DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To My Worthy Frend, Master John Sauage Of The Inner Temple
by Michael Drayton

Vppon this sinfull earth
If man can happy be,
And higher then his birth,
(Frend) take him thus from me.
Whome promise not deceiues
That he the breach should rue,
Nor constant reason leaues
Opinion to pursue.
To rayse his mean estate
That sooths no wanton's sinne,
Doth that preferment hate
That virtue doth not winne.
Nor brauery doth admire,
Nor doth more loue professe
To that he doth desire,
Then that he doth possesse.
Loose humor nor to please,
That neither spares nor spends,
But by discretion weyes
What is to needfull ends.
To him deseruing not
Not yeelding, nor doth hould
What is not his, doing what
He ought not what he could.
Whome the base tyrants will
Soe much could neuer awe
As him for good or ill
From honesty to drawe.
Whose constancy doth rise
'Boue vndeserued spight
Whose valewr's to despise
That most doth him delight.
That earely leaue doth take
Of th' world though to his payne
For virtues onely sake
And not till need constrayne.
Noe man can be so free
Though in imperiall seate
Nor Eminent as he
That deemeth nothing greate.
Fragment.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature's solitary haunts
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew link by link,
It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter,
The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light played o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed,
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze: it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams.    Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon.    White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds.    On their heads
Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams; anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch, or flower,
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly, did I mark, one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.
The Banner Of The Jew.
by Emma Lazarus

Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-day
The glorious Maccabean rage,
The sire heroic, hoary-gray,
His five-fold lion-lineage:
The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God,
The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.*
From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they saw
Jerusalem's empty streets, her shrine
Laid waste where Greeks profaned the Law,
With idol and with pagan sign.
Mourners in tattered black were there,
With ashes sprinkled on their hair.
Then from the stony peak there rang
A blast to ope the graves: down poured
The Maccabean clan, who sang
Their battle-anthem to the Lord.
Five heroes lead, and following, see,
Ten thousand rush to victory!
Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now,
To blow a blast of shattering power,
To wake the sleepers high and low,
And rouse them to the urgent hour!
No hand for vengeance - but to save,
A million naked swords should wave.
Oh deem not dead that martial fire,
Say not the mystic flame is spent!
With Moses' law and David's lyre,
Your ancient strength remains unbent.
Let but an Ezra rise anew,
To lift the BANNER OF THE JEW!
A rag, a mock at first - erelong,
When men have bled and women wept,
To guard its precious folds from wrong,
Even they who shrunk, even they who slept,
Shall leap to bless it, and to save.
Strike! for the brave revere the brave!
To my Harp.
by John Hartley

Wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust!
Has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt?
Idle so long, shake off that coat of dust!
Are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt?
Are there no victims under tyrants' yoke,
Whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim?
Or have the fetters of mankind been broke?
Or are there none deserving songs of fame?
Awake! awake! thy slumber has been long!
And let thy chords once more arouse the heart;
And teach us in thy most impassioned song,
How in our sphere we best may play our part.
Tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil,
Wear out their lives, another's greed to fill;
That they have rights and interests in the soil,
And they can win them if they have the will.
Tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave
To them a right to carve another's fate;
Nor yet to make the humbler born a slave,
Whose heart with goodness may be doubly great.
Tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man,
That though through roughest ways of life he plod,
Nature hath placed upon his birth no ban, - 
All men are equal in the sight of God.
And yet a softer, pitying strain let pour,
To soothe the anguish of the troubled soul,
And fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more,
And from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll.
Cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight, - 
And warn oppression of the gathering storm,
And drag the deeds of false ones to the light, - 
And herald in the day of true reform.
Nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung,
Compassionate the maiden's tender woes,
Revive the faint who are with fears unstrung,
And solace them who writhe in suffering's throes.
Awake! awake! there's need enough of thee,
Nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue,
And may thy constant effort henceforth be,
To plant the right, and to uproot the wrong.
The Oyster Schooner
by William Henry Drummond

