DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Madame Jumel
by Richard Le Gallienne

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair,
Had I a god's re-animating breath,
Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air
Lethean and the eyeless halls of death,
Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair,
Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom,
And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.
Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust,
Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire;
Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust
Would light us back to glory and desire,
And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust;
Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame.
Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.
Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould
That lies on by-gone traffickings of state,
Transformed a moment by that head of gold,
Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate;
To "write the Constitution!" 'twere a cold,
Dusty and bloomless immortality,
Without that last wild dying thought of thee.
Apple Blossoms.
by Hattie Howard

Of all the lovely blossoms
That decorate the trees,
And shower down their petals
With every breath of breeze,
There is nothing so sweet or fair to me
As the delicate blooms of the apple tree.
A thousand shrubs and flow'rets
Delicious pleasure bring,
But beautiful Pomona
Must be the queen of spring;
And out of her flagon the peach and pear
Their chalices fill with essence rare.
Oh, is it any wonder,
Devoid of blight or flaw,
The peerless blooms of Eden
Our primal mother saw
In redolent beauty before her placed
So tempted fair Eve the fruit to taste?
But woman's love of apples,
Involving fearful price,
And Adam's love for woman
That cost him Paradise,
By the labor of hands and sweat of brow,
Have softened the curse to a blessing now.
If so those pink-eyed glories,
In fields and orchards gay
Develop luscious fruitage
By Horticulture's way,
Then, sweet as the heart of rich legumes,
Shall luxury follow the apple blooms.
Thoughts
by Walt Whitman

I
Of ownership, As if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself. 
II
Of waters, forests, hills; 
Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of me; 
Of vista, Suppose some sight in arriere, through the formative chaos, presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attain'd on the journey; 
(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;)
Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become supplied, And of what will yet be supplied, 
Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport in what will yet be supplied.
Quebec
by John Alexander McCrae

1608-1908
Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong --
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, --
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."
Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?
The Garden of Boccaccio (exerpt)
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Of late, in one of those most weary hours,
When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
A dready mood, which he who ne'er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.
In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee,
I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake;
O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design.
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,
The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bath'd steep
Emerging from a mist: or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,
As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;
Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
...
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew'd :
...
Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ;
...
I see no longer! I myself am there,
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings :
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.
...
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
...
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!
Quebec
by John McCrae

Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong,
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word,
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."
Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?
Of Him I Love Day And Night
by Walt Whitman

Of him I love day and night, I dream'd I heard he was dead;
And I dream'd I went where they had buried him I love - but he was not in that place;
And I dream'd I wander'd, searching among burial-places, to find him;
And I found that every place was a burial-place;
The houses full of life were equally full of death, (this house is now;)
The streets, the shipping, the places of amusement, the Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta, were as full of the dead as of the living,
And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead than of the living;
And what I dream'd I will henceforth tell to every person and age,
And I stand henceforth bound to what I dream'd;
And now I am willing to disregard burial-places, and dispense with them;
And if the memorials of the dead were put up indifferently everywhere, even in the room where I eat or sleep, I should be satisfied;
And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own corpse, be duly render'd to powder, and pour'd in the sea, I shall be satisfied;
Or if it be distributed to the winds, I shall be satisfied.
The Three Gentle Shepherds
by Alexander Pope

Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
My numbers too for ever will I vary,
With gentle Budgell and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.
Lost Liberty
by Robert Fuller Murray

Of our own will we are not free,
When freedom lies within our power.
We wait for some decisive hour,
To rise and take our liberty.
Still we delay, content to be
Imprisoned in our own high tower.
What is it but a strong-built bower?
Ours are the warders, ours the key.
But we through indolence grow weak.
Our warders, fed with power so long,
Become at last our lords indeed.
We vainly threaten, vainly seek
To move their ruth.    The bars are strong.
We dash against them till we bleed.
Of Old Sat Freedom
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face --
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
Googly-Goo
by Eugene Field

Of mornings, bright and early,
When the lark is on the wing
And the robin in the maple
Hops from her nest to sing,
From yonder cheery chamber
Cometh a mellow coo -
'T is the sweet, persuasive treble
Of my little Googly-Goo!
The sunbeams hear his music,
And they seek his little bed,
And they dance their prettiest dances
Round his golden curly head:
Schottisches, galops, minuets,
Gavottes and waltzes, too,
Dance they unto the music
Of my googling Googly-Goo.
My heart - my heart it leapeth
To hear that treble tone;
What music like thy music,
My darling and mine own!
And patiently - yes, cheerfully
I toil the long day through -
My labor seemeth lightened
By the song of Googly-Goo!
I may not see his antics,
Nor kiss his dimpled cheek:
I may not smooth the tresses
The sunbeams love to seek;
It mattereth not - the echo
Of his sweet, persuasive coo
Recurreth to remind me
Of my little Googly-Goo.
And when I come at evening,
I stand without the door
And patiently I listen
For that dear sound once more;
And oftentimes I wonder,
"Oh, God! what should I do
If any ill should happen
To my little Googly-Goo!"
Then in affright I call him -
I hear his gleeful shouts!
Begone, ye dread forebodings -
Begone, ye killing doubts!
For, with my arms about him,
My heart warms through and through
With the oogling and the googling
Of my little Googly-Goo!
Upon Bridget. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Of four teeth only Bridget was possest;
Two she spat out, a cough forced out the rest.
From Eclogue ix
by Michael Drayton

