DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Compensation
by Sara Teasdale

I should be glad of loneliness
And hours that go on broken wings,
A thirsty body, a tired heart
And the unchanging ache of things,
If I could make a single song
As lovely and as full of light,
As hushed and brief as a falling star
On a winter night.
An Excellent New Song; Upon His Grace Our Good Lord Archbishop Of Dublin
by Jonathan Swift

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift's estimation by his opposition to Wood's coinage.
BY HONEST JO. ONE OF HIS GRACE'S FARMERS IN FINGAL
I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;
Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.
In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.
Why, there's my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows.
"A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year - O 'tis a burning shame!
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:
Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.
Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo,
Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."
He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,
For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.
And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,
Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face:
Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;
He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain.
"Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend,
I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,
Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;
I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."
Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash,
I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!"
"God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher,
Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."
To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,
Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.
And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,
His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;
"Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face,
Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."
And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,
That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.
Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as long
As did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.
I Know I Love Thee.
by John Hartley

I shall never forget the day, Annie,
When I bid thee a fond adieu;
With a careless good bye I left thee,
For my cares and my fears were few.
True that thine eyes seemed brightest; - 
True that none had so fair a brow, - 
I thought that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I knew that I love thee now.
I had neither wealth nor beauty,
Whilst thou owned of both a share,
I bad only a honest purpose
And the courage the Fates to dare.
To all others my heart preferred thee,
And 'twas hard to part I know;
For I thought that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I know that I love thee now.
Oh! what would I give to-night, love,
Could I clasp thee once again,
To my heart that is aching with loving, - 
To my heart where my love does reign.
Could I hear thy voice making music,
So gentle, so sweet and so low,
I thought that I loved thee then, Annie,
But I know that I love thee now.
I have won me wealth and honour, - 
I have earned a worldly regard,
But alas they afford me no pleasure,
Nor lighten my lot so hard.
Oh come for my bosom yearneth,
All its burden of love to bestow, - 
Once I thought that I really loved thee,
But I know that I love thee now.
Canst thou ever forgive me the folly,
Of failing to capture the prize,
Of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving,
That shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes.
But I knew not until we had parted,
How fiercely love's embers could glow;
Or how truly I loved thee then, Annie,
Or how madly I'd love thee now.
On Receiving Heyne's Virgil From Mr. Hayley.
by William Cowper

I should have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.
I Shall Make Beauty
by John Collings Squire, Sir

I shall make beauty out of many things:
Lights, colours, motions, sky and earth and sea,
The soft unbosoming of all the springs
Which that inscrutable hand allows to me,
Odours of flowers, sounds of smitten strings,
The voice of many a wind in many a tree,
Fields, rivers, moors, swift feet and floating wings,
Rocks, caves, and hills that stand and clouds that flee.
Men also and women, beautiful and dear,
Shall come and pass and leave a fragrant breath;
And my own heart, laughter and pain and fear,
The majesties of evil and of death;
But never, never shall my verses trace
The loveliness of your most lovely face.
In Death Divided
by Thomas Hardy

I
I shall rot here, with those whom in their day
You never knew,
And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay,
Met not my view,
Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.
II
No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower,
While earth endures,
Will fall on my mound and within the hour
Steal on to yours;
One robin never haunt our two green covertures.
III
Some organ may resound on Sunday noons
By where you lie,
Some other thrill the panes with other tunes
Where moulder I;
No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.
IV
The simply-cut memorial at my head
Perhaps may take
A Gothic form, and that above your bed
Be Greek in make;
No linking symbol show thereon for our tale's sake.
V
And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run
Humanity,
The eternal tie which binds us twain in one
No eye will see
Stretching across the miles that sever you from me.
The Arrow And The Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Too Much.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I should have been too glad, I see,
Too lifted for the scant degree
Of life's penurious round;
My little circuit would have shamed
This new circumference, have blamed
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved, I see,
Too rescued; fear too dim to me
That I could spell the prayer
I knew so perfect yesterday, --
That scalding one, "Sabachthani,"
Recited fluent here.
Earth would have been too much, I see,
And heaven not enough for me;
I should have had the joy
Without the fear to justify, --
The palm without the Calvary;
So, Saviour, crucify.
Defeat whets victory, they say;
The reefs in old Gethsemane
Endear the shore beyond.
'T is beggars banquets best define;
'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, --
Faith faints to understand.
The Hippopotamus
by Hilaire Belloc

