DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Bankruptcy Rendered Easy.
by John Carr (Sir)

The Cit, relying on his trade,
Which, like all other things, may fade,
Longs for a curricle and villa:
This Hatchet splendidly supplies,
The other Cock'ril builds, or buys,
To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.
Then swift, O London! he retires,
To be, from all thy smoke and spires,
From Saturday till Sunday, merry:
On Sunday crowds of friends attend;
His house and garden some commend,
And all admire his port and sherry.
His mistress urg'd him now to play,
And cut to wealth a shorter way,
Now as a bride she heads his table;
But still our Cit observ'd his time.
Returning at St. Cripple's chime,
At least as near as he was able.
But soon she could not bear the sight
Of town; for walls with bow'rs unite,
As well as smoke with country breezes;
Without the keenest grief and pride
He could not quit his mares, and bride:
We yield as soon as passion seizes.
The clock no more his herald prov'd;
Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov'd,
Ere trembling shopmen saw their master:
Observing neighbours whisper'd round,
That ease might do, with plenty crown'd;
If not, that ruin came the faster.
His cash grew scarce, his business still,
At variance were his books and till
(For wolves devour when shepherds slumber);
His creditors around him pour,
Seize all his horses, household store,
And only give him up the lumber!
Verses On The Upright Judge, Who Condemned The Drapier's Printer
by Jonathan Swift

The church I hate, and have good reason,
For there my grandsire cut his weasand:
He cut his weasand at the altar;
I keep my gullet for the halter.
Aquae Sulis
by Thomas Hardy

The chimes called midnight, just at interlune,
And the daytime talk of the Roman investigations
Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune
The bubbling waters played near the excavations.
And a warm air came up from underground,
And a flutter, as of a filmy shape unsepulchred,
That collected itself, and waited, and looked around:
Nothing was seen, but utterances could be heard:
Those of the goddess whose shrine was beneath the pile
Of the God with the baldachined altar overhead:
"And what did you get by raising this nave and aisle
Close on the site of the temple I tenanted?
"The notes of your organ have thrilled down out of view
To the earth-clogged wrecks of my edifice many a year,
Though stately and shining once ay, long ere you
Had set up crucifix and candle here.
"Your priests have trampled the dust of mine without rueing,
Despising the joys of man whom I so much loved,
Though my springs boil on by your Gothic arcades and pewing,
And sculptures crude . . . Would Jove they could be removed!"
" Repress, O lady proud, your traditional ires;
You know not by what a frail thread we equally hang;
It is said we are images both twitched by people's desires;
And that I, like you, fail as a song men yesterday sang!"
* * *
And the olden dark hid the cavities late laid bare,
And all was suspended and soundless as before,
Except for a gossamery noise fading off in the air,
And the boiling voice of the waters' medicinal pour.
BATH.
The Volunteer.
by Thomas Hood

"The clashing of my armor in my ears
Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave."
Refuge.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The clouds their backs together laid,
The north begun to push,
The forests galloped till they fell,
The lightning skipped like mice;
The thunder crumbled like a stuff --
How good to be safe in tombs,
Where nature's temper cannot reach,
Nor vengeance ever comes!
The Clouds That Promise A Glorious Morrow.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

The clouds that promise a glorious morrow
Are fading slowly, one by one;
The earth no more bright rays may borrow
From her loved Lord, the golden sun;
Gray evening shadows are softly creeping,
With noiseless steps, o'er vale and hill;
The birds and flowers are calmly sleeping;
And all around is fair and still.
Once loved I dearly, at this sweet hour,
With loitering steps to careless stray,
To idly gather an opening flower,
And often pause upon my way, - 
Gazing around me with joyous feeling,
From sunny earth to azure sky,
Or bending over the streamlet, stealing
'Mid banks of flowers and verdure by.
You wond'ring ask me why sit I lonely
Within my quiet, curtain'd room,
So idly seeking and clinging only
Unto its chastened, thoughtful gloom.
You tell me that never fragrance rarer
Did breathe from clustering leaf and bough;
That never the bright spring was fairer
Or more enchanting than she is now.
Ah, useless chiding! The loved ones tender,
Who shared my rambles long ago,
Whose cherished accents could only render
Words of affection soft and low,
Are parted from me, perchance for ever,
By miles of distance, of land or main, - 
Death some has taken, and them, oh never
Upon this earth shall I meet again.
'Tis thus this hour of gentle even
Brings back in thought the friends long gone, - 
Loved ones with whom this earth was Heaven
But who have vanished, one by one. - 
'Tis thus I cherish with wilful sadness
The quiet of my lonely room, - 
Careless, unmindful of all earth's gladness,
Or of her lovely evening bloom.
Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)
by Jonathan Swift

