DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Quaff The Glass, The Wine Is Red.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled
And the snows of age are going;
Quaff it with a hearty will,
Quaff it deep and quaff forever;
Wine will every sorrow kill,
And destroy the pleasures never.
When the heart beats sad and low,
Drink its gladness like a river;
When the soul is weak with woe,
Quaff and be a cheerful liver;
Never, never, life, despair,
While a cup of hope is nigh thee;
Bend not under loads of care
While the fount of joy is by thee!
If the fickle friendships end
And thy fortune be a sad one,
Claim, O, claim, as truest friend,
Ruby wine, the sweet and glad one!
If thy love hath proven cold,
Leave her, leave her, for the new one;
Wine is never false for gold;
Friend to friend, a tried and true one!
Let the cynics curse and rave;
This must be a life of pleasure;
Fill a bumper! He's the knave
Who would scorn joy's fullest measure;
Quaff the glass, the wine is red;
Hour by hour the days are going;
Wine is yet the fountain head
From which pleasure's tide is flowing
To The Muse
by Mark Akenside

Queen of my songs, harmonious maid,
Ah why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?
Ah why forsaken thus my breast
With inauspicious damps oppress'd?
Where is the dread prophetic heat,
With which my bosom wont to beat?
Where all the bright mysterious dreams
Of haunted groves and tuneful streams,
That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?
Say, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free, poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall i gain,
To win thee back with some celestial strain?
O powerful strain! o sacred soul!
His numbers every sense controul:
And now again my bosom burns;
The Muse, the Muse herself returns.
Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd,
I hail'd the fair immortal guest,
When first she seal'd me for her own,
Made all her blissful treasures known,
And bade me swear to follow Her alone.
Paradisum Amissam, Lib. II [1]
by William Cowper

Quales aerii montis de vertice nubes
Cum surgunt, et jam Boreae tumida ora quierunt,
Caelum hilares abdit spissa caligine vultus,
Nimbosumque nives aut imbres cogitat aether:
Tum si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,
Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,
Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros,
Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.
Good Friday: Rex Tragicus; Or, Christ Going To His Cross.
by Robert Herrick

Put off Thy robe of purple, then go on
To the sad place of execution:
Thine hour is come, and the tormentor stands
Ready to pierce Thy tender feet and hands.
Long before this, the base, the dull, the rude,
Th' inconstant and unpurged multitude
Yawn for Thy coming; some ere this time cry,
How He defers, how loath He is to die!
Amongst this scum, the soldier with his spear
And that sour fellow with his vinegar,
His sponge, and stick, do ask why Thou dost stay;
So do the scurf and bran too. Go Thy way,
Thy way, Thou guiltless man, and satisfy
By Thine approach each their beholding eye.
Not as a thief shalt Thou ascend the mount,
But like a person of some high account;
The Cross shall be Thy stage, and Thou shalt there
The spacious field have for Thy theatre.
Thou art that Roscius and that marked-out man
That must this day act the tragedian
To wonder and affrightment: Thou art He
Whom all the flux of nations comes to see,
Not those poor thieves that act their parts with Thee;
Those act without regard, when once a king
And God, as Thou art, comes to suffering.
No, no; this scene from Thee takes life, and sense,
And soul, and spirit, plot and excellence.
Why then, begin, great King! ascend Thy throne,
And thence proceed to act Thy Passion
To such an height, to such a period raised,
As hell, and earth, and heav'n may stand amazed.
God and good angels guide Thee; and so bless
Thee in Thy several parts of bitterness,
That those who see Thee nail'd unto the tree
May, though they scorn Thee, praise and pity Thee.
And we, Thy lovers, while we see Thee keep
The laws of action, will both sigh and weep,
And bring our spices to embalm Thee dead;
That done, we'll see Thee sweetly buried.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXXIX. Games.
by Unknown

