DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.
by Robert Burns

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious I pursue,
'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;
The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam.
*             *             *             *             *
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.
*             *             *             *             *
Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.
*             *             *             *             *
At Sunset Time
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Adown the west a golden glow
Sinks burning in the sea,
And all the dreams of long ago
Come flooding back to me.
The past has writ a story strange
Upon my aching heart,
But time has wrought a subtle change,
My wounds have ceased to smart.
No more the quick delight of youth,
No more the sudden pain,
I look no more for trust or truth
Where greed may compass gain.
What, was it I who bared my heart
Through unrelenting years,
And knew the sting of misery's dart,
The tang of sorrow's tears?
'Tis better now, I do not weep,
I do not laugh nor care;
My soul and spirit half asleep
Drift aimless everywhere.
We float upon a sluggish stream,
We ride no rapids mad,
While life is all a tempered dream
And every joy half sad.
The Dark River.
by Walter R. Cassels

Across the mountains and the hills,
Across the valleys and the swelling seas,
By lakes and rivers whose deep murmur fills
Earth's dreams with sweet prophetic melodies,
Together have we come unto this place,
And here we say farewell a little space:
You, backward turning through the land,
To tarry 'mid its beauty yet awhile--
I, o'er the River, to another strand
With cheerful heart, so part we with a smile.
Shall space have any power o'er god-like souls?
Love shall bridge o'er the stream that 'twixt us rolls!
Together wend we to the tide,
And as the first wave wets my foot, we part;--
E'en now methinks I see the other side;
And, though the stream be swift, a steady heart
And stalwart arm shall quell its cold dark waves.
Faith falters not e'en when the tempest raves.
Dark stream flowing so blackly on,
Thy turbid billows roll o'er golden sands;
Beneath the surface all thy fear is gone,
And precious gems fill full the diver's hands.
Yet how the heart lists breathless for the roar
Of billows plashing on the other shore!
_The other shore!_--Oh thou dim Land!
Hid by faint mists from the spent swimmer's eyes,
Until upon the sloping bank he stand,
Mute in the light of Eden-mysteries;
Thou golden Ophir of Youth's spirit-dream,
Shall I then reach thee through this turbid stream?
Friend! quail not! This same gloomy tide
Rolling its fearful breakers to the shore,
Shall be transform'd, upon the other side,
Into the crystal Life-stream, shaded o'er
By Paradisal groves, whose mellow fruit
Shall heal the sorrows of the destitute.
These ghostly vapours, brooding low,
Shall melt to sunny glories o'er my head,
And through them shall the golden city glow,
Whither I hasten singing, angel-led;
Friend! there is but a cloud-veil 'twixt us and the light,
One step beyond, and Heaven is in our sight.
Now the stream laps my vesture hem;
Back thou from my sad bosom to the world,
Leaving me here this current cold to stem;
Soon from thy sight shall I be swiftly whirl'd
Into the mystic darkness--never fear!
God's hand shall guide me unto vision clear.
Already thou art growing dim,
And distant on the fast receding shore;
The tide is strong, but still I trust in Him,
And know that I shall safely struggle o'er,
For now the plash on yonder shore I hear,
Amid sweet angel voices calm and clear.
Early Adieux
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Adieu to kindred hearts and home,
To pleasure, joy, and mirth,
A fitter foot than mine to roam
Could scarcely tread the earth;
For they are now so few indeed
(Not more than three in all),
Who e'er will think of me or heed
What fate may me befall.
For I through pleasure's paths have run
My headlong goal to win,
Nor pleasure's snares have cared to shun
When pleasure sweetened sin.
Let those who will their failings mask,
To mine I frankly own;
But for them pardon will I ask
Of none, save Heaven alone.
From carping friends I turn aside;
At foes defiance frown;
Yet time may tame my stubborn pride,
And break my spirit down.
Still, if to error I incline,
Truth whispers comfort strong,
That never reckless act of mine
E'er worked a comrade wrong.
My mother is a stately dame,
Who oft would chide with me;
She saith my riot bringeth shame,
And stains my pedigree.
I'd reck not what my friends might know,
Or what the world might say,
Did I but think some tears would flow
When I am far away.
Perchance my mother will recall
My mem'ry with a sigh;
My gentle sister's tears may fall,
And dim her laughing eye;
Perhaps a loving thought may gleam,
And fringe its saddened ray,
When, like a nightmare's troubled dream,
I, outcast, pass away.
Then once again farewell to those
Whoe'er for me have sighed;
For pleasures melt away like snows,
And hopes like shadows glide.
Adieu, my mother! if no more
Thy son's face thou may'st see,
At least those many cares are o'er
So ofttimes caused by me.
My lot is fixed! The die is cast!
For me home hath no joy!
Oh, pardon then all follies past,
And bless your wayward boy!
And thou, from whom for aye to part
Grieves more than tongue can tell,
May Heaven preserve thy guileless heart,
Sweet sister, fare thee well!
Thou, too, whose loving-kindness makes
My resolution less,
While from the bitter past it takes
One half its bitterness,
If e'er you held my mem'ry dear,
Grant this request, I pray,
Give to that mem'ry one bright tear,
And let it pass away.
Vulcans
by Paul Cameron Brown

