DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
My Angel.
by Marietta Holley

Last night she came unto me,
And kneeling by my side,
Laid her head upon my bosom,
My beautiful, my bride;
My lost one, with her soft dark eyes,
And waves of sunny hair.
I smoothed the shining tresses,
With tearful, fond caresses,
And words of thankful prayer.
And then a thrill of doubt and pain,
My jealous heart swept o'er;
We were parted - she was dwelling
Upon a far-off shore;
Yet He who made my sad heart, knew
I loved her more and more;
My love more true and perfect grew,
As each dark day passed o'er;
But she whose heart had been my own,
Who loved me tenderly,
Whose last low words I knelt to hear,
Were, "How can I leave thee?"
And "Death would seem as sweet as life,
Could we together be."
Now, though we two were parted
By such a distance wide,
By such a strange and viewless realm,
By such a boundless tide,
Her gentle face was radiant
With a surpassing bliss;
She was happier in that distant land,
Than she ever was in this.
And in some other tenderness,
Some other love divine,
She had found a peace and happiness,
She never found in mine.
So with a tender chiding,
I could not quite suppress,
Though well my darling knew
I would not make her pleasures less.
"Are you happy, love?" I said,
"Are you happy, love, without me?"
Then she raised her gentle head,
And twined her arms about me;
Yet while my tears fell faster,
Beneath her mute caress,
Her face had all the glory
Of a sainted soul at rest;
And her voice was sweet as music,
"I am happy - I am blest."
"Do you know how lonely-hearted
I have been each weary day,
Praying that each passing hour
Would bear my life away,
That we might be united
Upon that distant shore?"
"Laurence, we are not parted,
I am with your evermore."
"I cannot see you, darling,
Your face I cannot see."
"Can you see the moon's white fingers,
That leads the pleading sea?
Can you see the fragrance lingering
Where summer roses be?
The soft winds tender clasping,
The close-enwrapping air
Enfolding you - Oh, Laurence,
I am with you everywhere."
Then while her face grew brighter
As with a heavenly glow,
In tenderness unspeakable,
She kissed my lips and brow;
Then I lost her - then she left me,
As at the set of day
The snowy clouds float outward,
And melt in light away.
I heard low strains of melody
No earthly choir could sing,
A light breath floated past me,
As from a gliding wing;
And on my darkened spirit
There fell so bright a gleam,
I knew the blessed vision
Was not in truth a dream;
Though death had won from my embrace,
My beautiful, my bride,
I had won a richer treasure,
An angel by my side.
The Father careth for us all
In pity, and I know
My love is not forever gone
From him who loved her so;
When a few more days have drifted
Their shadows over me,
When the golden gates are lifted,
My angel I shall see;
Her veiled face in its glory
Upon my gaze will rise,
And Heaven will shine upon me
Through the sweetness of her eyes.
Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter IV.
by Thomas Moore

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.
Last week, dear Nichol, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!
"These Papist dogs--hiccup--'od rot 'em!--
"Deserve to be bespattered--hiccup--
"With all the dirt even you can pick up.
"But, as the Prince (here's to him--fill--
"Hip, hip, hurra!)--is trying still
"To humbug them with kind professions,
"And as you deal in strong expressions--
"Rogue"--"traitor"--hiccup--and all that--
"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!--
"You must indeed--hiccup--that's flat."--
Yes--"muzzled" was the word Sir John--
These fools have clapt a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er
With slaver of the times of yore![1]--
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,
To prove that they who damned us then
Ought now in turn be damned again?
The silent victim still to sit
Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit,
To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on,
Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!
Oh! 'tis too much--who now will be
The Nightman of No-Popery?
What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop
Such learned filth will ever fish up?
If there among our ranks be one
To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;
Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.
Like me too art a Lawyer Civil
That wishes Papists at the devil.
To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?
Take it--'tis thine--his learned Port-folio,
With all its theologic olio
Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman--
Of Doctrines now believed by no man--
Of Councils held for men's salvation,
Yet always ending in damnation--
(Which shows that since the world's creation
Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)
And many more such pious scraps,
To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps,)
That mad as Christians used to be
About the Thirteenth Century,
There still are Christians to be had
In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!
Farewell--I send with this, dear Nichol,
A rod or two I've had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.--
The rest shall go by Monday's packet.
P. D.
Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following
"Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."
We're told the ancient Roman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration;
(Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]--
i. e. you need not read but see 'em;)
Now Irish Papists--fact surprising--
Make use of spittle in baptizing;
Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,
Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.
This fact's enough; let no one tell us
To free such sad, salivous fellows.--
No, no--the man, baptized with spittle,
Hath no truth in him--not a tittle!
The Banks o' Yarrow
by George Wharton Edwards

Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
"What though ye be my sister's lord,
We'll cross our swords to-morrow."
"What though my wife your sister be,
I'll meet ye then on Yarrow."
"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!
O stay, my ain dear marrow!
My cruel brither will you betray
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."
"O fare ye weel, my lady dear!
And put aside your sorrow;
For if I gae, I'll sune return
Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow."
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
As oft she'd done before, O;
She belted him wi' his gude brand,
And he's awa' to Yarrow.
When he gaed up the Tennies bank,
As he gaed mony a morrow,
Nine armed men lay in a den,
On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.
"O come ye here to hunt or hawk
The bonny Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow?"
"I come not here to hunt or hawk,
As oft I've dune before, O,
But I come here to wield my brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
"If ye attack me nine to ane,
Then may God send ye sorrow!--
Yet will I fight while stand I may,
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow."
Two has he hurt, and three has slain,
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;
But the stubborn knight crept in behind,
And pierced his body thorough.
"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,
And tell your sister sorrow,--
To come and lift her leafu' lord
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."
Her brither John gaed ower yon hill,
As oft he'd dune before, O;
There he met his sister dear,
Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.
"I dreamt a dream last night," she says,
"I wish it binna sorrow;
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green
Wi' my true love on Yarrow."
"I'll read your dream, sister," he says,
"I'll read it into sorrow;
Ye're bidden go take up your love,
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."
She's torn the ribbons frae her head
That were baith braid and narrow;
She's kilted up her lang claithing,
And she's awa' to Yarrow.
She's ta'en him in her arms twa,
And gi'en him kisses thorough;
She sought to bind his mony wounds,
But he lay dead on Yarrow.
"O haud your tongue," her father says,
"And let be a' your sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow."
"O haud your tongue, father," she says,
"Far warse ye mak' my sorrow;
A better lord could never be
Than him that lies on Yarrow."
She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair,
As aft she had dune before, O;
And there wi' grief her heart did break,
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
The Fruit-Gift
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky
Of sunset faded from our hills and streams,
I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams,
To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry.
Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit,
Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot,
Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness,
Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams
Of summery suns, and rounded to completeness
By kisses of the south-wind and the dew.
Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew
The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew,
When Eshcol's clusters on his shoulders lay,
Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.
I said, 'This fruit beseems no world of sin.
Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise,
O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price
Of the great mischief, an ambrosial tree,
Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in,
To keep the thorns and thistles company.'
Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste
A single vine-slip as she passed the gate,
Where the dread sword alternate paled and burned,
And the stern angel, pitying her fate,
Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned
Aside his face of fire; and thus the waste
And fallen world hath yet its annual taste
Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost,
And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost.
The Enemies
by Elizabeth Jennings

Last night they came across the river and
Entered the city. Women were awake
With lights and food. They entertained the band,
Not asking what the men had come to take
Or what strange tongue they spoke
Or why they came so suddenly through the land.
Now in the morning all the town is filled
With stories of the swift and dark invasion;
The women say that not one stranger told
A reason for his coming. The intrusion
Was not for devastation:
Peace is apparent still on hearth and field.
Yet all the city is a haunted place.
Man meeting man speaks cautiously. Old friends
Close up the candid looks upon their face.
There is no warmth in hands accepting hands;
Each ponders, 'Better hide myself in case
Those strangers have set up their homes in minds
I used to walk in. Better draw the blinds
Even if the strangers haunt in my own house'.
One Tear
by Robert Fuller Murray

