DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Choice Of Sweet Shy Clare.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet sward - enjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.
They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one
By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be wooed and won - 
Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain,
Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love obtain.
The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy grace,
Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face:
"I ask not much in the favor'd one who this dainty hand would gain; - 
No ordeal long would I ask of him - no hours of mental pain.
"Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and pride,
To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride,
Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and gold, - 
Love's flame 'neath poverty's breath, 'tis said, soon waxes faint and cold."
Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien:
"Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I ween,
Thou askest paltry rank and wealth - aim higher would be mine!
Rare mental gold - the priceless fire of genius divine."
"And I," said a third, with soft sweet voice, "would exact still less than ye,
No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me;
Nor ask I that genius' lofty power in his ardent soul should dwell,
Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!"
Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and grace,
That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his race,
Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war,
Yet, with hand and voice, in lady's bower, attuned to light guitar.
And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild,
With a seraph's purity of look, and soft graces of a child;
"Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for thee,
Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart's young choice will be."
A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her brow,
And softly she murmured "Sisters, dear, I have made my choice ere now,
And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or divine.
In strange perfection - God like grace - will be found all, all in mine."
She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o'er those youthful brows of mirth,
They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King - the Lord of Heaven and earth;
And e'er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing knell,
The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent cell.
To Daffodils
by Robert Herrick

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
Welland River
by William Morris

Fair Ellayne she walk'd by Welland river,
Across the lily lee:
O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kind
To stay so long at sea.
Over the marshland none can see
Your scarlet pennon fair;
O, leave the Easterlings alone,
Because of my golden hair.
The day when over Stamford bridge
That dear pennon I see
Go up toward the goodly street,
'Twill be a fair day for me.
O, let the bonny pennon bide
At Stamford, the good town,
And let the Easterlings go free,
And their ships go up and down.
For every day that passes by
I wax both pale and green,
From gold to gold of my girdle
There is an inch between.
I sew'd it up with scarlet silk
Last night upon my knee,
And my heart grew sad and sore to think
Thy face I'd never see.
I sew'd it up with scarlet silk,
As I lay upon my bed:
Sorrow! the man I'll never see
That had my maidenhead.
But as Ellayne sat on her window-seat
And comb'd her yellow hair,
She saw come over Stamford bridge
The scarlet pennon fair.
As Ellayne lay and sicken'd sore,
The gold shoes on her feet,
She saw Sir Robert and his men
Ride up the Stamford street.
He had a coat of fine red gold,
And a bascinet of steel;
Take note his goodly Collayne sword
Smote the spur upon his heel.
And by his side, on a grey jennet,
There rode a fair lady,
For every ruby Ellayne wore,
I count she carried three.
Say, was not Ellayne's gold hair fine,
That fell to her middle free?
But that lady's hair down in the street,
Fell lower than her knee.
Fair Ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief,
Was waxen pale and green:
That lady's face was goodly red,
She had but little tene.
But as he pass'd by her window
He grew a little wroth:
O, why does yon pale face look at me
From out the golden cloth?
It is some burd, the fair dame said,
That aye rode him beside,
Has come to see your bonny face
This merry summer-tide.
But Ellayne let a lily-flower
Light on his cap of steel:
O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight,
The one has served me well;
But the other, just an hour agone,
Has come from over sea,
And all his fell is sleek and fine,
But little he knows of me.
Now, which shall I let go, fair knight,
And which shall bide with me?
O, lady, have no doubt to keep
The one that best loveth thee.
O, Robert, see how sick I am!
Ye do not so by me.
Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harm
While I was on the sea?
Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave,
I sicken to the death,
I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight,
Whiles that I have my breath.
Six fathoms from the Stamford bridge
He left that dame to stand,
And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursed
That she ever had taken land.
He has kiss'd sweet Ellayne on the mouth,
And fair she fell asleep,
And long and long days after that
Sir Robert's house she did keep.
Fair Eve
by John Frederick Freeman

