radiant gleam!
Hark how behind him the portals are closing!
Night's gloomy jaws veil him darkly in shade!
Nations are trembling,
At his destructive splendor afraid!
Thou art welcome! 'Tis ended!
Oh thou sinner majestic,
All thy terrible part is now played!
Crumble, decay
In the cradle of wide-open heaven!
Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes,
When the hot thirst for glory
Raises its barriers over against the dread throne!
See! to eternity shame has consigned thee!
To the bright stars of fame
Thou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame!
Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee,
When admiration at length will be thine!
With moist eye, by thy sepulchre dreaded,
Man has passed onward
Rejoice in the tears that man sheddeth,
Oh thou soul of the judged!
With moist eye, by the sepulchre dreaded,
Lately a maiden passed onward,
Hearing the fearful announcement
Told of thy deeds by the herald of marble;
And the maiden rejoice thee! rejoice thee!
Sought not to dry up her tears.
Far away I stood as the pearls were falling,
And I shouted: Amalia!
Oh, ye youths! Oh, ye youths!
With the dangerous lightning of genius
Learn to play with more caution!
Wildly his bit champs the charger of Phoebus;
Though, 'neath the reins of his master,
More gently he rocks earth and heaven,
Reined by a child's hand, he kindles
Earth and heaven in blazing destruction!
Obstinate Phaeton perished,
Buried beneath the sad wreck.
Child of the heavenly genius!
Glowing bosom all panting for action!
Art thou charmed by the tale of my robber?
Glowing like time was his bosom, and panting for action!
He, like thee, was the child of the heavenly genius.
But thou smilest and goest
Thy gaze flies through the realms of the world's long story,
Moor, the robber, it finds not there
Stay, thou youth, and smile not!
Still survive all his sins and his shame
Robber Moor liveth in all but name.
To Electra.
by Robert Herrick

'Tis evening, my sweet,
And dark, let us meet;
Long time w'ave here been a-toying,
And never, as yet,
That season could get
Wherein t'ave had an enjoying.
For pity or shame,
Then let not love's flame
Be ever and ever a-spending;
Since now to the port
The path is but short,
And yet our way has no ending.
Time flies away fast,
Our hours do waste,
The while we never remember
How soon our life, here,
Grows old with the year
That dies with the next December.
The Sonnets LXVI - Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
by William Shakespeare

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Above Lavender Bay
by Henry Lawson

'Tis glorious morning everywhere
Save where the alleys lie, 
I see the fleecy steam jets bid
'Good morning' to the sky.
The gullies of the waratah
Are near, with fall and pool,
And by the shadowed western rocks
The bays are fresh and cool.
To 'points' that hint of Italy, 
Of Italy and Spain, 
I see the busy ferry boats
Come nosing round again.
To the toy station down below
I see the toy trains run, 
(I wonder when those ferry boats
Will get their business done?)
Above the Bay called Lavender
This bard is domiciled,
Where up through rich, dark greenery
The red-tiled roofs are piled, 
(At least some are, I hope that soon
They all shall be red-tiled), 
A moonlight night in middle-age
That makes one feel a child.
Close over, to the nearer left, 
That feels the ocean breeze, 
A full moon in a dim blue sky
A church spire and dark trees.
And, further right, the harsher heights
Of Mosman, Double Bay,
And Rose Bay, with their scattered lights,
Have softened with the day.
And fair across to where we know
The shelving sea cliffs are, 
The lighthouse, with a still faint glow,
Beneath a twinkling star.
Across the harbour from the right,
And fairly in a line,
The Clock-tower on the City Hall,
A ship-mast and a pine.
The pale and bright, yet dusky blue,
And crossed by fleecy bars,
Flings out the brilliant city lights,
The moonlight and the stars, 
And like a transformation scene,
On sheet glass down below,
The fairy-lighted ferry boats
Are gliding to and fro.
Twilight.
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

By W--ll--m C--wp--r.
'Tis evening.    See with its resorting throng
Rude Carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited
With too-familiar elbow, swell the curse
Vortiginous.    The boating man returns,
His rawness growing with experience--
Strange union! and directs the optic glass
Not unresponsive to Jemima's charms,
Who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise
Perambulant, the child.    The gouty cit,
Asthmatical, with elevated cane
Pursues the unregarding tram, as one
Who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds
His loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man,
Blaspheming.    Now the clangorous bell proclaims
The Times or Chronicle, and Rauca screams
The latest horrid murder in the ear
Of nervous dons expectant of the urn
And mild domestic muffin.
To the Parks
Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time
In passing given points.    Here glow the lamps,
And tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum
Of scientific circles.    Here resounds
The football-field with its discordant train,
The crowd that cheers but not discriminates,
As ever into touch the ball returns
And shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds
With fine irregularity well worth
The paltry shilling.--
Draw the curtains close
While I resume the night-cap dear to all
Familiar with my illustrated works.
Remembrance.
by George Gordon Byron

'Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of Life is overcast;
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!
Tired Out
by James Whitcomb Riley

"tired out!"    Yet face and brow
Do not look aweary now,
And the eyelids lie like two
Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew.
Was her life so hard a task? -
Strange that we forget to ask
What the lips now dumb for aye
Could have told us yesterday!
"Tired out!"    A faded scrawl
Pinned upon the ragged shawl -
Nothing else to leave a clue
Even of a friend or two,
Who might come to fold the hands,
Or smooth back the dripping strands
Of her tresses, or to wet
Them anew with fond regret.
"Tired out!"    We can but guess
Of her little happiness -
Long ago, in some fair land,
When a lover held her hand
In the dream that frees us all,
Soon or later, from its thrall -
Be it either false or true,
We, at last, must tire, too.
Tip-A-Toe.
by Kate Greenaway