I shoot the Hippopotamus
With bullets made of platinum,
Because if I use leaden ones
His hide is sure to flatten 'em.
Economy [A Valentine]
by Arthur Macy

I send,
O sweetest friend,
A kiss;
Such as fair ladies gave
Of old, when knights were brave,
And smiles were won
Through foes undone.
And this will be
For you to give again to me;
And then, its present errand o'er,
I'll give it unto you once more,
Ere briefest time elapse,
With interest, perhaps.
Its mission spent,
Again to me it may be lent.
And thus, day after day,
As we a simple law obey,
Forever, to and fro,
The selfsame kiss will go;
A busy shuttle that shall weave
A web of love, to soften and relieve
Our daily care.
And so,
As thus we share,
With lip to lip,
Our frugal partnership,
One kiss will always do
For two.
And, oh, how easy it will be
To practice this economy!
A Farewell.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,
The fairies' palace beside the stream;
Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall
Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.
I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,
When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,
Nor see the morning, at early dawn,
Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.
I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,
O'er the springing sward, - through the twilight wood;
Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,
By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.
At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more
'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell:
The sun is set, - the day is o'er, - 
The summer is past; - farewell! - farewell!
The White Flag.
by John Milton Hay

I sent my love two roses, - one
As white as driven snow,
And one a blushing royal red,
A flaming Jacqueminot.
I meant to touch and test my fate;
That night I should divine,
The moment I should see my love,
If her true heart were mine.
For if she holds me dear, I said,
She'll wear my blushing rose;
If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque
As white as winter's snows.
My heart sank when I met her:    sure
I had been over bold,
For on her breast my pale rose lay
In virgin whiteness cold.
Yet with low words she greeted me,
With smiles divinely tender;
Upon her cheek the red rose dawned. -
The white rose meant surrender.
Valentines From An Uncertain Marksman
by Arthur Macy

I send you two kisses
Wrapped up in a rhyme;
From Love's warm abysses
I send you two kisses;
If one of them misses
Please wait till next time,
And I'll send you three kisses
Wrapped up in a rhyme.
Till The End.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because -- because if he should die
While I was gone, and I -- too late --
Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me -- they noticed me;
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I 'd come -- so sure I 'd come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name, --
My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning's sun,
Where midnight frosts had lain!
The Miracles
by Rudyard Kipling

I sent a message to my dear,
A thousand leagues and more to Her,
The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.
Behind my message hard I came,
And nigh had found a grave for me;
But that I launched of steel and flame
Did war against the wave for me.
Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,
To bid me change my mind again,
He broke his teeth along my rail,
And, roaring, swung behind again.
I stayed the sun at noon to tell
My way across the waste of it;
I read the storm before it fell
And made the better haste of it.
Afar, I hailed the land at night,
The towers I built had heard of me,
And, ere my rocket reached its height,
Had flashed my Love the word of me.
Earth sold her chosen men of strength
(They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation's length,
And toss the miles aside for me.
I snatched their toil to serve my needs,
Too slow their fleetest flew for me,
I tired twenty smoking steeds,
And bade them bait a new for me.
I sent the lightnings forth to see
Where hour by hour She waited me.
Among ten million one was She,
And surely all men hated me!
Dawn ran to meet me at my goal,
Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
And little folk of little soul
Rose up to buy and sell again!
I Shall Be Satisfied
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