The church and clergy here, no doubt,
Are very near a-kin;
Both weather-beaten are without,
And empty both within.
Aweary.
by Marietta Holley

The clouds that vex the upper deep
Stay not the white sail of the moon;
And lips may moan, and hearts may weep,
The sad old earth goes rolling on.
O'er smiling vale, and sighing lake,
One shadow cold is overthrown;
And souls may faint, and hearts may break,
The sad old earth goes rolling on.
Nursery Rhyme. DXVI. Natural History.
by Unknown

The cock doth crow,
To let you know,
If you be wise,
'Tis time to rise.
Written In March While Resting On The Bridge At The Foot Of Brother's Water.
by William Wordsworth

The Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping, anon, anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
An Impromptu
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Not premeditated
1853
The clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours
We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers,
And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood
That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.
Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art
If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart?
Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned
When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?
No! be it an epic, or be it a line,
The Boys will all love it because it is mine;
I sung their last song on the morn of the day
That tore from their lives the last blossom of May.
It is not the sunset that glows in the wine,
But the smile that beams over it, makes it divine;
I scatter these drops, and behold, as they fall,
The day-star of memory shines through them all!
And these are the last; they are drops that I stole
From a wine-press that crushes the life from the soul,
But they ran through my heart and they sprang to my brain
Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again!
Changing Time
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The cloud looked in at the window,
And said to the day, "Be dark!"
And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
To stifle the song of the lark.
The wind sprang up in the tree tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet's breath.
The New Year's Gift To Phyllis
by Matthew Prior

The circling months begin this day
To run their yearly ring,
And long-breathed time, which ne'er will stay,
Refits his wings and shoots away,
It round again to bring.
Who feels the force of female eyes
And thinks some nymph divine,
Now brings his annual sacrifice,
Some pretty toy or neat device
To offer at her shrine.
But I can pay no offering
To show how I adore,
Since I have but a heart to bring, 
A downright foolish, faithful thing,
And that you had before.
Yet we may give, for custom sake,
What will to both be new:
My constancy a gift I'll make
And in return of it will take
Some levity from you.
Who Is It That Answers?
by John Frederick Freeman

The clouds no more are flocking
After the flushing sun;
Bees end their long droning,
The bat's hunt is begun;
And the tired wind that went flittering
Up and down the hill
Lies like a shadow still,
Like a shadow still.
Who is it that's calling
Out of the deepening dark,
Calling, calling, calling?--
No!--yet hark!
The sleepy wind wakes, carrying
Up and down the hill
A voice how small and still,
How sweet and still!
Who is it that answers
Out of a quiet cloud--
"Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!"
Cried at last aloud?
My voice, my heart went answering
Up and down the hill--
Mine so strange and still,
Mine grave and still.
The Age Of Gold
by Madison Julius Cawein

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat
Arterial thunder in their veins;
The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
Their perfect faces from the plains,
All high, all lowly things of Earth
For no vague end have had their birth.
Low strips of mist that mesh the moon
Above the foaming waterfall;
And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn,
And forests, where the great winds call,
Within the grasp of such as see
Are parts of a conspiracy;
To seize the soul with beauty; hold
The heart with love: and thus fulfill
Within ourselves the Age of Gold,
That never died, and never will,
As long as one true nature feels
The wonders that the world reveals.
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 05: Melody In A Restaurant
by Conrad Potter Aiken