Adder toothed flowers snake
the broken ground where
molten tongues cremated
the twisted, bunker forms - 
a Latin cross of
green jubilation
lies matted atop a
sweating road, calligraphy in broken stone.
As trembling shale collapses into thin hills,
light fuels to cross the Pale.
A little exploratory weeding droops this lava rain.
A long, dove fence comprised
of stones & rattled by ancient slaves
winds its distance
along the gully
borne in fire, percussion caps,
cretin growth
lobbed under
creeping wire.
Shafts of pioneer light
delight in coral baskets,
empty twilight darts the
agave swords' mauve pitcher plants.
The 1692 Tremens decimated Port Royal[1]
- moved a ravine from
florid to mossy shadow
where antler shoots today announce
temperate plants, eclipse by-gone tropic flowers.
[1] An earthquake destroyed in the seventeenth century not only the
stronghold of Jamaica's pirates but also changed the topography of
the North Shore creating Fern Gully.
Across The Sea Along The Shore
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Across the sea, along the shore,
In numbers more and ever more,
From lonely hut and busy town,
The valley through, the mountain down,
What was it ye went out to see,
Ye silly folk Galilee?
The reed that in the wind doth shake?
The weed that washes in the lake?
The reeds that waver, the weeds that float?
A young man preaching in a boat.
What was it ye went out to hear
By sea and land from far and near?
A teacher? Rather seek the feet
Of those who sit in Moses' seat.
Go humbly seek, and bow to them,
Far off in great Jerusalem.
From them that in her courts ye saw,
Her perfect doctors of the law,
What is it came ye here to note?
A young man preaching in a boat.
A prophet! Boys and women weak!
Declare, or cease to rave;
Whence is it he hath learned to speak?
Say, who his doctrine gave?
A prophet? Prophet wherefore he
Of all in Israel tribes?
He teacheth with authority,
And not as do the Scribes.
The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'."
I.
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu!
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,
Companions of my social joy!
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
II.
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light:
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'.
III.
May freedom, harmony, and love
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
IV.
And you farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the Bard that's far awa'.
The House-Mother
by Fay Inchfawn

Across the town the evening bell is ringing;
Clear comes the call, through kitchen windows winging!
Lord, knowing Thou art kind,
I heed Thy call to prayer.
I have a soul to save;
A heart which needs, I think, a double share
Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave.
Hope, faith and diligence, and patient care,
With meekness, grace, and lowliness of mind.
Lord, wilt Thou grant all these
To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease?
They do not know,
The passers-by, who go
Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set;
Who throng about Thy seat,
And sing Thy praises sweet,
Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet;
They do not know . . .
And, if they knew, then would they greatly care
That Thy tired handmaid washed the children's hair;
Or, with red roughened hands, scoured dishes well,
While through the window called the evening bell?
And that her seeking soul looks upward yet,
THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt not forget
A Girl's Faith
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Across the miles that stretch between,
Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,
There shines a face I have not seen
Which yet doth make my world more bright.
He may be near, he may be far,
Or near or far I cannot see,
But faithful as the morning star
He yet shall rise and come to me.
What though fate leads us separate ways,
The world is round, and time is fleet.
A journey of a few brief days,
And face to face we two shall meet.
Shall meet beneath God's arching skies,
While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam,
And looking in each other's eyes
Shall hold the past but as a dream.
But round and perfect and complete,
Life like a star shall climb the height,
As we two press with willing feet
Together toward the Infinite.
And still behind the space between,
As back of dawns the sunbeams play,
There shines the face I have not seen,
Whose smile shall wake my world to-day.
Ae Fond Kiss.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Rory Dall's Port."
I.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
II.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.
III.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas! for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Constantinople - Retour En Songe
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

After a dream-dim voyage
We came with sails all set
Towards the city of the sea,
And it was wonderful to me
To find her reigning yet.
Oh beauty that my eyes and heart
Had feasted on before!
The evening mosques were brushed with gold,
The water lapped a lazy fold
Upon that lovely shore;
The gardens of her terraced hills
Rose up above the port,
And little houses half concealed
The presence of a light revealed,
And here my journey's end was sealed,
And I reached the home I sought.
Those windows I had opened wide
To welcome in the sun!
Those stairs that only happy feet
Had measured with their running beat!
That well-remembered winding street!
Twelve months that were as one!
Should others with their sordid cares
And troubles enter here?
Love hung about the rooms like smoke,
And peace descended as a cloak,
Should I allow the vulgar folk
To desecrate that year?
I laid the fuse with steady hand;
We sailed into the night,
From deck I watched the flames arise
Remorseless as my tearless eyes
That, with the waves and reddened skies,
Flung back the angry light.
Persecutions Profitable.
by Robert Herrick

