DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Conscious
by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air--
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by--
No time to dream, and ask--he knows not what.
In Memoriam.
by James McIntyre

Lines on the death of my only son, who died on the 5th of July, 1876, on the anniversary of his mother's death.
His mother from celestial bower,
In the self-same day and hour
Of her death or heavenly birth,
Gazed again upon the earth,
And saw her gentle, loving boy,
Once source of fond maternal joy,
In anguish on a couch of pain.
She knew that earthly hopes were vain,
And beckoned him to realms above
To share with her the heavenly love.
The School-Taught Youth.
by Thomas Frederick Young

His step was light, and his looks as bright
As the beams of the morning sun,
And his boyish dreams, as the rippling streams
That gently onward run,
Without a shock from rugged rock
To check their course of glee,
As they wound their way, day after day,
To their destin'd goal, the sea.
He had come from the schools brimful of rules,
His head and note-book cramm'd
With varied lore; from many a shore
Pack'd solid in, e'en jamm'd.
He'd learn'd a part of many an art,
Had studied mathematics,
And thought he knew how people grew,
In palaces or attics.
He'd scann'd the page of many a sage,
And did his mind adorn
With classic sweets, and varied treats,
Preserv'd ere he was born.
"And now," says he, "upon life's sea,
I'll steer my bark so truly;"
"She is," he thought, "so trim and taut,
She cannot prove unruly."
He look'd each morn, with cultur'd scorn
On homely barks beside him,
And pass'd them by right merrily,
Whenever he espied them.
"O do but note how well they float,"
An aged man did say;
He pass'd him by with flashing eye:
"I've mark'd me out my way."
"And did you see how easily
Those ships their helm obey'd,
When in that storm your vessel's form
So near the rocks was laid.
Young man so stern, you've yet to learn
That sailing on life's sea
Is not an art to get by heart,
Just like the rule of three.
"You'll have to know this 'fleeting show,'
Tho' fleeting it may be,
Requires tact to think and act,
That is not known to thee."
Thus the old man said, but this youth so read
In varied arts and lore,
Bent not his neck, but trod the deck,
And calmly look'd on shore.
But soon the shore was seen no more,
The sea, so calm, got troubl'd;
The billows wild, no more beguil'd,
But round him boil'd and bubbl'd.
The craft it sway'd; the boy, dismay'd,
Saw how she rode unsteady;
The helm in vain they tug and strain,
For storms she is not ready.
She pitch'd and toss'd; she's lost! she's lost!
For see the rocks beside her;
Each effort's vain; she's cleft in twain,
And now, O woe betide her!
The old man spoke, as through her broke
The cruel rocks around her.
"Advice was vain; you took the chain,
And helplessly you bound her.
"For all your store of varied lore,
Tho' guidance and defence,
Was quite in vain to stand the strain,
Like rocks of common sense."
The Boatman Of Kinsale.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

Air--An Cota Caol.
I.
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast--
The Boatman of Kinsale.
II.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure--
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale--
De Courcy's heart is not so high--
The Boatman of Kinsale.
III.
The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer--
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along;
They'd like, but fear to rail;
His blood is hot, his blow is strong--
The Boatman of Kinsale.
IV.
His hooker's in the Scilly van
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me--
The Boatman of Kinsale.
How The Peaceful Aladdin Gave Way To His Madness
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

His name was Aladdin.
The clothes he was clad in
Proclaimed him an Arab at sight,
And he had for a chum
An uncommonly rum
Old afreet, six cubits in height.
This person infernal,
Who seemed so fraternal,
At bottom was frankly a scamp:
His future to sadden,
He gave to Aladdin
A wonderful magical lamp.
A marvel he dubbed it.
He said if one rubbed it
One's wishes were done on the spot.
Now what would you do
Were it offered to you?
Refuse it undoubtedly (not)!
It's thus comprehensive
With pleasure extensive
Aladdin accepted the gift,
And, by it befriended,
Erected a splendid
Ch'teau, with a bath and a lift!
Not dreaming of malice,
One year in his palace
He led a luxurious life,
Till his genius dread
Put it into his head
That he needed a beautiful wife.
Responding to friction,
The lamp this affliction
At once for Aladdin secured;
The latter, delighted,
Imagined he sighted
A future of quiet assured.
When gladly he chose her,
He didn't suppose her
A philatelist, always agape
For novelties, yet
She had all of the set
Of triangular stamps of the Cape.
Some people malicious
Proclaimed her Mauritius
One-penny vermilion a sell.
But that was all rot. It
Was true she had got it,
And the tuppenny blue one as well!
Since thus she collected,
As might be expected,
She didn't for bric-'-brac care,
So she traded the lamp
For an Ecuador stamp
That somebody told her was rare!
This act served to madden
The mind of Aladdin,
But, 'spite of his impotent wrath,
His manor-house vanished,
To nothingness banished,
And while he was taking a bath!
The average Arab
Is hard as a scarab
When some one has wounded his pride,
So he jumped up and down,
With a cynical frown,
On the face of his beautiful bride!
He had picked up a cargo
Of curious argot
While living in Paris the gay;
In the slang of that city
He cried without pity:
"Comme 'a tu me fich'ras la paix!"
The Moral: When stamps you're adept on
Of risks you are reckless, and yet
Beware! If your face is once stepped on,
That's the last stamp you're likely to get!
Our Autocrat
by John Greenleaf Whittier