Queen Anne, queen Anne, you sit in the sun,
As fair as a lily, as white as a wand.
I send you three letters, and pray read one,
You must read one, if you can't read all,
So pray, Miss or Master, throw up the ball.
Nursery Rhyme. DXXVI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Pussy sat by the fire-side
In a basket full of coal-dust;
Bas-
ket,
Coal-
dust,
In a basket full of coal-dust!
The Watcher
by Rudyard Kipling

Put forth to watch, unschooled, alone,
'Twixt hostile earth and sky;
The mottled lizard 'neath the stone
Is wiser here than I.
What stir across the haze of heat?
What omen down the wind?
The buck that break before my feet,
They know, but I am blind!
Nursery Rhyme. DXLVII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Pussy cat eat the dumplings, the dumplings,
Pussy cat eat the dumplings.
Mamma stood by,
And cried, Oh, fie!
Why did you eat the dumplings?
Spleen Iv
by Charles Baudelaire

Quand le ciel bas et lourd p'se comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit g'missant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
Il nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;
Quand la terre est chang'e en un cachot humide,
O' l'Esp'rance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la t'te ' des plafonds pourris;
Quand la pluie 'talant ses immenses tra'n'es
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'inf'mes araign'es
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,
Des cloches tout ' coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent ' geindre opini'trement.
'Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
D'filent lentement dans mon 'me; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon cr'ne inclin' plante son drapeau noir.
The Mask
by William Butler Yeats

'Put off that mask of burning gold
With emerald eyes.'
'O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold.'
'I would but find what's there to find,
Love or deceit.'
'It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind.'
'But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire.'
'O no, my dear, let all that be,
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?'
The Pilgrim
by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols

Put by the sun my joyful soul,
We are for darkness that is whole;
Put by the wine, now for long years
We must be thirsty with salt tears;
Put by the rose, bind thou instead
The fiercest thorns about thy head;
Put by the courteous tire, we need
But the poor pilgrim's blackest weed;
Put by - a'beit with tears - thy lute,
Sing but to God or else be mute.
Take leave of friends save such as dare
Thy love with Loneliness to share.
It is full tide. Put by regret.
Turn, turn away. Forget. Forget.
Put by the sun my lightless soul,
We are for darkness that is whole.
Pussy-cat
by Helen Beatrix Potter

Pussy-cat sits by the fire;
How should she be fair?
In walks the little dog,
Says "Pussy! are you there?"
"How do you do, Mistress Pussy?
Mistress Pussy, how do you do?"
"I thank you kindly, little dog,
I fare as well as you!"
Messidor
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.
Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.
In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.
Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.
A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.
For the hour is for harvest or fight
To clothe with raiment of red;
O men sore stricken of hours,
Lo, this one, is not it ours
To glean, to gather, to smite?
Let none make risk of his head
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,
When the people that lay as the dead
Put in the sickles and reap.
Lo, this one, is not it ours,
Now the ruins of dead things rattle
As dead men's bones in the pit,
Now the kings wax lean as they sit
Girt round with memories of powers,
With musters counted as cattle
And armies folded as sheep
Till the red blind husbandman battle
Put in the sickles and reap?
Now the kings wax lean as they sit,
The people grow strong to stand;
The men they trod on and spat,
The dumb dread people that sat
As corpses cast in a pit,
Rise up with God at their hand,
And thrones are hurled on a heap,
And strong men, sons of the land,
Put in the sickles and reap.
The dumb dread people that sat
All night without screen for the night,
All day without food for the day,
They shall give not their harvest away,
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:
They shall see the desire of their sight,
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,
They shall climb with face to the light,
Put in the sickles and reap.
Pythagoras And Countryman.
by John Gay