Afflictions they most profitable are
To the beholder and the sufferer:
Bettering them both, but by a double strain,
The first by patience, and the last by pain.
On the Men of Maine killed in the Victory of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
by Herman Melville

Afar they fell. It was the zone
Of fig and orange, cane and lime
(A land how all unlike their own,
With the cold pine-grove overgrown),
But still their Country's clime.
And there in youth they died for her - 
The Volunteers,
For her went up their dying prayers:
So vast the Nation, yet so strong the tie.
What doubt shall come, then, to deter
The Republic's earnest faith and courage high.
The King And The Sea
by Rudyard Kipling

After His Realms and States were moved 
To bare their hearts to the King they loved, 
Tendering themselves in homage and devotion, 
The Tide Wave up the Channel spoke
To all those eager, exultant folk:
"Hear now what Man was given you by the Ocean! 
"There was no thought of Orb or Crown
When the single wooden chest went down
To the steering-flat, and the careless Gunroom haled him 
To learn by ancient and bitter use,
How neither Favour nor Excuse,
Nor aught save his sheer self henceforth availed him. 
"There was no talk of birth or rank
By the slung hammock or scrubbed plank 
In the steel-grated prisons where 1 cast him; 
But niggard hours and a narrow space
For rest-and the naked light on his face
While the ship's traffic flowed, unceasing, past him. 
"Thus I schooled him to go and come
To speak at the word-at a sign be dumb; 
To stand to his task, not seeking others to aid him; 
To share in honour what praise might fall
For the task accomplished, and-over all
To swallow rebuke in silence. Thus I made him. 
"I loosened every mood of the deep
On him, a child and sick for sleep,
Through the long watches that no time can measure, 
When I drove him, deafened and choked and blind, 
At the wave-tops cut and spun by the wind; 
Lashing him, face and eyes, with my displeasure.
"I opened him all the guile of the seas,
Their sullen, swift-sprung treacheries, 
To be fought, or forestalled, or dared, or dismissed with laughter.
I showed him Worth by Folly concealed, 
And the flaw in the soul that a chance revealed 
(Lessons remembered-to bear fruit thereafter). 
"I dealt him Power beneath his hand,
For trial and proof, with his first Command,
Himself alone, and no man to gainsay him. 
On him the End, the Means, and the Word, 
And the harsher judgment if he erred, 
And-outboard-Ocean waiting to betray him. 
"Wherefore, when he came to be crowned, 
Strength in Duty held him bound,
So that not Power misled nor ease ensnared him
Who had spared himself no more than his seas had spared him!"
.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
After His Lieges, in all His Lands,
Had laid their hands between His hands,
And His ships thundered service and devotion, 
The Tide Wave, ranging the Planet, spoke 
On all Our foreshores as it broke:
"Know now what Man 1 gave you-I, the Ocean!"
At General Grant's Tomb.
by Hattie Howard

Afar my loyal spirit stirred
At mention of his name;
Afar in ringing notes I heard
The clarion voice of fame;
So to his tomb, hope long deferred,
With reverent step I came.
The pilgrim muse revivified
A half-forgotten day:
A slow procession, tearful-eyed,
In funeral array,
And from MacGregor's lonely side
A hero borne away.
Here sleeps he now, where long ago
Hath nature raised his mound:
A mighty channel far below,
Divided hills around,
Where countless thousands come and go
As to a shrine renowned.
With awe do strangers' eyes discern
A casket mid the green
Luxuriance of flower and fern;
Airy and cool and clean,
Unchanged from spring to spring's return,
This charnel chamber scene.
His country's weal his care and thought,
Beloved in peace was he;
Magnanimous in war - shall not
The nation grateful be,
And render at his burial spot
A testimonial free?
Oh, let us, ere the days come on
When energy is spent,
To him, the silent soldier gone,
Statesman and President,
On Riverside's majestic lawn
Uprear a monument.
The Convert
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

After one moment when I bowed my head
And the whole world turned over and came upright,
And I came out where the old road shone white,
I walked the ways and heard what all men said,
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed,
Being not unlovable but strange and light;
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite
But softly, as men smile about the dead.
The sages have a hundred maps to give
That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree,
They rattle reason out through many a sieve
That stores the sand and lets the gold go free:
And all these things are less than dust to me
Because my name is Lazarus and I live.
The Forgotten Grave.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place, --
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way, --
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
Gustav Richter
by Edgar Lee Masters