His laurels fresh from song and lay,
Romance, art, science, rich in all,
And young of heart, how dare we say
We keep his seventieth festival?
No sense is here of loss or lack;
Before his sweetness and his light
The dial holds its shadow back,
The charmed hours delay their flight.
His still the keen analysis
Of men and moods, electric wit,
Free play of mirth, and tenderness
To heal the slightest wound from it.
And his the pathos touching all
Life's sins and sorrows and regrets,
Its hopes and fears, its final call
And rest beneath the violets.
His sparkling surface scarce betrays
The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled,
The wisdom of the latter days,
And tender memories of the old.
What shapes and fancies, grave or gay,
Before us at his bidding come
The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay,
The dumb despair of Elsie's doom!
The tale of Avis and the Maid,
The plea for lips that cannot speak,
The holy kiss that Iris laid
On Little Boston's pallid cheek!
Long may he live to sing for us
His sweetest songs at evening time,
And, like his Chambered Nautilus,
To holier heights of beauty climb,
Though now unnumbered guests surround
The table that he rules at will,
Its Autocrat, however crowned,
Is but our friend and comrade still.
The world may keep his honored name,
The wealth of all his varied powers;
A stronger claim has love than fame,
And he himself is only ours
The Lion's Court.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
His lion majesty would know, one day,
What bestial tribes were subject to his sway.
He therefore gave his vassals all,
By deputies a call,
Despatching everywhere
A written circular,
Which bore his seal, and did import
His majesty would hold his court
A month most splendidly; - 
A feast would open his levee,
Which done, Sir Jocko's sleight
Would give the court delight.
By such sublime magnificence
The king would show his power immense.
Now were they gather'd all
Within the royal hall. - 
And such a hall! The charnel scent
Would make the strongest nerves relent.
The bear put up his paw to close
The double access of his nose.
The act had better been omitted;
His throne at once the monarch quitted,
And sent to Pluto's court the bear,
To show his delicacy there.
The ape approved the cruel deed,
A thorough flatterer by breed.
He praised the prince's wrath and claws,
He praised the odour and its cause.
Judged by the fragrance of that cave,
The amber of the Baltic wave,
The rose, the pink, the hawthorn bank,
Might with the vulgar garlic rank.
The mark his flattery overshot,
And made him share poor Bruin's lot;
This lion playing in his way,
The part of Don Caligula.
The fox approach'd. 'Now,' said the king,
'Apply your nostrils to this thing,
And let me hear, without disguise,
The judgment of a beast so wise.'
The fox replied, 'Your Majesty will please
Excuse' - and here he took good care to sneeze; - 
'Afflicted with a dreadful cold,
Your majesty need not be told:
My sense of smell is mostly gone.'
From danger thus withdrawn,
He teaches us the while,
That one, to gain the smile
Of kings, must hold the middle place
'Twixt blunt rebuke and fulsome praise;
And sometimes use with easy grace,
The language of the Norman race.[2]
The Dog & The Shadow
by Walter Crane

His image the Dog did not know,
Or his bone's, in the pond's painted show:
"T'other dog," so he thought
"Has got more than he ought,"
So he snapped, & his dinner saw go!
Greed Is Sometimes Caught By Its Own Bait
Hither, Hither, Love
by John Keats