Last night, when at parting
Awhile we did stand,
Suddenly starting,
There fell on my hand
Something that burned it,
Something that shone
In the moon as I turned it,
And then it was gone.
One bright stray jewel--
What made it stray?
Was I cold or cruel,
At the close of day?
Oh, do not cry, lass!
What is crying worth?
There is no lass like my lass
In the whole wide earth.
At The War Office, London
by Thomas Hardy

(Affixing the Lists of Killed and Wounded: December, 1899)
I
Last year I called this world of gain-givings
The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly
If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly,
So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs
The tragedy of things.
II
Yet at that censured time no heart was rent
Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughter
By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter;
Death waited Nature's wont; Peace smiled unshent
From Ind to Occident.
Helena
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Last night I saw Helena.    She whose praise
Of late all men have sounded.    She for whom
Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
She is so ripe with dangers.    Yet meanwhile
I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.
"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,
And yet to me each shining silken tress
Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless - 
Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.
(I know a little maiden so demure
She will not let her one true lover's hands
In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands
So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)
"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?
Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be,
And yet they are not beautiful to me.
Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.
(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid
So underneath white curtains, and so veiled
That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed
To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)
"Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?"
"Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"
I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;
Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.
(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,
Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,
And though I plead in passion at her feet,
She would not let me brush it if I died.)
In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie
For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it,
Armoured by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,
And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.
Upon Shewbread. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Last night thou didst invite me home to eat;
And showed me there much plate, but little meat.
Prithee, when next thou do'st invite, bar state,
And give me meat, or give me else thy plate.
A Gustatory Achievement
by James Whitcomb Riley

Last Thanksgivin'-dinner we
Et at Granny's house, an' she
Had - ist like she alluz does - 
Most an' best pies ever wuz.
Canned black burry-pie an' goose
Burry, squshin'-full o' juice;
An' rozburry - yes, an' plum - 
Yes, an' churry-pie - um-yum!
Peach an' punkin, too, you bet.
Lawzy! I kin taste 'em yet!
Yes, an' custard-pie, an' mince!
*        *        *        *        *
An' - I - ain't - et - no - pie - since!
Helena.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise
Of late all men have sounded. She for whom
Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile
I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.
"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,
And yet to me each shining silken tress
Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless - 
Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.
(I know a little maiden so demure
She will not let her one true lover's hands
In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands,
So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)
"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?
Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be,
And yet they are not beautiful to me.
Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.
(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid
So underneath white curtains, and so veiled
That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed
To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)
"Her perfect mouth so like a carv'd kiss?"
"Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"
I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;
Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.
(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,
Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,
And though I plead in passion at her feet,
She would not let me brush it if I died.)
In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie
For thy rare smile or die from loss of it,
Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,
And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.
Late, Late, So Late
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light had we: for that we do repent;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridgegroom is so sweet?
O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now."
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - II - Patriotic Sympathies
by William Wordsworth

Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake
Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might seem
Wholly dissevered from our present theme;
Yet, my beloved Country! I partake
Of kindred agitations for thy sake;
Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream;
Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam
Of light, which tells that Morning is awake.
If aught impair thy beauty or destroy,
Or but forebode destruction, I deplore
With filial love the sad vicissitude;
If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore
The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed,
And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy.
Time And Death And Love.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Last night I watched for Death - 
So sick of life was I! - 
When in the street beneath
I heard his watchman cry
The hour, while passing by.
I called. And in the night
I heard him stop below,
His owlish lanthorn's light
Blurring the windy snow - 
How long the time and slow!
I said, Why dost thou cower
There at my door and knock?
Come in! It is the hour!
Cease fumbling at the lock!
Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!
Black through the door with him
Swept in the Winter's breath;
His cloak was great and grim - 
But he, who smiled beneath,
Had the face of Love not Death.
The Sum And The Satisfaction.
by Robert Herrick

Last night I drew up mine account,
And found my debits to amount
To such a height, as for to tell
How I should pay 's impossible.
Well, this I'll do: my mighty score
Thy mercy-seat I'll lay before;
But therewithal I'll bring the band
Which, in full force, did daring stand
Till my Redeemer, on the tree,
Made void for millions, as for me.
Then, if thou bidst me pay, or go
Unto the prison, I'll say, no;
Christ having paid, I nothing owe:
For, this is sure, the debt is dead
By law, the bond once cancelled.
My Dead
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said "My darling, come home to me."
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head 
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.
The Ghosts Of Growth.
by George Parsons Lathrop