The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us,
Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes;
You strike a match and stare upon the flame.
The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment,
And dwindles away as silently as it came.
This melody, you say, has certain voices,
They rise like nereids from a river, singing,
Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again.
Wherever you go you bear this river with you:
A leaf falls, and it flows, and you have pain.
So says the tune to you, but what to me?
What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee,
The violinist who suavely draws his bow?
That man, who folds his paper, overhears it.
A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow.
Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping
Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses:
At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes.
Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows.
A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies.
And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning:
And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests,
And the great sea shakes its walls.
And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls
This melody once more:
'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.'
So says the tune to him, but what to me?
What are the worlds I see?
What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . .
I go my secret way, down secret alleys;
My errand is not so simple as it seems.
Flotsam
by Pat O'Cotter

The China Coast's a dumping ground
And the South Sea gets its share
Of the kind of men that don't make good
The kind of man that never could
The men that never care.
A worthless, careless drinking lot
Combed out from between the Poles.
It's gin, and cards, a woman's breath,
Laughter and love and sudden death
And the Devil gets their souls.
It's a throwback to a weaker strain
That's washed by the Tropic tide.
And a mixture of Dago and Japanese
Latin and Jew and Portugese
Crops out thru a sun-tanned hide.
But the Northland gets a sterner breed
To fuse in its harder mould.
It's the breed of men that don't know fail;
That's the breed of men that hit the trail
For the fabled land of gold.
They're a sturdy, fearless, fighting lot
And they play the game to win.
They fall for women, wine, the game
And win or lose, they smile the same
And to quit is their only sin.
Here the Norsman bunks with the canny Scot
And the lad from the Emerald Isle
Works side by side with Russ and Dane,
North-bred men of brawn and brain,
Men that are worth your while.
So me for the land of the Midnight Sun
With the north lights in the sky,
Me for the land that mothers this race
Where you have to fight to hold your place,
Where you can't quit till you die.
A Recusant
by James Thomson -  (Bysshe Vanolis)

The church stands there beyond the orchard-blooms:
How yearningly I gaze upon its spire!
Lifted mysterious through the twilight glooms,
Dissolving in the sunset's golden fire,
Or dim as slender incense morn by morn
Ascending to the blue and open sky.
For ever when my heart feels most forlorn
It murmurs to me with a weary sigh,
How sweet to enter in, to kneel and pray
With all the others whom we love so well!
All disbelief and, doubt might pass away,
All peace float to us with its Sabbath bell.
Conscience replies, There is but one good rest,
Whose head is pillowed upon Truth's pure breast.
Sunset In San Diego
by Joaquin Miller

The city sits amid her palms;
The perfume of her twilight breath
Is something as the sacred balms
That bound sweet Jesus after death,
Such soft, warm twilight sense as lie
Against the gates of Paradise.
Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached!
This sea mist is as incense smoke,
Yon ancient walls a sermon preached,
White lily with a heart of oak.
And O, this twilight! O the grace
Of twilight on my lifted face.
Summer Studies. I.
by James Barron Hope

The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd;
Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take,
And hear, beside the well within the yard,
Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake,
And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen - all
Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call.
The dew is thick upon the velvet grass - 
The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops,
And as the cattle from th' enclosure pass,
Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops
The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load,
Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road.
A lustrous polish is on all the leaves - 
The birds flit in and out with varied notes - 
The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves - 
A partridge-whistle thro' the garden floats,
While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries,
As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.
Up comes the sun: thro' the dense leaves a spot
Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze
Which late made leafy music dies; the day grows hot,
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees:
The burnish'd river like a sword-blade shines,
Save where 'tis shadow'd by the solemn pines.
The Cross Still Stands!
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