Hither hither, love
'Tis a shady mead
Hither, hither, love!
Let us feed and feed!
Hither, hither, sweet
'Tis a cowslip bed
Hither, hither, sweet!
'Tis with dew bespread!
Hither, hither, dear
By the breath of life,
Hither, hither, dear!
Be the summer's wife!
Though one moment's pleasure
In one moment flies
Though the passion's treasure
In one moment dies;
Yet it has not passed,
Think how near, how near!
And while it doth last,
Think how dear, how dear!
Hither, hither, hither
Love its boon has sent
If I die and wither
I shall die content!
On The Death Of A Minister.
by William Cowper

His master taken from his head,
Elisha saw him go;
And in desponding accents said,
'Ah, what must Israel do?'
But he forgot the Lord who lifts
The beggar to the throne;
Nor knew, that all Elijah's gifts
Will soon be made his own.
What! when a Paul has run his course,
Or when Apollos dies,
Is Israel left without resource?
And have we no supplies?
Yes, while the dear Redeemer lives
We have a boundless store,
And shall be fed with what he gives,
Who lives for evermore.
The Dying Hero.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

His greatness hath not left him; till the years
Have won the nation from her children dead,
And robbed her of remembrance where she rears
Her monuments above the blood they shed,
Will his name want for homage; with sad fears
The Union winds her garlands o'er his head,
And fondly wreathes her love, bedewed with tears,
To bless the hero on his dying bed.
His luster lives untarnished; as he lies
Where Malady has bound him in wild pain,
And only Death can loose the heavy chain
That galls her captive while his nature dies,
He seems far greater in his country's eyes,
Than if an Appomattox spake again.
The Fugitive
by John Le Gay Brereton

His shatter'd Empire thunders to the ground:
A myriad hearts peal laughter as it falls,
While red flags flutter on its ruined walls
And living joy darts all the world around.
The imperial criminal, naked and uncrowned,
Breathing a shuddering air of curses, crawls,
Baffled and beaten, from his gorgeous halls,
While Vengeance halloos lapdog, cur and hound.
Behold the arrogant humbled, and rejoice
The grasping hand holds naught but flying dust,
And Envy meets the pitiless grin of Fate.
Take warning of your own heart's inward voice,
Bid your own soul be humble and distrust
The yelping promises of greed and hate.
Fergus And The Druid
by William Butler Yeats

(Fergus.) This whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to
shape,
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.
(Druid.) What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?
(Fergus.) This would I Say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, So I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.
(Druid.) What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?
(Fergus.) A king and proud! and that is my despair.
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot-wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head
(Druid.) What would you, Fergus?
(Fergus.) Be no more a king
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
(Druid.) Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks
And on these hands that may not lift the sword,
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman's loved me, no man sought my help.
(Fergus.) A king is but a foolish labourer
Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.
(Druid.) Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
(Fergus.) I See my life go drifting like a river
From change to change; I have been many things --
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold --
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!
Listening
by Fay Inchfawn

His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain
That hurtles on the window pane.
Let's draw the curtains close and sit
Beside the fire awhile and knit.
Two purl -- two plain. A well-shaped sock,
And warm. (I thought I heard a knock,
But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.)
Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before
The fleecy wools -- a different thing,
And best for wear. (Was that his ring?)
No. 'Tis the muffin man I see;
We'll have threepennyworth for tea.
Two plain -- two purl; that heel is neat.
(I hear his step far down the street.)
Two purl -- two plain. The sock can wait;
I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!)
The Burial Of Love
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

His eyes in eclipse,
Pale-cold his lips,
The light of his hopes unfed,
Mute his tongue,
His bow unstrung
With the tears he hath shed,
Backward drooping his graceful head,
Love is dead:
His last arrow is sped;
He hath not another dart;
Go'carry him to his dark deathbed;
Bury him in the cold, cold heart'
Love is dead.
O truest love! art thou forlorn,
And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?
Shall hollow-hearted apathy,
The cruellest form of perfect scorn,
With languor of most hateful smiles,
For ever write,
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye,
And epitaph that all may spy?
No! sooner she herself shall die.
For her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;
Her light shall into darkness change;
For her the green grass shall not spring,
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,
Till Love have his full revenge.
Youth
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird,
Swift on the weary road his footfall comes;
The dusty air that by his stride is stirred
Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums.
"Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break;
To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!"
Yet long ago that merry march began,
His feet are older than the path they tread;
His music is the morning-song of man,
His stride the stride of all the valiant dead;
His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes
Deep with the old, old dream that never dies.
Veni, Vidi, Victus sum.
by W. M. MacKeracher

to -----.
Hither led by fancy's hand,
Once again I seem to stand
In that hall in which this eye,
Blind before to beauty's ray,
Lighted up in ecstasy
Instantly it gazed on thee;
Here too was it where this heart,
Previous proof to Cupid's dart,
In thy presence trembled, fell;
Fearful, fluttered 'neath thy spell;
All so sudden, so complete,
Chronicled in words 'twere meet
Such as C'sar's famous three,
Which will well apply to me,
If the classic clause become, -
Veni, vidi, victus sum.
Sonnet. On The Death Of Toussaint L'Ouverture.
by Thomas Gent