I shall be satisfied when I awaken
In thy dear likeness, my King and my Lord, - 
When the dark prison of death shall be shaken,
And the freed spirit comes forth at thy word! - 
I shall be satisfied, Saviour, be satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied loving thee ever,
Hearing thy accents and sharing thy joy,
Fearing nor change nor estrangement to sever
Me from my Lord and His blissful employ! - 
Satisfied, satisfied, evermore satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near to thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside?
I shall be satisfied when I behold thee,
I shall be like thee, my Saviour and King!
And, in the radiance that will enfold thee,
I shall enfolded be, too, while I sing - 
Lo, I am satisfied, Saviour, am satisfied,
Wearing thy likeness and near thy side!
Sinless and sorrowless, robed in thy righteousness,
What can I ask for in glory beside!
The Distressed Travellers; Or, Labour In Vain.
by William Cowper

A New Song, to a Tune never sung before.
I sing of a journey to Clifton,[1]
We would have performed, if we could;
Without cart or barrow, to lift on
Poor Mary[2] and me through the mud.
Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud;
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding;
Hop, hop, ' la mode de deux frogs;
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dressed in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about,
But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout.
dialogue
she.
'Well! now, I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves.'
he.
'Pshaw! never mind,
'Tis not in the wind,
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.'
she.
'I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end.'
he.
'The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way.'
she.
'But now I begin to be frighted,
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted,
Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!'
he.
'Nay never care,
'Tis a common affair;
You'll not be the last that will set a foot there.'
she.
'Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do;
That terrible lane I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through.'
he.
'So think I:'
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try.'
she.
'But should we get there, how shall we get home
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past!
Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruin'd at last!
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
That struggling and striving is labour in vain.'
he.
'Stick fast there while I go and look;'
she.
'Don't go away, for fear I should fall:'
he.
'I have examined it, every nook,
And what you see here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round,
The dirt we have found
Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound.'
Now, sister Anne,[3] the guitar you must take,
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song:
I have varied the verse, for variety's sake,
And cut it off short'because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame,
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.
Song-Prayer: After King David.
by George MacDonald

I shall be satisfied
With the seeing of thy face.
When I awake, wide-eyed,
I shall be satisfied
With what this life did hide,
The one supernal grace!
I shall be satisfied
With the seeing of thy face.
DECEMBER 27, 1879
Every time would have its song
If the heart were right,
Seeing Love all tender-strong
Fills the day and night.
Weary drop the hands of Prayer
Calling out for peace;
Love always and everywhere
Sings and does not cease.
Fear, the caitiff, through the night
Silent peers about;
Love comes singing with a light
And doth cast him out.
Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt
Never try to sing;
If they did, oh, what a rout
Anguished ears would sting!
Pride indeed will sometimes aim
At the finer speech,
But the best that he can frame
Is a peacock-screech.
Greed will also sometimes try:
Happiness he hunts!
But his dwelling is a sty,
And his tones are grunts.
Faith will sometimes raise a song
Soaring up to heaven,
Then she will be silent long,
And will weep at even.
Hope has many a gladsome note
Now and then to pipe;
But, alas, he has the throat
Of a bird unripe.
Often Joy a stave will start
Which the welkin rends,
But it always breaks athwart,
And untimely ends.
Grief, who still for death doth long,
Always self-abhorred,
Has but one low, troubled song,
I am sorry, Lord.
But Love singeth in the vault.
Singeth on the stair;
Even for Sorrow will not halt,
Singeth everywhere.
For the great Love everywhere
Over all doth glow;
Draws his birds up trough the air,
Tends his birds below.
And with songs ascending sheer
Love-born Love replies,
Singing Father in his ear
Where she bleeding lies.
Therefore, if my heart were right
I should sing out clear,
Sing aloud both day and night
Every month in the year!
Raphael
by John Greenleaf Whittier

