DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ode To Duty
by William Wordsworth

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
(Seneca, Letters 130.10)
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
Come Down
by George MacDonald

Still am I haunting
Thy door with my prayers;
Still they are panting
Up thy steep stairs!
Wouldst thou not rather
Come down to my heart,
And there, O my Father,
Be what thou art?
The Siren's Song
by William Browne

Steer hither, steer your wing'd pines,
All beaten mariners,
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which makes the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
CHORUS.
Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
The Inner Temple Masque.
Stella's Birth-Day March 13, 1718-19
by Jonathan Swift

Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
O, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain.
Her Lover's Step.
by James McIntyre

Step, step, step, 'tis her lover's walk,
She knows his step as well's his talk;
He is the favorite of her choice,
So his step's familiar as his voice.
Step, step, step, she now is wed,
And it is now her husband's tread;
His homeward step it cheers her life,
For she is a kind faithful wife.
But he the husband and yet lover,
His steps at last do cease forever;
And she doth soon hear the tread
Of men who do bear out the dead.
Her heart it now doth throb with pain,
Though she knows sorrow is but vain;
For him she never can recall,
And no more hear his footsteps fall.
But still she hopes he yet will come
And visit her in their old home;
But time approaches, she must die,
Her husband's footsteps she hears nigh.
Step, step, step, we ne'er shall part,
I hear the echo in my heart;
Now happiness dispels the gloom,
Radiant with joy my face doth bloom.
Pain and suffering all are past,
She joyous cried he's come at last;
And soon she breathes out her last breath,
He guides her through the vale of death.
For a Portrait Of Felice Orsini
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Steadfast as sorrow, fiery sad, and sweet
With underthoughts of love and faith, more strong
Than doubt and hate and all ill thoughts which throng,
Haply, round hope's or fear's world-wandering feet
That find no rest from wandering till they meet
Death, bearing palms in hand and crowns of song;
His face, who thought to vanquish wrong with wrong,
Erring, and make rage and redemption meet,
Havoc and freedom; weaving in one weft
Good with his right hand, evil with his left;
But all a hero lived and erred and died;
Looked thus upon the living world he left
So bravely that with pity less than pride
Men hail him Patriot and Tyrannicide.
The Corner Stone
by Walter De La Mare

Sterile these stones
By time in ruin laid.
Yet many a creeping thing
Its haven has made
In these least crannies, where falls
Dark's dew, and noonday shade.
The claw of the tender bird
Finds lodgment here;
Dye-winged butterflies poise;
Emmet and beetle steer
Their busy course; the bee
Drones, laden, near.
Their myriad-mirrored eyes
Great day reflect.
By their exquisite farings
Is this granite specked;
Is trodden to infinite dust;
By gnawing lichens decked.
Toward what eventual dream
Sleeps its cold on,
When into ultimate dark
These lives shall be gone,
And even of man not a shadow remain
Of all he has done?
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CVII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Stella, since thou so right a princesse art
Of all the Powers which Life bestowes on me,
That ere by them ought vndertaken be,
They first resort vnto that soueraigne part;
Sweete, for a while giue thy lieutenancie
To this great cause, which needes both use and art.
And as a Queene, who from her presence sends
Whom she employes, dismisse from thee my wit,
Till it haue wrought what thy owne will attends.
On seruants shame oft maisters blame doth sit:
O let not fooles in me thy workes reproue,
And scorning say, See what it is to loue!
Goliath
by Walter De La Mare