Pythagoras, at daybreak drawn
To meditate on dewy lawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the morning,
And, like philosophers, all scorning
To think or care where he was bound,
Fell on a farm. A hammer's sound
Arrested then his thoughts and ear:
"My man, what are you doing there?"
The clown stood on a ladder's rung,
And answered him with rudish tongue:
"I've caught the villain - this here kite
Kept my hens ever in a fright;
I've nailed he here to my barn-door,
Him shan't steal turkey-pouts no more."
And lo! upon the door displayed,
The caitiff kite his forfeit paid.
"Friend," said Pythagoras, "'tis right
To murder a marauding kite;
But, by analogy, that glutton - 
That man who feasts on beef and mutton - 
I say, - that by analogy, - 
The man who eats a chick should die.
'Tis insolence of power and might
When man, the glutton, kills the kite."
The clown, who heard Pythagoras,
Waxed in a rage, called him an ass;
Said man was lord of all creation.
"Man," the sage answered, sans sensation,
"You murder hawks and kites, lest they
Should rob you of your fatted prey;
And that great rogues may hold their state,
The petty rascal meets his fate."
Queen And Huntress
by Ben Jonson

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
Disarmament
by John Greenleaf Whittier

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped
With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow
Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe
Down which a groaning diapason runs
From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons
Of desolate women in their far-off homes
Waiting to hear the step that never comes!
O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.
War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!
Fear not the end. There is a story told
In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,
And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit
With grave responses listening unto it:
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,
Buddha, the holy and benevolent,
Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,
Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook,
"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."
The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace
Of fear and anger, in the monster's face,
In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love."
Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank
To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank
Into the form and fashion of a dove
And where the thunder of its rage was heard,
Circling above him sweetly sang the bird:
"Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song,
"And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!
Song: To Cynthia
by Ben Jonson

From "Cynthia's Revels"
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
Parfum Exotique (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

Quand, les deux yeux ferm's, en un soir chaud d'automne,
Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se d'rouler des rivages heureux
Qu''blouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone;
Une 'le paresseuse o' la nature donne
Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux;
Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux,
Et des femmes dont l''il par sa franchise 'tonne.
Guid' par ton odeur vers de charmants climats,
Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de m'ts
Encor tout fatigu's par la vague marine,
Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers,
Qui circule dans l'air et m'enfle la narine
Se m'le dans mon 'me au chant des mariniers.
A Meditation Of St. Eligius
by George MacDonald

Queen Mary one day Jesus sent
To fetch some water, legends tell;
The little boy, obedient,
Drew a full pitcher from the well;
But as he raised it to his head,
The water lipping with the rim,
The handle broke, and all was shed
Upon the stones about the brim.
His cloak upon the ground he laid
And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.]
Obedient there the water staid,
And home he bore it plentiful.
Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill:
The hands that all the world control,
Had here been room for miracle,
Had made his mother's pitcher whole!
"Still, some few drops for thirsty need
A poor invention even, when told
In love of thee the Truth indeed,
Like broken pitcher yet may hold:
"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:
I thought to bear the pitcher high;
Upon the shining stones of guilt
I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!
"Master, I cried, no man will drink,
No human thirst will e'er be stilled
Through me, who sit upon the brink,
My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!
"What will they do I waiting left?
They looked to me to bring thy law!
The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,
I nothing have wherewith to draw!"
"But as I sat in evil plight,
With dry parched heart and sickened brain,
Uprose in me the water bright,
Thou gavest me thyself again!"
The Sea-Captain's Wooing.
by Marietta Holley