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is seen)
Chorus.    Help vs to sing that be her faithful swains
Row:         O she alone the shepheards Queen,
Cho:         Her Flocke that leades,
The goddesse of these medes,
These mountaines and these plaines.
Row:         Those eyes of hers that are more cleere,
Cho:         Then silly shepheards can in song expresse,
Row:         Then be his beams that rule the yeare,
Cho:         Fy on that prayse,
In striuing things to rayse:
That doth but make them lesse.
Row:         That doe the flowery spring prolong,
Cho:         So much the earth doth in her presence ioy,
Row:         And keeps the plenteous summer young:
Cho:         And doth asswage
The wrathfull winters rage
That would our flocks destroy.
Row:         Ioue saw her brest that naked lay,
Cho:         A sight alone was fit for Ioue to see:
Row:         And swore it was the milkie way,
Cho:         Of all most pure,
The path (we vs assure)
Vnto Ioues court to be.
Row:         He saw her tresses hanging downe.
Cho:         That too and fro were mooued with the ayre,
Row:         And sayd that Ariadnes crowne,
Cho:         With those compar'd:
The gods should not regard
Nor Berenices hayre.
Row:         When she hath watch'd my flockes by night,
Cho:         O happie were the flockes that she did keepe:
Row:         They neuer needed Cynthia's light,
Cho:         That soone gaue place,
Amazed with her grace,
That did attend thy sheepe.
Row:         Aboue where heauens hie glories are,
Cho:         When as she shall be placed in the skies,
Row:         She shall be calld the shepheards starre,
Cho:         And euermore,
We shepheards will adore,
Her setting and her rise.
Battle Of The Baltic
by Thomas Campbell

Of Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between:
'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:
Then ceased, and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then
As he hail'd them o'er the wave:
'Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:
So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.''
Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light!
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant, good Riou
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
Ole Gabriel Ueland
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 46)
Of long toil 't is a matter
Through many a silent age,
Before such power can shatter
Time-hallowed custom's cage.
The soul-fruit of the peasant,
Though seldom seed was sown,
It is our honor present, - 
Our future sure foreknown.
The fjords that earnest waited
'Mid mountain-snows around
His childhood's thoughts created
And depth of life profound.
The highlands' sun that played there
On fjord and mountain snow
So wide a vision made there
As one could wish to know.
When he to Ting repairing
Would plead the peasant's right,
Each word a beam was bearing.
To make our young day bright.
It came like ancient story
Or long-lost song's refrain;
What crowned our past with glory
It made our present gain.
Though in his boat a seaman,
A farmer in his field,
Ne'er finer thoughts did freeman
In royal council wield.
His years bear witness ready
That we shall yet achieve
Our people's self-rule steady,
He taught us to believe.
When weary, worn, and aged,
His faith was ever strong;
The people's war he wag'd
For victory erelong.
Beneath the banner dying,
He would not yet give o'er,
And him Valkyries flying
Home to Valhalla bore.
From wintry night and bitter
He was with stately tread
In Saga's hall a-glitter
Before the high-sear led.
Old heroes proud or merry
Rising to greet him went,
But first of all King Sverre,
From whom was his descent.
Tennyson.
by James McIntyre

Of our Laureate we now do sing,
His youthful muse had daring wing,
He then despised Baronhood,
And sang 'twas noble to be good.
None sang like him of knights of old,
He England's glory did uphold;
In wondrous song he hath arrayed
Glorious charge of light brigade,
And he hath the people's benison,
Greatest of living poets Tennyson.
Coronation Hymn
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Tune--Luther's Chorale
"Ein' feste burg ist unser Gott"
I
Of old our City hath renown.
Of God are her foundations,
Wherein this day a King we crown
Elate among the nations.
Acknowledge, then, thou King--
And you, ye people, sing--
What deeds His arm hath wrought:
Yea, let their tale be taught
To endless generations.
II
So long, so far, Jehovah guides
His people's path attending,
By pastures green and water-sides
Toward His hill ascending;
Whence they beneath the stars
Shall view their ancient wars,
Their perils, far removed.
O might of mercy proved!
O love past comprehending!
III
He was that God, for man which spake
From Sinai forth in thunder;
He was that Love, for man which brake
The dreadful grave asunder.
Lord over every lord,
His consecrating word
An earthly prince awaits;
Lift then your heads, ye gates!
Your King comes riding under.
IV
Be ye lift up, ye deathless doors;
Let wave your banners o'er Him!
Exult, ye streets; be strewn, ye floors,
With palm, with bay, before Him!
With transport fetch Him in,
Ye ransom'd folk from sin--
Your Lord, return'd to bless!
O kneeling king, confess--
O subject men, adore Him!
The Three Gentle Shepherds.
by Alexander Pope