Still as a mountain with dark pines and sun
He stood between the armies, and his shout
Rolled from the empyrean above the host:
"Bid any little flea ye have come forth,
And wince at death upon my finger-nail!"
He turned his large-boned face; and all his steel
Tossed into beams the lustre of the noon;
And all the shaggy horror of his locks
Rustled like locusts in a field of corn.
The meagre pupil of his shameless eye
Moved like a cormorant over a glassy sea.
He stretched his limbs, and laughed into the air,
To feel the groaning sinews of his breast,
And the long gush of his swollen arteries pause:
And, nodding, wheeled, towering in all his height.
Then, like a wind that hushes, gazed and saw
Down, down, far down upon the untroubled green
A shepherd-boy that swung a little sling.
Goliath shut his lids to drive that mote,
Which vexed the eastern azure of his eye,
Out of his vision; and stared down again.
Yet stood the youth there, ruddy in the flare
Of his vast shield, nor spake, nor quailed, gazed up,
As one might scan a mountain to be scaled.
Then, as it were, a voice unearthly still
Cried in the cavern of his bristling ear,
"His name is Death!" ... And, like the flush
That dyes Sahara to its lifeless verge,
His brows' bright brass flamed into sudden crimson;
And his great spear leapt upward, lightning-like,
Shaking a dreadful thunder in the air;
Spun betwixt earth and sky, bright as a berg
That hoards the sunlight in a myriad spires,
Crashed: and struck echo through an army's heart.
Then paused Goliath, and stared down again.
And fleet-foot Fear from rolling orbs perceived
Steadfast, unharmed, a stooping shepherd-boy
Frowning upon the target of his face.
And wrath tossed suddenly up once more his hand;
And a deep groan grieved all his strength in him.
He breathed; and, lost in dazzling darkness, prayed - 
Besought his reins, his gloating gods, his youth:
And turned to smite what he no more could see.
Then sped the singing pebble-messenger,
The chosen of the Lord from Israel's brooks,
Fleet to its mark, and hollowed a light path
Down to the appalling Babel of his brain.
And like the smoke of dreaming Souffri're
Dust rose in cloud, spread wide, slow silted down
Softly all softly on his armour's blaze.
The Nameless Charm.
by Henry Austin Dobson

(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.)
Stella, 'tis not your dainty head,
Your artless look, I own;
'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,
Or this, or that, alone;
Nor is it all your gifts combined;
'Tis something in your face,--
The untranslated, undefined,
Uncertainty of grace,
That taught the Boy on Ida's hill
To whom the meed was due;
All three have equal charms--but still
This one I give it to!
Written With A Slate Pencil On A Stone, On The Side Of The Mountain Of Black Comb
by William Wordsworth

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence, from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued! To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvas Dwelling, colours, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map,
Became invisible: for all around
Had darkness fallen, unthreatened, unproclaimed
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
The Korathy's Lullaby.
by Ramakrishna, T.

The Korathy is the tattooer of the Indian village, who offers her services for a small fee. Hindu females are very fond of having their bodies tattooed. The Korathy first makes a sketch of the figure of a scorpion or a serpent on the part of the body offered to her for tattooing, then takes a number of sharp needles, dips them in some liquid preparation which she has ready, and pricks the flesh most mercilessly. In a few days the whole appears green. This is considered a mark of beauty among the Hindus. While the tattooing takes place the Korathy sings a crude song, so as to make the person undergoing the process forget the pain. The following is as nearly as possible a translation of the song which I myself heard: -
Stay, darling, stay - 'tis only for an hour,
And you will be the fairest of the fair.
Your lotus eyes can soothe the savage beast,
Your lips are like the newly blossomed rose,
Your teeth - they shine like pearls; but what are they
Before the beauties of my handiwork?
Stay, darling, stay - 'tis only for an hour,
And you will be the fairest of the fair.
I've left my home, and all day hard I toil
So to adorn the maidens of the land
That erring husbands may return to them;
Such are the beauties of my handiwork.
Stay, darling, stay - 'tis only for an hour,
And you will be the fairest of the fair;
In days of old fair Seeta laid her head
Upon the lap of one of our own clan,
When with her lord she wandered in the wilds,
And like the emerald shone her beauteous arms.
Stay, darling, stay - 'tis only for an hour,
And you will be the fairest of the fair.
And often in the wilds, so it is said,
She also of the Pandus went in quest
Of one of us, but found not even one,
And sighed she was not like her sisters blest.
Stay, darling, stay - 'tis only for an hour,
And you will be the fairest of the fair.
My work is done; rejoice, for you will be
The fairest of your sisters in the land.
Rejoice for evermore, among them you
Will shine as doth the moon among the stars.
Stay!
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Stay! as I see thee now, abide for ever in my memory!
From thy lips the last inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is in thy eyes; they are dim, weighed down by the load of happiness, of the blissful sense of the beauty, it has been thy glad lot to express - the beauty, groping for which thou hast stretched out thy yearning hands, thy triumphant, exhausted hands!
What is the radiance - purer and higher than the sun's radiance - all about thy limbs, the least fold of thy raiment?
What god's caressing breath has set thy scattered tresses floating?
His kiss burns on thy brow, white now as marble.
This is it, the mystery revealed, the mystery of poesy, of life, of love!
This, this is immortality! Other immortality there is none, nor need be. 
For this instant thou art immortal.
It passes, and once more thou art a grain of dust, a woman, a child.... 
But why need'st thou care! For this instant, thou art above, thou art outside all that is passing, temporary. 
This thy instant will never end. Stay! and let me share in thy immortality; shed into my soul the light of thy eternity!
November 1879.
To A Redbreast (In Sickness)
by William Wordsworth

Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.
Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song;
A charm, 'that' thought can not destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
And with a more than earthly power
My passing Spirit cheer.
Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
Come, and my requiem sing,
Nor fail to be the harbinger
Of everlasting Spring.
Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at home is best.
Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,
And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.
Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;
O'er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.
Christmas
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Step wid de banjo an' glide wid de fiddle,
Dis ain' no time fu' to pottah an' piddle:
Fu' Christmas is comin', it's right on de way,
An' dey's houahs to dance 'fo' de break o' de day.
What if de win' is taihin' an' whistlin'?
Look at dat' fiah how hit's spittin' an' bristlin'!
Heat in de ashes an' heat in de cindahs,
Ol' mistah Fros' kin des look thoo de windahs.
Heat up de toddy an' pas' de wa'm glasses,
Don' stop to shivah at blowin's an' blas'es,
Keep on de kittle an' keep it a-hummin',
Eat all an' drink all, dey's lots o' a-comin'.
Look hyeah, Maria, don't open dat oven,
Want all dese people a-pushin' an' shovin'?
Res' f'om de dance? Yes, you done cotch dat odah,
Mammy done cotch it, an' law! hit nigh flo'd huh;
'Possum is monst'ous fu' mekin' folks fin' it!
Come, draw yo' cheers up, I's sho' I do' min' it.
Eat up dem critters, you men folks an' wimmens,
'Possums ain' skace w'en dey's lots o' pu'simmons.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXXVI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Stella, whence doth these new assaults arise,
A conquerd yeelding ransackt heart to winne,
Whereto long since, through my long-battred eyes,
Whole armies of thy beauties entred in?
And there, long since, Loue, thy lieutenant, lies;
My forces razde, thy banners raisd within:
Of conquest, do not these effects suffice,
But wilt new warre vpon thine own begin?
With so sweet voice, and by sweet Nature so
In sweetest stratagems sweete Art can show,
That not my soul, which at thy foot did fall
Long since, forc'd by thy beams, but stone nor tree,
By Sences priviledge, can scape from thee!
Dawn
by George William Russell

Still as the holy of holies breathes the vast
Within its crystal depths the stars grow dim;
Fire on the altar of the hills at last
Burns on the shadowy rim.
Moments that holds all moments; white upon
The verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers
Break from the fairy fountain of the dawn
The hues of many hours.
Thrown downward from that high companionship
Of dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart,
Into the common daily ways I slip,
My fire from theirs apart.
Stay, Mother, Stay!
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