()"In the evening I went for a walk to a village lately shelled by German heavy guns.    Their effect was awful--ghastly.    It was impossible to imagine the amount of damage done until one really saw it.    The church was terrible too.    The spire was sticking upside down in the ground a short distance from the door.    The church itself was a mass of debris.    Scarcely anything was left unhit.    In the churchyard again the destruction was terrific--tombstones thrown all over the place.    But the most noticeable thing of all was that the three Crucifixes--one inside and two outside--were untouched!    How they can have avoided the shelling is quite beyond me.    It was a wonderful sight though an awful one.    There were holes in the churchyard about fifteen feet across."--From a letter from my boy at the Front.)
The churchyard stones all blasted into shreds,
The dead re-slain within their lowly beds,--
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His holy ground all cratered and crevassed,
All flailed to fragments by the fiery blast,--
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His church a blackened ruin, scarce one stone
Left on another,--yet, untouched alone,--
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His shrines o'erthrown, His altars desecrate,
His priests the victims of a pagan hate,--
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
'Mid all the horrors of the reddened ways,
The thund'rous nights, the dark and dreadful days,--
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
*            *            *            *            *
And, 'mid the chaos of the Deadlier Strife,--
A Church at odds with its own self and life,--
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Faith folds her wings, and Hope at times grows dim;
The world goes wandering away from Him;--
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head,
Still conquers Death, though life itself be fled;--
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Yes,--Love triumphant stands, and stands for more,
In our great need, than e'er it stood before!
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Written In March
by William Wordsworth

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
A Parable From Liebig
by Charles Kingsley

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
On the stump of a rotting old tree;
'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,
And the world is nigh ready for me.'
The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,
And smiled as he crumbled the tree;
'Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,
And the world is too live yet for thee.'
Eversley, 1848.
A Christmas Carol
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast,
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at him.
And all the stars looked down.
Sonnet: Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition
by John Keats

The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
Into oblivion; that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
The Church-Builder
by Thomas Hardy

I
The church flings forth a battled shade
Over the moon-blanched sward;
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
My all in hand and hoard:
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.
II
I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee;
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.
III
I called in many a craftsmaster
To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre
On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent,
My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass.
IV
I borrowed deep to carve the screen
And raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good.
Heir-looms unpriced
I sacrificed,
Until debt-free I stood.
V
So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed
Here substanced!" said my soul:
"I heard me bidden to this deed,
And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane,
That not in vain
I build it, Lord of all!"
VI
But, as it chanced me, then and there
Did dire misfortunes burst;
My home went waste for lack of care,
My sons rebelled and curst;
Till I confessed
That aims the best
Were looking like the worst.
VII
Enkindled by my votive work
No burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,
And give my toil no mind;
From nod and wink
I read they think
That I am fool and blind.
VIII
My gift to God seems futile, quite;
The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful wrong on feeble right
Tramples in olden style.
My faith burns down,
I see no crown;
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.
IX
So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane - no soul to wis -
And cross the patterned floor
To the rood-screen
That stands between
The nave and inner chore.
X
The rich red windows dim the moon,
But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
From woods of rarest dye;
Then from below
My garment, so,
I draw this cord, and tie
XI
One end thereof around the beam
Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
And in ten seconds thus
I journey hence -
To that land whence
No rumour reaches us.
XII
Well: Here at morn they'll light on one
Dangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
Blindly and uselessly! . . .
"He might," they'll say,
"Have built, some way.
A cheaper gallows-tree!"
The Chrysolites And Rubies Bacchus Brings
by Walter Savage Landor

The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow,
Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
They who have coveted may covet now.
Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature,
Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd,
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.
A Lament
by John Greenleaf Whittier

The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,
One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;
One heart from among us no longer shall thrill
With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.
Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering now
The light of her glances, the pride of her brow;
Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vain
To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.
Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim
From its silence and darkness is ever the same;
The hope of that world whose existence is bliss
May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.
For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw
On the scene of its troubled probation below,
Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead,
To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.
Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile,
Over lips moved with music and feeling the while,
The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear,
In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.
And the charm of her features, while over the whole
Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul;
And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems
Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!
But holier and dearer our memories hold
Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold,
The love and the kindness and pity which gave
Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!
The heart ever open to Charity's claim,
Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame,
While vainly alike on her eye and her ear
Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper
With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper,
Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay,
With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them
Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;
And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,
And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.
As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,
As a star that is lost when the daylight is given,
As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss,
She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.