Of gentle Philips[78] will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring;
My numbers, too, for ever will I vary,
With gentle Budgell,[79] and with gentle Carey.[80]
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey, and with gentle Budgell,
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye!
Thought
by Walt Whitman

Of persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies, wealth, scholarships, and the like; 
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks away from them, except as it results to their Bodies and Souls, 
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked; 
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and mocks himself or herself, 
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness, is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwittingly the true realities of life, and go toward false realities, 
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has served them, but nothing more, 
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked sonnambules, walking the dusk.
Great Boast Small Roast.
by Robert Herrick

Of flanks and chines of beef doth Gorrell boast
He has at home; but who tastes boil'd or roast?
Look in his brine-tub, and you shall find there
Two stiff blue pigs'-feet and a sow's cleft ear.
On Mr. Gay
by Alexander Pope

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child:
With native Humour temp'ring virtuous Rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:
Above Temptation, in a low Estate, 5
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great:
A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
Unblam'd thro' Life, lamented in thy End.
These are Thy Honours! not that here thy Bust
Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust; 10
But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms, Here lies GAY.
A Hymn In Praise Of Neptune
by Thomas Campion

Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
Down the high mountains sliding:
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
Wherein they dwell:
And every sea-dog pays a gem
Yearly out of his wat'ry cell
To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes quake,
Like the great thunder sounding:
The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the sirens, taught to kill
With their sweet voice,
Make ev'ry echoing rock reply
Unto their gentle murmuring noise
The praise of Neptune's empery.
The Fool Who Sold Wisdom.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Of fools come never in the reach:
No rule can I more wisely teach.
Nor can there be a better one
Than this, - distemper'd heads to shun.
We often see them, high and low.
They tickle e'en the royal ear,
As, privileged and free from fear,
They hurl about them joke and jeer,
At pompous lord or silly beau.
A fool, in town, did wisdom cry;
The people, eager, flock'd to buy.
Each for his money got,
Paid promptly on the spot,
Besides a box upon the head,
Two fathoms' length of thread.
The most were vex'd - but quite in vain
The public only mock'd their pain.
The wiser they who nothing said,
But pocketed the box and thread.
To search the meaning of the thing
Would only laughs and hisses bring.
Hath reason ever guaranteed
The wit of fools in speech or deed?
'Tis said of brainless heads in France,
The cause of what they do is chance.
One dupe, however, needs must know
What meant the thread, and what the blow;
So ask'd a sage, to make it sure.
'They're both hieroglyphics pure,'
The sage replied without delay;
'All people well advised will stay
From fools this fibre's length away,
Or get - I hold it sure as fate - 
The other symbol on the pate.
So far from cheating you of gold,
The fool this wisdom fairly sold.'
The Friend Of Humanity And The Rhymer
by Henry Austin Dobson

"Emam tua carmina sanus?"--MARTIAL.
F.    OF H. I want a verse. It gives you little pains;--
You just sit down, and draw upon your brains.
Come, now, be amiable.
R.    To hear you talk,
You'd make it easier to fly than walk.
You seem to think that rhyming is a thing
You can produce if you but touch a spring;
That fancy, fervour, passion--and what not,
Are just a case of "penny in the slot."
You should reflect that no evasive bird
Is half so shy as is your fittest word;
And even similes, however wrought,
Like hares, before you cook them, must be caught;--
Impromptus, too, require elaboration,
And (unlike eggs) grow fresh by incubation;
Then,--as to epigrams,..
F. of H.     Nay, nay, I've done.
I did but make petition. You make fun.
R.             Stay. I am grave. Forgive me if I ramble:
But, then, a negative needs some preamble
To break the blow. I feel with you, in truth,
These complex miseries of Age and Youth;
I feel with you--and none can feel it more
Than I--this burning Problem of the Poor;
The Want that grinds, the Mystery of Pain,
The Hearts that sink, and never rise again;--
How shall I set this to some careless screed,
Or jigging stave, when Help is what you need,
Help, Help,--more Help?
F. of H.     I fancied that with ease
You'd scribble off some verses that might please,
And so give help to us.
R.                 Why then--TAKE THESE!
The Holy Snowdrops.
by George MacDonald

Of old, with goodwill from the skies,
The holy angels came;
They walked the earth with human eyes,
And passed away in flame.
But now the angels are withdrawn,
Because the flowers can speak;
With Christ, we see the dayspring dawn
In every snowdrop meek.
God sends them forth; to God they tend;
Not less with love they burn,
That to the earth they lowly bend,
And unto dust return.
No miracle in them hath place,
For this world is their home;
An utterance of essential grace
The angel-snowdrops come.
Epitaph XI. On Mr Gay, In Westminster Abbey, 1732.
by Alexander Pope

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man; simplicity, a child:
With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted, even among the great:
A safe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms--Here lies Gay.