"Stay, mother, stay, for the storm is abroad,
And the tempest is very wild;
It's a fearful night with no ray of light,
Oh stay with your little child!"
"Hush darling!" the mother, with white lips said - 
"Lie still till I come again,
God's angels blest will watch o'er thy rest
While I am abroad in the rain!
Thy father, child? - oh, I quake with fear
When I think where he may be,
And I dare not stay till the dawn of day - 
I must hasten forth to see!"
Then the young child buried her tangled curls
In the ragged counterpane,
While the half-clad mother went forth alone
In the blinding wind and rain.
Down many a narrow, slippery lane,
Down many a long, dark street,
Went that shivering form thro' the pelting storm
Of wind, and rain, and sleet;
Till, nearing a den where inebriate men,
With Bacchanal oath and yell,
And curse and jeer, spent the midnight drear,
She reeled in the gloom and fell;
For a prostrate form, in the pitiless storm
And inky darkness, lay
Helpless and prone on the pavement-stone,
Across her desolate way.
She knelt alone by the fallen one,
And murmured in accents low,
A name, how dear to her girlhood's ear
In the beautiful long ago!
But no voice, no tone replied to her own,
And the cold hand fell like lead;
And her wailing cry brought back no reply,
As she shrieked "he is dead! - he's dead!"
Aye, "dead!" - God pity thee, stricken wife!
God pity thee, orphan child!
Poor slave to wine, what a death was thine,
In that wintry tempest wild!
We know not how long that wild, drunken song
And those curses assailed her ear,
But the morning-ray found its early way
To one who no more could hear;
For the faithful heart that had borne its part
Awhile, through those watches lone,
Had grown still it last as the pitiless blast
Swept by her with wrathful tone; - 
But the rumseller-he slept quietly
In his chamber of gilded pride,
For little he cared how his victims fared,
Or whether they lived or died!
Oh! the old, old strain with its old refrain,
Of agony, death, and woe! - 
Oh! the bitter tears that, through all the years,
Have been flowing, and ever flow!
Must the ghastly tragedy never cease?
Will Manhood never awake?
And, by God's great might made strong for the right.
Stand up for Humanity's sake,
And wipe the horrible stain away
From his country and his home - 
The dark, ensangnined, loathsome stain
Of the merciless monster, Rum?
The River
by Matthew Arnold

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat
Under the rustling poplars' shade;
Silent the swans beside us float
None speaks, none heeds ah, turn thy head.
Let those arch eyes now softly shine,
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland:
Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine;
On mine let rest that lovely hand.
My pent-up tears oppress my brain,
My heart is swoln with love unsaid:
Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,
And on thy shoulder rest my head.
Before I die, before the soul,
Which now is mine, must re-attain
Immunity from my control,
And wander round the world again:
Before this teas'd o'erlabour'd heart
For ever leaves its vain employ,
Dead to its deep habitual smart,
And dead to hopes of future joy.
Stanzas.[1]
by Thomas Hood

(FROM TYLNEY HALL.)
Still glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone,
But those green shadows do not change.
Serene, or ruffled by the storm,
On present waves as on the past,
The mirrored grave retains its form,
The self-same trees their semblance cast.
The hue each fleeting globule wears,
That drop bequeaths it to the next,
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmured text.
So, love, however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee!
The Church.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices,
My Lord, my Lord!
Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices,
My Lord!
White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands, the close
Breathes with thy rose!
Wild feet, mad feet, thy lovely paths have beaten,
My Lord, my Lord!
And sinful lips thy holy fruits have eaten,
My Lord!
Strange hands have tended me and tended ill, yet thou
Lovest me, now!
So to thy feet I offer my waste places.
My Lord, my Lord!
walk them till they spring in verdant graces,
My Lord!
With new trees plant, and from the fruits divine
Tread out thy wine!
B'ranger's "To My Old Coat."
by Eugene Field

Still serve me in my age, I pray,
As in my youth, O faithful one;
For years I've brushed thee every day--
Could Socrates have better done?
What though the fates would wreak on thee
The fulness of their evil art?
Use thou philosophy, like me--
And we, old friend, shall never part!
I think--I often think of it--
The day we twain first faced the crowd;
My roistering friends impeached your fit,
But you and I were very proud!
Those jovial friends no more make free
With us (no longer new and smart),
But rather welcome you and me
As loving friends that should not part.
The patch? Oh, yes--one happy night--
"Lisette," says I, "it's time to go"--
She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight,
Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No!"
To mend the ghastly rent she'd made,
Three days she toiled, dear patient heart!
And I--right willingly I staid--
Lisette decreed we should not part!
No incense ever yet profaned
This honest, shiny warp of thine,
Nor hath a courtier's eye disdained
Thy faded hue and quaint design;
Let servile flattery be the price
Of ribbons in the royal mart--
A roadside posie shall suffice
For us two friends that must not part!
Fear not the recklessness of yore
Shall re-occur to vex thee now;
Alas, I am a youth no more--
I'm old and sere, and so art thou!
So bide with me unto the last
And with thy warmth caress this heart
That pleads, by memories of the Past,
That two such friends should never part!