After a long day of work in my hot - houses
Sleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left side
Your dreams may be abruptly ended.
I was among my flowers where some one
Seemed to be raising them on trial,
As if after-while to be transplanted
To a larger garden of freer air.
And I was disembodied vision
Amid a light, as it were the sun
Had floated in and touched the roof of glass
Like a toy balloon and softly bursted,
And etherealized in golden air.
And all was silence, except the splendor
Was immanent with thought as clear
As a speaking voice, and I, as thought,
Could hear a
Presence think as he walked
Between the boxes pinching off leaves,
Looking for bugs and noting values,
With an eye that saw it all:
"Homer, oh yes! Pericles, good.
Caesar Borgia, what shall be done with it?
Dante, too much manure, perhaps.
Napoleon, leave him awhile as yet.
Shelley, more soil.    Shakespeare, needs spraying - "
Clouds, eh! -
Herba Santa
by Herman Melville

I
After long wars when comes release
Not olive wands proclaiming peace
Can import dearer share
Than stems of Herba Santa hazed
In autumn's Indian air.
Of moods they breathe that care disarm,
They pledge us lenitive and calm.
II
Shall code or creed a lure afford
To win all selves to Love's accord?
When Love ordained a supper divine
For the wide world of man,
What bickerings o'er his gracious wine!
Then strange new feuds began.
Effectual more in lowlier way,
Pacific Herb, thy sensuous plea
The bristling clans of Adam sway
At least to fellowship in thee!
Before thine altar tribal flags are furled,
Fain wouldst thou make one hearthstone of the world.
III
To scythe, to sceptre, pen and hod--
Yea, sodden laborers dumb;
To brains overplied, to feet that plod,
In solace of the Truce of God
The Calumet has come!
IV
Ah for the world ere Raleigh's find
Never that knew this suasive balm
That helps when Gilead's fails to heal,
Helps by an interserted charm.
Insinuous thou that through the nerve
Windest the soul, and so canst win
Some from repinings, some from sin,
The Church's aim thou dost subserve.
The ruffled fag fordone with care
And brooding, God would ease this pain:
Him soothest thou and smoothest down
Till some content return again.
Even ruffians feel thy influence breed
Saint Martin's summer in the mind,
They feel this last evangel plead,
As did the first, apart from creed,
Be peaceful, man--be kind!
V
Rejected once on higher plain,
O Love supreme, to come again
Can this be thine?
Again to come, and win us too
In likeness of a weed
That as a god didst vainly woo,
As man more vainly bleed?
VI
Forbear, my soul! and in thine Eastern chamber
Rehearse the dream that brings the long release:
Through jasmine sweet and talismanic amber
Inhaling Herba Santa in the passive Pipe of Peace.
Sea-Born
by Virna Sheard

Afar in the turbulent city,
In a hive where men make gold,
He stood at his loom from dawn to dark,
While the passing years were told.
And when he knew it was summer-time
By the grey dust on the street,
By the lingering hours of daylight,
And the sultry noon-tide heat - 
Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird
To leave his cage and be free,
For his heart like a shell kept singing
The old, old song of the sea.
And amid the noise and confusion
Of wheels that were never still,
He heard the wind through the scented pines
On a rough, storm-beaten hill;
While, beyond a maze of painted threads,
Where his tireless shuttle flew,
In fancy he saw the sunlit waves
Beckon him out to the blue.
Afraid? Of Whom Am I Afraid?
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father's lodge
As much abasheth me.
Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.
Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown!
Songs Without Sense
by Bret Harte (Francis)

I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL
Affection's charm no longer gilds
The idol of the shrine;
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
Regret's ambrosial wine.
Though Friendship's offering buried lies
'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
Regard and Faith will ever bloom
Perpetually below.
I see thee whirl in marble halls,
In Pleasure's giddy train;
Remorse is never on that brow,
Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
Deceit has marked thee for her own;
Inconstancy the same;
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
Athwart thy path of shame.
II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC
The dews are heavy on my brow;
My breath comes hard and low;
Yet, mother dear, grant one request,
Before your boy must go.
Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,
And ere my senses fail,
Place me once more, O mother dear,
Astride the old fence-rail.
The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!
How oft these youthful legs,
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung
Across those wooden pegs!
'Twas there the nauseating smoke
Of my first pipe arose:
O mother dear, these agonies
Are far less keen than those.
I know where lies the hazel dell,
Where simple Nellie sleeps;
I know the cot of Nettie Moore,
And where the willow weeps.
I know the brookside and the mill,
But all their pathos fails
Beside the days when once I sat
Astride the old fence-rails.
III. SWISS AIR
I'm a gay tra, la, la,
With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright
And my light
Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]
Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
And ring, ting, ling, ling,
And sing fal, la, la,
La, la, le. [Repeat.]