Put the crown of your love on my forehead,
Its sweet links clasped with a kiss,
And all the great monarchs of England
Never wore such a gem as this.
Give me your hand, little maiden,
That sceptre so pearly white,
And I'll envy not the kingliest wand
That ever waved in might.
I know 'tis like asking a morning cloud
With a grim old mountain to stay,
But your love would soften its ruggedness,
And melt its roughness away.
I have seen a delicate rosy cloud,
A rough, gray cliff enfold,
Till his heart was warmed by its loveliness,
And his brow was tinged with its gold.
Oh, poor and mean does my life show
Compared with the beauty of thine,
Like a diamond embedded in granite
Your life would be set in mine;
But a faithful love should guard you,
And shelter you from life's storm,
The rock must be shivered to atoms
Ere its treasure should come to harm.
How your sweet face has shone on me
From the tropics' midnight sea,
When the sailors slept, and I kept watch
Alone with my God and thee.
I know your heart is relenting,
The tender look in your eyes
Seems like that sky's soft splendor
When the sun was beginning to rise.
You need not veil their glorious light
With your eyelids' cloud of snow,
A tell-tale bird with a crimson wing
On your cheek flies to and fro;
And whispers to me such blissful hope
That my foolish tears will start,
Ah, little bird! your fluttering wing
Is folded on my heart.
The Old House.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
Blue iron-weeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones slug and toad
Silent as lichens lie.
The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand
Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;
And in the clapboard sides
Of closets, dim with many a spider woof,
Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,
The beetle-borer hides.
Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,
The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor
Of its neglected porch
The black bees nest. Through each deserted door,
Vague as a phantom's footsteps, steal the leaves,
And dropped cones of the larch.
But come with me when sunset's magic old
Transforms the ruin of that ancient house;
When windows, one by one, - 
Like age's eyes, that youth's love-dreams arouse, - 
Grow lairs of fire; and glad mouths of gold
Its wide doors, in the sun.
Or let us wait until each rain-stained room
Is carpeted with moonlight, pattened oft
With the deep boughs o'erhead;
And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,
As might the ghost - a whisper of perfume - 
Of some sweet girl long dead.
Nursery Rhyme. DXIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?
I've been up to London to look at the queen.
Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?
I frighten'd a little mouse under the chair.
A Song From The Suds
by Louisa May Alcott

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high,
And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry.
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they.
Then on the earth there would be indeed,
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life,
Will heartsease ever bloom.
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow or care or gloom.
And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
As we bravely wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day,
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,
"Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
But, Hand, you shall work alway!"
Putrefaction.
by Robert Herrick

Putrefaction is the end
Of all that nature doth intend.
Quee, Quee!
by Louisa May Alcott

"Quee, quee!
Wait and see:
You were good to me;
So here I come,
From my little home,
To help you willingly,"
A Hunting Morning
by Arthur Conan Doyle

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
Where the oziers grow.
Put the bridle on the mare,
For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o'er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
From the find to the kill.
Then lead round the mare,
For it's time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
As the black mare can.
Puss At Court
by Walter Crane

"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?"
"I've been to London to look at the Queen."
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?"
"I caught a little mouse under the chair."
Quebec.
by Jean Blewett

Quebec, the gray old city on the hill,
Lies, with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and her belov'd dead.
The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim
Above a field of battle stretching wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past,
The strife, the valor of the long ago
Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her gray old face.
Nursery Rhyme. DXXXVI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Pussy cat Mole,
Jump'd over a coal,
And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.
Poor pussy's weeping, she'll have no more milk,
Until her best petticoat's mended with silk.
In a London Square
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane,
East wind and frost are safely gone;
With zephyr mild and balmy rain
The summer comes serenely on;
Earth, air, and sun and skies combine
To promise all that's kind and fair:
But thou, O human heart of mine,
Be still, contain thyself, and bear.
December days were brief and chill,
The winds of March were wild and drear,
And, nearing and receding still,
Spring never would, we thought, be here.
The leaves that burst, the suns that shine,
Had, not the less, their certain date:
And thou, O human heart of mine,
Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.
The Looking-Glass (A Country Dance)
by Rudyard Kipling

Queen Bess was Harry's daughter. Stand forward partners all!
In ruff and stomacher and gown
She danced King Philip down-a down,
And left her shoe to show 'twas true,
(The very tune I'm playing you)
In Norgem at Brickwall!
The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,
Her petticoat was satin, and her stomacher was gold.
Backward and forward and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!
Queen Bess was Harry's daughter. Now hand your partners all!
The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.
There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair,
Singing 'Backward and forward and sideways may you pass,
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!'
Queen Bess was Harry's daughter. Now turn your partners all!
The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,
There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door,
Singing 'Backward and forward and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!'
Queen Bess was Harry's daughter. Now kiss your partners all !
The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:,
'Backward and forward and sideways though I've been,
Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!'
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!