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.
Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams
Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,
Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep
O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap
From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!
With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,
And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.
But such ethereal slumber may not bide
The ascending sun's bright scorn - not long, I fear;
And all its visions on the golden tide
Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.
Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride
You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!
Three At The Opera
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Last night the house was crowded.    Were you there?
You thought our box held only two, maybe -
Myself and chaperon, a matron fair.
There was another whom you did not see.
Close, close beside me, sat a phantom form;
Above the music and loud cheer on cheer
That rose, and thundered like a sudden storm,
I heard his low voice whispering in my ear.
A dead man's voice.    You know when dead men speak
There is no noise their least tone will not drown.
His sweet soft words brought blushes to my cheek,
And made my happy eyelids flutter down.
There were so many glasses turned on me,
My chaperon was proud.    She called me fair,
And said I drew their glances.    Well, may be.
I think they saw that dead man sitting there.
A dead man at an opera: how strange!
I know it must have seemed much out of place.
He smiled, and spoke, and there was little change
In the white pallor of his perfect face.
Yet he was dead.    I knew it all the while,
I do not wonder people looked that way.
It seemed so odd to see a dead man smile;
Its strangeness never struck me till to-day.
He rose and went out when we left our stall;
Rose up, went out, and vanished in the night.
He always sits beside me in that hall,
But goes when goes the music and the light.
Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
To My Friends
by Matthew Arnold

Laugh, my Friends, and without blame
Lightly quit what lightly came:
Rich to-morrow as to-day
Spend as madly as you may.
I, with little land to stir,
Am the exacter labourer.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
But my Youth reminds me 'Thou
Hast liv'd light as these live now:
As these are, thou too wert such:
Much hast had, hast squander'd much.'
Fortune's now less frequent heir,
Ah! I husband what's grown rare.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Young, I said: 'A face is gone
If too hotly mus'd upon:
And our best impressions are
Those that do themselves repair.'
Many a face I then let by,
Ah! is faded utterly.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Marguerite says: 'As last year went,
So the coming year'll be spent:
Some day next year, I shall be,
Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee.'
Ah! I hope, yet, once away,
What may chain us, who can say?
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that lilac kerchief, bound
Her soft face, her hair around:
Tied under the archest chin
Mockery ever ambush'd in.
Let the fluttering fringes streak
All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint that figure's pliant grace
As she towards me lean'd her face,
Half refus'd and half resign'd,
Murmuring, 'Art thou still unkind?'
Many a broken promise then
Was new made, to break again.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,
Eager tell-tales of her mind
Paint, with their impetuous stress
Of inquiring tenderness,
Those frank eyes, where deep doth lie
An angelic gravity.
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
What, my Friends, these feeble lines
Show, you say, my love declines?
To paint ill as I have done,
Proves forgetfulness begun?
Time's gay minions, pleas'd you see,
Time, your master, governs me.
Pleas'd, you mock the fruitless cry
'Quick, thy tablets, Memory! '
Ah! too true. Time's current strong
Leaves us true to nothing long.
Yet, if little stays with man,
Ah! retain we all we can
If the clear impression dies,
Ah! the dim remembrance prize
Ere the parting hour go by,
Quick, thy tablets, Memory!
A Hymn - After Reading "Lead, Kindly Light."
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
For oh, my steps are weak,
And ever as I go,
Some soothing sentence speak;
That I may turn my face
Through doubt's obscurity
Toward thine abiding-place,
E'en tho' I cannot see.
For lo, the way is dark;
Through mist and cloud I grope,
Save for that fitful spark,
The little flame of hope.
Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
For fear that I may fall;
I know not where to go
Unless I hear thy call.
My fainting soul doth yearn
For thy green hills afar;
So let thy mercy burn--
My greater, guiding star!
Canadian Book Review Annual 1985
by Paul Cameron Brown

Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique...
Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic", c' est
partir pour un autre monde oil Paul Cameron Brown
envoute par les mots et les images.