W'at's    all dem bell a ringin' for, a can hear dem ev'ry w'ere?
W'at's bring de peop' togeder on de w'arf at Trois Rivieres,
Dat happy crowd is look so glad, w'y    are dey comin' dere?
O! de reason dey're so happy w'ile dey're waitin' dere to-day
Is becos de oyster schooner she's sailin' up de bay
An' de caraquette an' malpecque will quickly melt away
Affer she was    t'row de anchor on t'ree reever.
For w'y dey mak' de fuss lak dat, an' nearly broke deir neck,
Ain't dey got de noder oyster more better dan malpecque
Or caraquette, dat leetle wan from down be- low Kebeck?
Wall! ax de crowd dat question w'ile dey're waitin' dere to-day
So glad to see La Belle Marie sailin' up de bay,
An' dey 'll drown you on de water, so you 'll know about de way
She was t'rowin' out de anchor on T'ree Reever
Dere's    ole Joe Lachapelle, he's blin', can hardly see at all,
He's bring de man got wooden leg call Jimmie Sauriol,
An' bote dem feller jomp aroun' lak mooshrat on de fall,
For dey know de schooner 's comin', she's sailin' up de bay,
An' de reason she don't    hurry w'ile dey 're waitin' dere to-day,
Is becos she's full of oyster, will quickly pass away
W'en dat schooner t'row de anchor on T'ree Reever.
We've trottin' race las' winter, an' circus on de spring,
Wit' elephan' an' monkey too,    all playin' on de ring,
But beeger crowd she's    comin' now, for w'y? it 's differen' t'ing,
For dey 're waitin' on dat schooner, she's sailin' up de bay
Dey smell de malpecque oyster an' caraquette to-day
An' O!    ba gosh, dey 'll eat dem!    it's alway be de way
W'en dat schooner t'row de anchor on T'ree Reever.
"She's comin' in -she's comin' in," jus'lis- sen to de cry!
"Get out de line an' hol' her    fas', for fear she's    passin' by,
For if dere 's somet'ng happen now, de peop' will surely die."
Affer waitin' on dat schooner, she 's sailin' up de bay
Lak de sparrow on de wood-pile watchin' all de day,
But dey got her safe enough now,    she 'll never sail away
Till dem oyster she was finish on T'ree Reever.
"All aboar'-comment c' va, Captinne Beli- veau?
We're glad to see you back again from Cara- quette below,
But we 're sorry you don't hurry, w'en you got such nice car-go."
So dey ketch dat oyster schooner she's sailin' up de bay,
Dey ketch her an' dey hol' her till de oyster 's gone away
An' she's two foot out de water La Belle Marie nex' day
Affer she was t row de anchor on T'ree Reever.
An Improvisation For Angular Momentum
by A. R. Ammons

Walking is like
imagination, a
single step
dissolves the circle
into motion; the eye here
and there rests
on a leaf,
gap, or ledge,
everything flowing
except where
sight touches seen:
stop, though, and
reality snaps back
in, locked hard,
forms sharply
themselves, bushbank,
dentree, phoneline,
definite, fixed,
the self, too, then
caught real, clouds
and wind melting
into their directions,
breaking around and
over, down and out,
motions profound,
alive, musical!
Perhaps the death mother like the birth mother
does not desert us but comes to tend
and produce us, to make room for us
and bear us tenderly, considerately,
through the gates, to see us through,
to ease our pains, quell our cries,
to hover over and nestle us, to deliver
us into the greatest, most enduring
peace, all the way past the bother of
recollection,
beyond the finework of frailty,
the mishmash house of the coming & going,
creation's fringes,
the eddies and curlicues
Wake Thee, My Dear.
by Thomas Moore

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.
Moments there are we number,
Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
Gladly the wretch would spare.
But now,--who'd think of dreaming
When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.
If e'er the fates should sever
My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.
From Eclogue ij
by Michael Drayton