Tip-a-Toe,
See them go;
One, two, three 
Chloe, Prue, and me;
Up and down,
To the town.
A Lord was there,
And the Lady fair.
And what did they sing?
Oh, "Ring-a-ding-ding;"
And the Black Crow flew off
With the Lady's Ring.
I'm Not Saying Anything Against Alexander
by Bertolt Brecht

Timur, I hear, took the trouble to conquer the earth.
I don't understand him.
With a bit of hard liquor you can forget the earth.
I'm not saying anything against Alexander,
Only I have seen people who were remarkable,
Highly deserving of your admiration
For the fact that they were alive at all.
Great men generate too much sweat.
In all of this I see just a proof that
They couldn't stand being on their own
And smoking and drinking and the like.
And they must be too mean-spirited to get
Contentment from sitting by a woman.
Night.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

'Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed
Or murmurs only as a tired child,
Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still
Within the marshy hollow.    Quaint and dark
The willows bend above the brooklet's tide,
Reflecting shadowy images therein.
The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky,
Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines
Along the western sky.    And yonder shade
Of purple marks the cloud, the storm-god rides
In moods of angry fire.
The woods are filled
With wild-wood blossoms drinking in the dew.
Their scented breath is sweeter than the maid's
Who stands at eve and drinks in love and hope
From every budding flower.
All day the sun
With fiery breath has held his hot, long reign;
The leaves have quivered 'neath his burning gaze,
And all the flowers have drooped; yet now the moon,
His pale young bride, awaking from her spell
Of sweet day dreams, arises in the dusky East,
And sweeping back the clouds that dim her crown
Of stars, floods all the world with holy light.
Oh, welcome night! the flowers love their queen!
Yea, better than their king, for he is fierce
And warm, and drinks the jeweled dew-drops all.
Her hand is cool and soothing! 'neath its spell
They sink to restful slumber.
Bless'd night!
When all he world's asleep, and thought can fly
On tireless wings from sky to sky, when, free
From earthly chains, the soul immortal feels
Its throbbing freedom.
Bless'd night!
When God looks down from every shining star,
And breathes in every dew-gemmed flower, when faith
From her rock-bound temple on the hills
His everlasting glory sings!    Oh, welcome night!
Thy beauty holds the spell that wakes to life
All things immortal.    Crowned be thou with light
Eternal as the sun whose radiance wakes the day.
From The Far West
by Barcroft Boake

Tis a song of the Never Never land
Set to the tune of a scorching gale
On the sandhills red,
When the grasses dead
Loudly rustle, and bow the head
To the breath of its dusty hail:
Where the cattle trample a dusty pad
Across the never-ending plain,
And come and go
With muttering low
In the time when the rivers cease to flow,
And the Drought King holds his reign;
When the fiercest piker who ever turned
With lowered head in defiance proud,
Grown gaunt and weak,
Release doth seek
In vain from the depths of the slimy creek
His sepulchre and his shroud;
His requiem sung by an insect host,
Born of the pestilential air,
That seethe and swarm
In hideous form
Where the stagnant waters lie thick and warm,
And Fever lurks in his lair:
Where a placid, thirst-provoking lake
Clear in the flashing sunlight lies
But the stockman knows
No water flows
Where the shifting mirage comes and goes
Like a spectral paradise;
And, crouched in the saltbush' sickly shade,
Murmurs to Heaven a piteous prayer:
'O God! must I
Prepare to die?'
And, gazing up at the brazen sky,
Reads his death-warrant there.
Gaunt, slinking dingoes snap and snarl,
Watching his slowly-ebbing breath;
Crows are flying,
Hoarsely crying
Burial service o'er the dying
Foul harbingers of Death.
Full many a man has perished there,
Whose bones gleam white from the waste of sand
Who left no name
On the scroll of Fame,
Yet died in his tracks, as well became
A son of that desert land.
A Little Mistake
by Henry Lawson

'Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum 'trap'
On the edge of the Never-Never,
Where the dead men lie and the black men lie,
And the bushman lies for ever.
'Twas the custom still with the local blacks
To cadge in the 'altogether'
They had less respect for our feelings then,
And more respect for the weather.
The trooper said to the sergeant's wife:
'Sure, I wouldn't seem unpleasant;
'But there's women and childer about the place,
'And barrin' a lady's present
'There's ould King Billy wid niver a stitch
'For a month may the drought cremate him!
'Bar the wan we put in his dirty head,
'Where his old Queen Mary bate him.
'God give her strength! and a peaceful reign
'Though she flies in a bit av a passion
'If ony wan hints that her shtoyle an' luks
'Are a trifle behind the fashion.
'There's two of the boys by the stable now
'Be the powers! I'll teach the varmints
'To come wid nought but a shirt apiece,
'And wid dirt for their nayther garmints.
'Howld on, ye blaggards! How dare ye dare
'To come widin sight av the houses?
'I'll give ye a warnin' all for wance
'An' a couple of ould pair of trousers.'
They took the pants as a child a toy,
The constable's words beguiling
A smile of something beside their joy;
And they took their departure smiling.
And that very day, when the sun was low,
Two blackfellows came to the station;
They were filled with the courage of Queensland rum
And bursting with indignation.
The constable noticed, with growing ire,
They'd apparently dressed in a hurry;
And their language that day, I am sorry to say,
Mostly consisted of 'plurry.'
The constable heard, and he wished himself back
In the land of the bogs and the ditches
'You plurry big tight-britches p'liceman, what for
'You gibbit our missuses britches?'
And this was a case, I am bound to confess,
Where civilisation went under;
Had one of the gins been less modest in dress
He'd never have made such a blunder.
And here let the moral be duly made known,
And hereafter signed and attested:
We should place more reliance on that which is shown
And less upon what is suggested.