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!
Cupid Turned Ploughman. - From Moschus
by Matthew Prior

His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And as I bid you let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was Nannette is now.
Reminiscences Of The Departed.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

His mission soon accomplished,
His race on earth soon run,
He passed to realms of glory,
Above the rising sun.
So beautiful that infant,
When in death's arms he lay;
It seemed like peaceful slumber,
That morn might chase away.
But morning light was powerless,
Those eyelids to unclose;
And sunshine saw and left him,
In undisturbed repose.
The light of those blue orbs
That drank the sunbeams in,
Now yields to night, and darkness
Holds undisputed reign.
That little form so graceful,
The light brown chestnut hair;
Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;
All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
His life, when called to yield it
By Him that life who gave.
So soon his voyage ended,
The passage home so short,
Before he knew of evil,
He entered safe the port.
Since thee, my child, I saw,
Long years have passed away;
Thy mother's hair then brown,
Now's intermixed with gray.
Another link's been broken,
By death's relentless hand;
A daughter has been taken,
The eldest of the band.
Thy little lamp of life,
Was put out in a day;
But hers was years expiring,
By slow yet sure decay.
But one short year of life,
Was all allotted thee;
But she, thy eldest sister,
Was many years spared me.
And though long since we parted,
On earth to meet no more;
I'd think of thee as children
"Not lost, but gone before."
Feb. 20, 1853.
History
by Robert Lowell

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had,
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends,
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose,
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
Peter's Prayer.
by John Hartley

His face wor varry thin an pale,
His een wor strangely breet;
His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale,
An shooless wor his feet.
His teeth they chattered in his heead,
His hands had lost ther use,
He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead,
But nobbut gate abuse.
A curse wor tremblin on his tongue,
But with a mad despair,
He curbed it wi' an effort strong,
An changed it for a prayer.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "spare, - spare aw pray!
Have mercy an forgive;
Befooar too lat, show me some way
My wife an bairns can live!"
"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day,
Ov hundreds, - thaasands spent
For shot an shell, an things to swell
This nation's armament.
Into fowk's hearts, oh, God! instil
A love ov peace, an then,
Maybe we'st have some better times,
An men can help thersen.
Aw nobbut want a chonce to live,
One cannot wish for less;
Wars fill this world wi' misery, - 
Peace gives us happiness.
If monarchs dooant get quite as mich,
Ther joys need not decrease; - 
Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich; - 
We've but one soul apiece."
The Boatman Of Kinsale
by Thomas Osborne Davis

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail
More bravely than he guards my breast
The Boatman of Kinsale.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure,
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale,
De Courcy's heart is not so high
The Boatman of Kinsale.
The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer,
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along:
They'd like, but fear to rail:
His blood is hot, his blow is strong
The Boatman of Kinsale.
His hooker's in the Scilly van,
When seines are in the foam,
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home,
So, bless'd with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He 'll trust in God, and cling to me
The Boatman of Kinsale.
In Hospital - XI - Clinical
by William Ernest Henley

Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes,
Louder and nearer
Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you,
Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.
In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet nerving you.    Here at his elbow,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fretful with quills.
Here in the ruck, anyhow,
Surging along,
Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs -
Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles -
Hustles the Class!    And they ring themselves
Round the first bed, where the Chief
(His dressers and clerks at attention),
Bends in inspection already.
So shows the ring
Seen from behind round a conjurer
Doing his pitch in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;
While from within a voice,
Gravely and weightily fluent,
Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly
(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)
Out of a quiver of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quick intaken through teeth
Clenched in resolve.    And the Master
Breaks from the crowd, and goes,
Wiping his hands,
To the next bed, with his pupils
Flocking and whispering behind him.
Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes
Stripped up, and showing his foot
(Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint
Brilliantly hideous with red.