"I shall not soon forget that sight
The glow of Autumn's westering day,
A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,
On Raphael's picture lay.
It was a simple print I saw,
The fair face of a musing boy;
Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe
Seemed blending with my joy.
A simple print, the graceful flow
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair,
And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow
Unmarked and clear, were there.
Yet through its sweet and calm repose
I saw the inward spirit shine;
It was as if before me rose
The white veil of a shrine.
As if, as Gothland's sage has told,
The hidden life, the man within,
Dissevered from its frame and mould,
By mortal eye were seen.
Was it the lifting of that eye,
The waving of that pictured hand?
Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky,
I saw the walls expand.
The narrow room had vanished, space,
Broad, luminous, remained alone,
Through which all hues and shapes of grace
And beauty looked or shone.
Around the mighty master came
The marvels which his pencil wrought,
Those miracles of power whose fame
Is wide as human thought.
There drooped thy more than mortal face,
O Mother, beautiful and mild
Enfolding in one dear embrace
Thy Saviour and thy Child!
The rapt brow of the Desert John;
The awful glory of that day
When all the Father's brightness shone
Through manhood's veil of clay.
And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild
Dark visions of the days of old,
How sweetly woman's beauty smiled
Through locks of brown and gold!
There Fornarina's fair young face
Once more upon her lover shone,
Whose model of an angel's grace
He borrowed from her own.
Slow passed that vision from my view,
But not the lesson which it taught;
The soft, calm shadows which it threw
Still rested on my thought:
The truth, that painter, bard, and sage,
Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime,
Plant for their deathless heritage
The fruits and flowers of time.
We shape ourselves the joy or fear
Of which the coming life is made,
And fill our Future's atmosphere
With sunshine or with shade.
The tissue of the Life to be
We weave with colors all our own,
And in the field of Destiny
We reap as we have sown.
Still shall the soul around it call
The shadows which it gathered here,
And, painted on the eternal wall,
The Past shall reappear.
Think ye the notes of holy song
On Milton's tuneful ear have died?
Think ye that Raphael's angel throng
Has vanished from his side?
Oh no! We live our life again;
Or warmly touched, or coldly dim,
The pictures of the Past remain,
Man's works shall follow him
The Crystal Gazer
by Sara Teasdale

I shall gather myself into my self again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.
I Shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent.
Watching the future come and the present go 
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In tiny self-importance to and fro.
I Sit And Look Out
by Walt Whitman

I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband - I see the treacherous seducer of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid - I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny - I see martyrs and prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea - I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon Negroes, and the like;
All these - All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.
Song Writer Paid With Air
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

I sit on a white wood box
Smeared with the black name
Of a seller of white sugar.
The little brown table is so dirty
That if I had food
I do not think I could eat.
How can I promise violets drunken in wine
For your amusement,
How can I powder your blue cotton dress
With splinters of emerald,
How can I sing you songs of the amber pear,
Or pour for the finger-tips of your white fingers
Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl?
From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century).
My Thoughts To-Night.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

I sit by the fire musing,
With sad and downcast eye,
And my laden breast gives utt'rance
To many a weary sigh;
Hushed is each worldly feeling,
Dimmed is each day-dream bright - 
O heavy heart, can'st tell me
Why I'm so sad to-night?
'Tis not that I mourn the freshness
Of youth fore'er gone by - 
Its life with pulse high springing,
Its cloudless, radiant eye - 
Finding bliss in every sunbeam,
Delight in every part,
Well springs of purest pleasure
In its high ardent heart.
Nor yet is it for those dear ones
Who've passed from earth away
That I grieve - in spirit kneeling
Above their beds of clay;
O, no! while my glance upraising
To yon calm shining sky,
My pale lips, quivering, murmur,
"They are happier than I!"
But, alas! my spirit mourns
As, weary, it looks back - 
Finding naught of good or holy
On life's past barren track - 
I mourn for the countless errors
That on mem'ry's page crowd on,
And sorrow for lost chances
Of good I might have done.
But, courage! I must arouse me,
The day is not yet o'er,
And I still may make atonement
Ere leaving life's last shore:
One act of meek oblation,
A tear of penance bright,
Will be counted as rare treasures
In heaven's loving sight.