Vppon a bank with roses set about,
Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill,
And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out
Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill:
There little loue sore wounded lyes,
His bowe and arowes broken,
Bedewd with teares from Venus eyes
Oh greeuous to be spoken.
Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eye
Where sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill,
With whose sharp pile request him ere he die,
About the same to write his latest will,
And bid him send it backe to mee,
At instant of his dying,
That cruell cruell shee may see
My faith and her denying.
His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade,
And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay,
Where prayers shall continually be made
By pilgrim louers passing by that way.
With Nymphes and shepheards yearly moane
His timeles death beweeping,
In telling that my hart alone
Hath his last will in keeping.
Omar Out Of Date
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE
Wake! for Reveill'e scatters into flight
The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night,
And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost
Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light.
Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky,
With silent feet Haj'm comes stealing nigh,
Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade,
These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify.
How often, oh, how often have I sworn
Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn!
And then - and then comes Guest-night, and Haj'm
Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne.
Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti
Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi;
What matter that to some the Koko makes
Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi?
For in a minute Toil, that ever thrives,
Awaits me with her Shackles and her Gyves,
And ever crieth Folly in the streets:
'To work! for needs ye must when Shait'n drives.'
Alas! that I did yesternight disport
With certain fellows of the baser Sort,
Unheedful of the living consequence
When Drinks are long, and Pockets all too short!
With them the game of Poka did I play,
And in wild session turned the Night to Day;
And many a Chip I dropped upon the Board,
And many a Moistener poured upon the Clay.
I put my Pile against th' Improbable,
And with a Full Hand thought to make it swell;
And this was all the Profit that I reaped:
A Full of Kings is Heaven - and Fours are Hell!
Then to the Mountain Dew I turned to seek
New courage for the Vengeance I should wreak;
And once again came Fours, again the Flesh
Was willing, and the Spirits far from weak.
O Friend of pseudo-philosophic Calm,
Who found within the Cup a life's Aram,
Thy counsel, howsoever fair to read,
Were passing bad to follow, friend Khayyam!
Was it not Suleiman the Wise that said:
Look not upon the Wine when it is red?
And Suleiman the Wise knew What was Which,
Though that great Heart of his outmatched his Head!
Ah! with the Pledge a Door of Refuge ope
To wean my footsteps from the facile Slope,
And write me down, fulfilled of Self-esteem,
A Prop and Pillar of the Band of Hope;
That in the Club, should whilom Comrades try
To lure me to a Roister on the sly,
The necessary Zeal I may not lack
To turn away, nor wink the Other Eye!
Hunting Song
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear,
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!
When A Feller's Itchin' To Be Spanked
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise,
Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys
W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;"
She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank."
An' she says, "Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin'--soon or late,
W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank."
W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels,
Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels.
W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail.
What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail?
Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait,
It's a-comin'--soon or late,
You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."
Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl,
Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl
An' she says, "Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked
Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked."
An' she says, "Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin'--soon or late,"
When a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
Ef you fin' the days is gettin' awful hot in school
An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool,
Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish,
Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish?
'Tain't no use to hide your bait,
It's a-comin,--soon or late,
Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess,
Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less,
But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well
Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell;
We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait,
It's a-comin'--soon or late,
Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.
The Rubaiyat Of A Kentuckian.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Wake for the sun, that scatters into flight,
The poker players who have stayed all night;
Drives husbands home with reeling steps, and then--
Gives to the sleepy "cops" an awful fright.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The nose, as when the spirits strike the head;
That every step one takes upon the way
Makes him wish strongly he were home in bed.
The moving finger writes, but having "pull",
You think that you can settle things in full,
But when you interview the Police Judge,
You find that you have made an awful bull.
Some nonsense verses underneath the bough,
A little "booze", a time to loaf, and thou--
Beside me howling in the wilderness,
Would be enough for one day anyhow.
To The Deere Chyld Of The Muses, And His Euer Kind Mec'Nas, Ma. Anthony Cooke, Esquire
by Michael Drayton

Vovchsafe to grace these rude vnpolish'd rymes,
Which long (dear friend) haue slept in sable night,
And, come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brook the purenes of the light.
But still you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name, theyr gracious liuery.
Yet these mine owne: I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from Portes, nor from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in this latter time.
Diuine Syr Phillip, I auouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.
Advice
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

W'en you full o' worry
'Bout yo' wo'k an' sich,
W'en you kind o' bothered
Case you can't get rich,
An' yo' neighboh p'ospah
Past his jest desu'ts,
An' de sneer of comerds
Stuhes yo' heaht an' hu'ts,
Des don' pet yo' worries,
Lay 'em on de she'f,
Tek a little trouble
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
Ef a frien' comes mou'nin'
'Bout his awful case,
You know you don' grieve him
Wid a gloomy face,
But you wrassle wid him,
Try to tek him in;
Dough hit cracks yo' features,
Law, you smile lak sin,
Ain't you good ez he is?
Don' you pine to def;
Tek a little trouble
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
Ef de chillun pestahs,
An' de baby's bad,
Ef yo' wife gits narvous,
An' you're gettin' mad,
Des you grab yo' boot-strops,
Hol' yo' body down,
Stop a-tinkin' cuss-w'rds,
Chase away de frown,
Knock de haid o' worry,
Twell dey ain' none lef';
Tek a little trouble,
Brothah, wid yo'se'f.
Song Of The Spirits Of Spring.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Wafted o'er purple seas,
From gold Hesperides,
Mixed with the southern breeze,
Hail to us spirits!
Dripping with fragrant rains,
Fire of our ardent veins,
Life of the barren plains,
Woodlands and germs that the woodland inherits.
II.
Wan as the creamy mist,
Tinged with pale amethyst,
Warm with the sun that kissed
Vine-tangled mountains
Looming o'er tropic lakes,
Where ev'ry air that shakes
Tamarisk coverts makes
Music that haunts like the falling of fountains.
III.
Swift are our flashing feet,
Fleet with the winds that meet,
Winds that, blown, billow sweet,
And with light porous,
Boom with the drunken bees,
Sigh with the surge of seas,
Rush with the rush of trees,
Birds and wild wings and of torrents sonorous.
IV.
Stars in our liquid eyes,
Stars of the darkest skies,
And on our fingers lies
Starlight; and shadows,
Unmooned, of nights that creep
Hide in our tresses deep,
And in our limbs white sleep
Dreams like a baby in asphodel meadows.
V.
Music of many streams,
Strength of a million beams,
Fire and sainted dreams,
Murmuring lowly,
Pulse on hot lips of light,
Which, what they kiss of blight,
Quicken and blossom white,
Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.
VI.
Oh, will you sit and wait,
When fields, erst desolate,
Now are intoxicate
With life that flowers?
Purple with love and rife
With their fierce budded life,
Passion and rosy strife
Drained from warm winds and the turbulent showers?
VII.
Nay! at our feet you'll lie:
For the winds lullaby,
For our completest sky,
And largess flying
Of pinky pearls of blooms,
For the one bee that booms,
And the warm-spilled perfumes
Forget for a moment already we're dying!
The Old Front Gate
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

