DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song Of Marion's Men.
by William Cullen Bryant

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp,
A moment, and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.
Eurydice
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

To Victor Hugo
Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,
And hardly for the storm and ruin shed
Can even thine eyes be certain of her head
Who never passed out of thy spirit's eyes,
But stood and shone before them in such wise
As when with love her lips and hands were fed,
And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead
Strove to make answer when thou bad'st her rise.
Yet viper-stricken must her lifeblood feel
The fang that stung her sleeping, the foul germ
Even when she wakes of hell's most poisonous worm,
Though now it writhe beneath her wounded heel.
Turn yet, she will not fade nor fly from thee;
Wait, and see hell yield up Eurydice.
To M. Denham On His Prospective Poem.
by Robert Herrick

Or look'd I back unto the times hence flown
To praise those Muses and dislike our own--
Or did I walk those P'an-gardens through,
To kick the flowers and scorn their odours too--
I might, and justly, be reputed here
One nicely mad or peevishly severe.
But by Apollo! as I worship wit,
Where I have cause to burn perfumes to it;
So, I confess, 'tis somewhat to do well
In our high art, although we can't excel
Like thee, or dare the buskins to unloose
Of thy brave, bold, and sweet Maronian muse.
But since I'm call'd, rare Denham, to be gone,
Take from thy Herrick this conclusion:
'Tis dignity in others, if they be
Crown'd poets, yet live princes under thee;
The while their wreaths and purple robes do shine
Less by their own gems than those beams of thine.
Sonnet XXX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Orso, e' non furon mai fiumi n' stagni.
HE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYES.
Orso, my friend, was never stream, nor lake,
Nor sea in whose broad lap all rivers fall,
Nor shadow of high hill, or wood, or wall,
Nor heaven-obscuring clouds which torrents make,
Nor other obstacles my grief so wake,
Whatever most that lovely face may pall,
As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,
That veil which bids my heart "Now burn or break,"
And, whether by humility or pride,
Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,
Conducts me prematurely to my tomb:
Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,
Cunning and careful ever to annoy,
'Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.
MACGREGOR.
The Master.
by Friedrich Schiller

Other masters one always can tell by the words that they utter;
That which he wisely omits shows me the master of style.
The Balcony
by Charles Baudelaire

Other of memories, mistress of mistresses,
O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire,
Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses,
The charm of evenings by the gentle fire,
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!
The eves illumined by the burning coal,
The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings
How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things,
Those eves illumined by the burning coal.
Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm,
And space profound, and strong life's pulsing flood,
In bending o'er you, queen of every charm,
I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.
The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.
The film of night flowed round and over us,
And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet;
I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous,
And in my hands fraternal slept your feet
Night, like a film, flowed round and over us.
I can recall those happy days forgot,
And see, with head bowed on your knees, my past.
Your languid beauties now would move me not
Did not your gentle heart and body cast
The old spell of those happy days forgot.
Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite,
Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound;
As rise to heaven suns once again made bright
After being plunged in deep seas and profound?
Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite!
Fabula Canis Et Umbrae
by Jonathan Swift

ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis,
Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago:
Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alt'
Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps
Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una.
Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram;
Illudit species, ac dentibus a'ra mordet.
Orchards
by Theodosia Garrison

Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,--
Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green,
Lifting and drifting,--how my eyes could drink of them,
I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,--
Moving all together when the west wind blows
Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows--
I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes.
Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them
Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them!
You're not docked for thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know.
Bastards.
by Robert Herrick

Our bastard children are but like to plate
Made by the coiners--illegitimate.
Sleep.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Orphaned, I cry to thee:
Sweet sleep!    O kneel and be
A mother unto me!
Calm thou my childish fears:
Fold - fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly,
And dry my tears.
Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed
And faint with languor, - slide
Thy dim face down beside
Mine own, and let me rest
And nestle in thy heart, and there abide,
A favored guest.
Good night to every care,
And shadow of despair!
Good night to all things where
Within is no delight! - 
Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there,
I sob: Good night - good night!
Confidence
by Anne Bronte

Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe;
But I will not despair.
With this polluted heart,
I dare to come to Thee,
Holy and mighty as Thou art,
For Thou wilt pardon me.
I feel that I am weak,
And prone to every sin;
But Thou who giv'st to those who seek,
Wilt give me strength within.
Far as this earth may be
From yonder starry skies;
Remoter still am I from Thee:
Yet Thou wilt not despise.
I need not fear my foes,
I deed not yield to care;
I need not sink beneath my woes,
For Thou wilt answer prayer.
In my Redeemer's name,
I give myself to Thee;
And, all unworthy as I am,
My God will cherish me.
A Deep-sworn Vow
by William Butler Yeats

Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
Unpaginated
by Paul Cameron Brown

Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky
clouds slide like billiard balls
a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino
ricochet off greener velvet;
my pheasant escaping snow.
Jack Ketch the hangman
in brilliant plumage,
a touch of Borgia in
long, murderous hands.
The light of Capone in
steeple-dark eyes
running like a
haunted ship
around the white, facial disc.
Offset. Bold type.
I see you through pages
of my history book
only you're unpaginated.
Unclench the fist,
watch for effervescent islets,
erotic mounds of Venus or
protuberances called Marquesas
off my left hand.
Omens are the cloth
of dreams, scissors
used to open sky.
Work out cosmic debts - 
figure stone footprints on Hollywood Blvd.
en route to Tijuana for a start;
I should have been Buddha incarnate
or curator at the Hermitage,
wild shaman for the Arapaho
not a cocoa butter salesman
from New Jersey, nagging
soda-jerk in L.A.
'bout the time
of Marilyn Monroe's
quick magic.
The Almighty unpacking orange crates,
sending Florida cold
unravelling karmic debt,
brass studs in your eye
mowing suckers with your scythe;
Birthpath urge, Father Time,
de-gutting chickens at Pleasure Farms
looking to Hindoos for clues
(placing roaches on a lucky few.)
This hurdle over stones
crass fortitude ensemble,
strange melange
spewing nails,
elbows round thin pain
gutter cathedral looming into view
where there
is more viscera than mirth before
ripples of enchantment
cause vibrations at four
and the phrenology
of universal measure
is a moon
ribcage in light
- gazelle of trees
a dinosaur in height.
Dirge For The Year.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry Hours, smile instead,
For the Year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.
2.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
3.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the Year: - be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
4.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps - but, O ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
Orpheus
by Robert Herrick

Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
To fetch Eurydice from hell;
And had her, but it was upon
This short, but strict condition;
Backward he should not look, while he
Led her through hell's obscurity.
But ah! it happen'd, as he made
His passage through that dreadful shade,
Revolve he did his loving eye,
For gentle fear or jealousy;
And looking back, that look did sever
Him and Eurydice for ever.
Oranges & Lemons
by Walter Crane

Oranges and lemons, says the bells of St. Clemen's;
You owe me five farthings, says the bells of St. Martin's;
When will you pay me, says the bells of Old Bailey;
When I grow rich, says the bells of Shoreditch;
When will that be? says the bells of Stepney;
I do not know, says the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
St. Andrew.
by James McIntyre

Read at Anniversary.
Our ancient custom to renew,
We meet to honor St. Andrew,
He was of the Jewish nation,
A fisherman by occupation;
No warlike knight with lance and sword
But humbly following his Lord;
And Scotia she justly claims
Her soil contains his last remains,
In early times the Pilgrims drew
Into the shrine of St. Andrew,
For miracles it gained renown,
And thence sprang up St. Andrew's town;
Now clansmen twine round maple leaf,
When rallying at the call of chief,
And time will come when we'll be one,
And proud of name Canadian,
But Scotia must not be forgot
For sake of Chalmers, Burns and Scott,
But here upon Canadian soil
A man may own where he doth toil,
For here each may enjoy the charm
Of owning fine prairie farm.
Entwining of the thistle around the maple tree, Scotia's sons have indented their names deep in Canadian history. The names of McDonald, McKenzie, Cameron and Mowat stand conspicuous, and Brown second to none. For wealth, enterprise and benevolence those Montreal Scotsmen stand high, Sir Donald A. Smith, Sir George Stephens and Duncan McIntyre.
Love-Wonder.
by Archibald Lampman

Or whether sad or joyous be her hours,
Yet ever is she good and ever fair.
If she be glad, 'tis like a child's wild air,
Who claps her hands above a heap of flowers;
And if she's sad, it is no cloud that lowers,
Rather a saint's pale grace, whose golden hair
Gleams like a crown, whose eyes are like a prayer
From some quiet window under minster towers.
But ah, Beloved, how shall I be taught
To tell this truth in any rhymed line?
For words and woven phrases fall to naught,
Lost in the silence of one dream divine,
Wrapped in the beating wonder of this thought:
Even thou, who art so precious, thou art mine!
Andy's Gone With Cattle
by Henry Lawson

Our Andy's gone to battle now
'Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy's gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.
He's left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It's dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.
Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?
Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross'd the Darling.
The gates are out of order now,
In storms the `riders' rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy's gone with cattle.
Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
And Uncle's cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.
Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;
And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant 'twill bring us Andy.
The Changelings
by Rudyard Kipling

Or ever the battered liners sank
With their passengers to the dark,
I was head of a Walworth Bank,
And you were a grocer's clerk.
I was a dealer in stocks and shares,
And you in butters and teas;
And we both abandoned our own affairs
And took to the dreadful seas.
Wet and worry about our ways,
Panic, onset and flight,
Had us in charge for a thousand days
And thousand-year-long night.
We saw more than the nights could hide,
More than the waves could keep,
And, certain faces over the side
Which do not go from our sleep.
We were more tired than words can tell
While the pied craft fled by,
And the swinging mounds of the Western swell
Hoisted us Heavens-high...
Now there is nothing , not even our rank,
To witness what we have been;
And I am returned to my Walworth Bank,
And you to your margarine!
Before Marching And After
by Thomas Hardy