W'en daih 's chillun in de house,
Dey keep on a-gittin' tall;
But de folks don' seem to see
Dat dey 's growin' up at all,
'Twell dey fin' out some fine day
Dat de gals has 'menced to grow,
Wen dey notice as dey pass
Dat de front gate 's saggin' low.
Wen de hinges creak an' cry,
An' de bahs go slantin' down,
You kin reckon dat hit's time
Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun',
'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis,
Hit's de trues' sign to show
Dat daih 's cou'tin' goin' on
Wen de ol' front gate sags low.
Oh, you grumble an' complain,
An' you prop dat gate up right;
But you notice right nex' day
Dat hit's in de same ol' plight.
So you fin' dat hit's a rule,
An' daih ain' no use to blow,
W'en de gals is growin' up,
Dat de front gate will sag low.
Den you t'ink o' yo' young days,
W'en you cou'ted Sally Jane,
An' you so't o' feel ashamed
Fu' to grumble an' complain,
'Cause yo' ricerlection says,
An' you know hits wo'ds is so,
Dat huh pappy had a time
Wid his front gate saggin' low.
So you jes' looks on an' smiles
At 'em leanin' on de gate,
Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say
Fu' to keep him daih so late,
But you lets dat gate erlone,
Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show,
'Twell de gals is ma'ied off,
It gwine keep on saggin' low.
Hymn Of The Dunkers
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Kloster Kedar, Ephrata, Pennsylvania (1738)
Sister Maria Christina sings:
Wake, sisters, wake! the day-star shines;
Above Ephrata's eastern pines
The dawn is breaking, cool and calm.
Wake, sisters, wake to prayer and psalm!
Praised be the Lord for shade and light,
For toil by day, for rest by night!
Praised be His name who deigns to bless
Our Kedar of the wilderness!
Our refuge when the spoiler's hand
Was heavy on our native land;
And freedom, to her children due,
The wolf and vulture only knew.
We praised Him when to prison led,
We owned Him when the stake blazed red;
We knew, whatever might befall,
His love and power were over all.
He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm
He led us forth from cruel harm;
Still, wheresoe'er our steps were bent,
His cloud and fire before us went!
The watch of faith and prayer He set,
We kept it then, we keep it yet.
At midnight, crow of cock, or noon,
He cometh sure, He cometh soon.
He comes to chasten, not destroy,
To purge the earth from sin's alloy.
At last, at last shall all confess
His mercy as His righteousness.
The dead shall live, the sick be whole,
The scarlet sin be white as wool;
No discord mar below, above,
The music of eternal love!
Sound, welcome trump, the last alarm!
Lord God of hosts, make bare thine arm,
Fulfil this day our long desire,
Make sweet and clean the world with fire!
Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight
The lies of time; be swift to smite,
Sharp sword of God, all idols down,
Genevan creed and Roman crown.
Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till all
The fanes of pride and priesteraft fall;
And lift thou up in place of them
Thy gates of pearl, Jerusalem!
Lo! rising from baptismal flame,
Transfigured, glorious, yet the same,
Within the heavenly city's bound
Our Kloster Kedar shall be found.
He cometh soon! at dawn or noon
Or set of sun, He cometh soon.
Our prayers shall meet Him on His way;
Wake, sisters, wake! arise and pray
Poets.
by Robert Herrick

Wantons we are, and though our words be such,
Our lives do differ from our lines by much.
To A Picture Of Eleanor Duse
by Sara Teasdale

Was ever any face like this before,
So light a veiling for the soul within,
So pure and yet so pitiful for sin?
They say the soul will pass the Heavy Door,
And yearning upward, learn creation's lore,
The body buried 'neath the earthly din.
But thine shall live forever, it hath been
So near the soul, and shall be evermore.
Oh eyes that see so far thro' misted tears,
Oh Death, behold, these eyes can never die!
Yea, tho' your kiss shall rob these lips of breath,
Their faint, sad smile will still elude thee, Death.
Behold the perfect flower this neck uprears,
And bow thy head and pass the wonder by.