(in Memoriam F. W. G.)
Orion swung southward aslant
Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned,
The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant
With the heather that twitched in the wind;
But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these,
Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow,
And wondered to what he would march on the morrow.
The crazed household-clock with its whirr
Rang midnight within as he stood,
He heard the low sighing of her
Who had striven from his birth for his good;
But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze,
What great thing or small thing his history would borrow
From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow.
When the heath wore the robe of late summer,
And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun,
Hung red by the door, a quick comer
Brought tidings that marching was done
For him who had joined in that game overseas
Where Death stood to win, though his name was to borrow
A brightness therefrom not to fade on the morrow.
September 1915.
Or From That Sea Of Time
by Walt Whitman

Or, from that Sea of Time,
Spray, blown by the wind - a double winrow-drift of weeds and shells;
(O little shells, so curious-convolute! so limpid-cold and voiceless!
Yet will you not, to the tympans of temples held,
Murmurs and echoes still bring up - Eternity's music, faint and far,
Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica's rim - strains for the Soul of the Prairies,
Whisper'd reverberations - chords for the ear of the West, joyously sounding
Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable;)
Infinitessimals out of my life, and many a life,
(For not my life and years alone I give - all, all I give;) 10
These thoughts and Songs - waifs from the deep - here, cast high and dry,
Wash'd on America's shores.
Currents of starting a Continent new,
Overtures sent to the solid out of the liquid,
Fusion of ocean and land - tender and pensive waves,
(Not safe and peaceful only - waves rous'd and ominous too.
Out of the depths, the storm's abysms - Who knows whence? Death's waves,
Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter'd sail.)
Prologue To "Aurengzebe."
by John Dryden

Our author, by experience, finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play;
Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit;
And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:
Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who live:
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate which governs poets, thought it fit
He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here;
But wit's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loth,
'Tis a shrewd sign, 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange trees, 'tis housed with snow.
There needs no care to put a playhouse down,
'Tis the most desert place of all the town:
We, and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war;
While, likewise English, unconcern'd you sit,
And see us play the tragedy of wit.
The Sonnets CXIV - Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you
by William Shakespeare

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O! 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.
Inscription For A Stone Erected At The Sowing Of A Grove Of Oaks At Chillington, The Seat Of T. Giffard, Esq., 1790.
by William Cowper

Other stones the era tell
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost'these oaks or I? Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay,
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.
Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
To W. A. - Or Ever The Knightly Years Were Gone
by William Ernest Henley

Or ever the knightly years were gone
With the old world to the grave,
I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Christian Slave.
I saw, I took, I cast you by,
I bent and broke your pride.
You loved me well, or I heard them lie,
But your longing was denied.
Surely I knew that by and by
You cursed your gods and died.
And a myriad suns have set and shone
Since then upon the grave
Decreed by the King in Babylon
To her that had been his Slave.
The pride I trampled is now my scathe,
For it tramples me again.
The old resentment lasts like death,
For you love, yet you refrain.
I break my heart on your hard unfaith,
And I break my heart in vain.
Yet not for an hour do I wish undone
The deed beyond the grave,
When I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Virgin Slave.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXX
by Alfred Edward Housman

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.
But from my grave across my brow
Plays no wind of healing now,
And fire and ice within me fight
Beneath the suffocating night.
Sonnet LXXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Orso, al vostro destrier si pu' ben porre.
HE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENT.
Orso, a curb upon thy gallant horse
Well may we place to turn him from his course,
But who thy heart may bind against its will
Which honour courts and shuns dishonour still?
Sigh not! for nought its praise away can take,
Though Fate this journey hinder you to make.
For, as already voiced by general fame,
Now is it there, and none before it came.
Amid the camp, upon the day design'd,
Enough itself beneath those arms to find
Which youth, love, valour, and near blood concern,
Crying aloud: With noble fire I burn,
As my good lord unwillingly at home,
Who pines and languishes in vain to come.
MACGREGOR.
Chuld Name. - Book Of Paradise. The Favoured Beasts.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Or beasts there have been chosen four
To come to Paradise,
And there with saints for evermore
They dwell in happy wise.
Amongst them all the Ass stands first;
He comes with joyous stride,
For to the Prophet-City erst
Did Jesus on him ride.
Half timid next a Wolf doth creep,
To whom Mahomet spake
"Spoil not the poor man of his sheep,
The rich man's thou mayst take."
And then the brave and faithful Hound,
Who by his master kept,
And slept with him the slumbers sound
The seven sleepers slept.
Abuherrira's Cat, too, here,
Purrs round his master blest,
For holy must the beast appear
The Prophet hath caress'd.
Whittier.
by James McIntyre

Others seek for music in the twitter
Of the sweet, charming notes of Whittier.
Shakespeare
by Matthew Arnold

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask, Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure,
Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.