Fair Eve, as fair and still
As fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill;
As still and fair
As the white cloud asleep in the deep air.
As cool, as fair and cool,
As starlight swimming in a lonely pool;
Subtle and mild
As through her eyes the soul looks of a child.
A linnet sings and sings,
A shrill swift cleaves the air with blackest wings;
White twinkletails
Run frankly in their meadow as day fails.
On such a night, a night
That seems but the full sleep of tired light,
I look and wait
For what I know not, looking long and late.
Is it for a dream I look,
A vision from the Tree of Heaven shook,
As sweetness shaken
From the fresh limes on lonely ways forsaken?
A dream of one, maybe,
Who comes like sudden wind from oversea?
Or most loved swallow
Whom all fair days and golden musics follow?--
More sudden yet, more strange
Than magic airs on magic hills that range:--
Of one who'll steep
The soul in soft forgetfulness ere it sleep.
Yes, down the hillside road,
Where Eve's unhasty feet so gently trod,
Follow His feet
Whose leaf-like echoes make even spring more sweet.
Sonnet. To ............ On Her Recovery From Illness.
by Thomas Gent

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way,
I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,
While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.
But who is she, that from the mountain's head
Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth;
The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,
And nature smiles with renovated mirth?
'Tis Health! she comes, and hark! the vallies ring.
And hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound;
She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,
And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.
And hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice,
Lift up thy head, fair flower! rejoice! rejoice!
My Eyes Make Pictures.
by George MacDonald

"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut."
COLERIDGE.
Fair morn, I bring my greeting
To lofty skies, and pale,
Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting
Before the driving gale,
The weary branches tossing,
Careless of autumn's grief,
Shadow and sunlight crossing
On each earth-spotted leaf.
I will escape their grieving;
And so I close my eyes,
And see the light boat heaving
Where the billows fall and rise;
I see the sunlight glancing
Upon its silvery sail,
Where a youth's wild heart is dancing,
And a maiden growing pale.
And I am quietly pacing
The smooth stones o'er and o'er,
Where the merry waves are chasing
Each other to the shore.
Words come to me while listening
Where the rocks and waters meet,
And the little shells are glistening
In sand-pools at my feet.
Away! the white sail gleaming!
Again I close my eyes,
And the autumn light is streaming
From pale blue cloudless skies;
Upon the lone hill falling
'Mid the sound of heather-bells,
Where the running stream is calling
Unto the silent wells.
Along the pathway lonely,
My horse and I move slow;
No living thing, save only
The home-returning crow.
And the moon, so large, is peering
Up through the white cloud foam;
And I am gladly nearing
My father's house, my home.
As I were gently dreaming
The solemn trees look out;
The hills, the waters seeming
In still sleep round about;
And in my soul are ringing
Tones of a spirit-lyre,
As my beloved were singing
Amid a sister-choir.
If peace were in my spirit,
How oft I'd close my eyes,
And all the earth inherit,
And all the changeful skies!
Thus leave the sermon dreary,
Thus leave the lonely hearth;
No more a spirit weary--
A free one of the earth!
To Blossoms
by Robert Herrick

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here a-while,
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a-while; they glide
Into the grave.
To A Haggis
by Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!
Night.
by Sidney Lanier

Fair is the wedded reign of Night and Day.
Each rules a half of earth with different sway,
Exchanging kingdoms, East and West, alway.
Like the round pearl that Egypt drunk in wine,
The sun half sinks i' the brimming, rosy brine:
The wild Night drinks all up: how her eyes shine!
Now the swift sail of straining life is furled,
And through the stillness of my soul is whirled
The throbbing of the hearts of half the world.
I hear the cries that follow Birth and Death.
I hear huge Pestilence draw his vaporous breath:
"Beware, prepare, or else ye die," he saith.
I hear a haggard student turn and sigh:
I hear men begging Heaven to let them die:
And, drowning all, a wild-eyed woman's cry.
So Night takes toll of Wisdom as of Sin.
The student's and the drunkard's cheek is thin:
But flesh is not the prize we strive to win.
Now airy swarms of fluttering dreams descend
On souls, like birds on trees, and have no end.
O God, from vulture-dreams my soul defend!
Let fall on Her a rose-leaf rain of dreams,
All passionate-sweet, as are the loving beams
Of starlight on the glimmering woods and streams.
Montgomery, Alabama, April, 1866.
To A Lady - In Answer To A Request That I Would Write Her A Poem Upon Some Drawings That She Had Made Of Flowers In The Island Of Madeira
by William Wordsworth

Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,
I who ne'er sate within their bowers,
Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed?
How they in sprightly dance are worn
By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,
Or holy festal pomps adorn,
These eyes have never seen.
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.
Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace:
A 'Heart's-ease' will perhaps be there,
A 'Speedwell' may not want its place.
And so may we, with charmed mind
Beholding what your skill has wrought,
Another 'Star-of-Bethlehem' find,
A new 'Forget-me-not'.
From earth to heaven with motion fleet
From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass,
A 'Holy-thistle' here we meet
And there a 'Shepherd's weather-glass';
And haply some familiar name
Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant
Whose presence cheers the drooping frame
Of English Emigrant.
Gazing she feels its powers beguile
Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;
Alas! that meek that tender smile
Is but a harbinger of death:
And pointing with a feeble hand
She says, in faint words by sighs broken,
Bear for me to my native land
This precious Flower, true love's last token.
The Song Sparrow
by Archibald Lampman

Fair little scout, that when the iron year
Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,
Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,
Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear
That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear;
Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow,
We hungered for some surer touch, and lo!
One morning we awake, and thou art here.
And thousands of frail-stemmed hepaticas,
With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues,
Light sleepers, ready for the golden news,
Spring at thy note beside the forest ways - 
Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour - 
The classic lyrist and the classic flower.
Lullaby; By The Sea
by Eugene Field

Fair is the castle up on the hill--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair, and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and to me
In this lowly home beside the sea--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
On yonder hill is store of wealth--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revellers drink to a little one's health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;
Oh, see them not and make no cry
Till the angels of death have passed us by--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
Ah, little they reck of you and me--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
In our lonely home beside the sea;
They seek the castle up on the hill,
And there they will do their ghostly will--
Hushaby, O my own!
Here by the sea a mother croons
"Hushaby, sweet my own!"
In yonder castle a mother swoons
While the angels go down to the misty deep,
Bearing a little one fast asleep--
Hushaby, sweet my own!
To -----.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Fair one! embodiment of Loveliness!
Angelic beauty beams upon thy countenance,
And from its image of Lucretian purity
Thine inborn virtue shines divinely forth.
Thy sparkling eyes of bright cerulean blue,
Rich sapphire gems, flash with Arcadian artlessness,
Impelling Cupid's arrows, passion-fraught,
Discharged from bow of myrtle 'gainst my heart,
Which throbs and flutters, quivering from the thrust.
A Portrait
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Fair faces crowd on Christmas night
Like seven suns a-row,
But all beyond is the wolfish wind
And the crafty feet of the snow.
But through the rout one figure goes
With quick and quiet tread;
Her robe is plain, her form is frail--
Wait if she turn her head.
I say no word of line or hue,
But if that face you see,
Your soul shall know the smile of faith's
Awful frivolity.
Know that in this grotesque old masque
Too loud we cannot sing,
Or dance too wild, or speak too wide
To praise a hidden thing.
That though the jest be old as night,
Still shaketh sun and sphere
An everlasting laughter
Too loud for us to hear.
Ellen Irwin
by William Wordsworth

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; 
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
And there did they beguile the day 
With love and gentle speeches, 
Beneath the budding beeches. 
From many knights and many squires 
The Bruce had been selected; 
And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
By Ellen was rejected. 
Sad tidings to that noble Youth! 
For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 
That Gordon loves as dearly. 
But what are Gordon's form and face, 
His shattered hopes and crosses, 
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, 
Reclined on flowers and mosses? 
Alas that ever he was born! 
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
Sees them and their caressing; 
Beholds them blest and blessing. 
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
That through his brain are travelling, 
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce 
He launched a deadly javelin! 
Fair Ellen saw it as it came, 
And, starting up to meet the same, 
Did with her body cover 
The Youth, her chosen lover. 
And, falling into Bruce's arms, 
Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
The mortal spear repelling. 
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; 
And fought with rage incessant 
Against the Moorish crescent. 
But many days, and many months, 
And many years ensuing, 
This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
The death that he was wooing. 
So, coming his last help to crave, 
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
His body he extended, 
And there his sorrow ended. 
Now ye, who willingly have heard 
The tale I have been telling, 
May in Kirkconnel churchyard view 
The grave of lovely Ellen: 
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; 
And, for the stone upon his head, 
May no rude hand deface it, 
And its forlorn "Hie jacet"!
Sonnet To----, On Her Recovery From Illness.
by Thomas Gent

Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way,
I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,
While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.
But who is she, that from the mountain's head
Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth?
The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,
And Nature smiles with renovated mirth?
'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring,
And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound:
She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,
And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.
And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice,
Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!
Translations of the Italian Poems I
by John Milton

Fair Lady, whose harmonious name the Rheno
Through all his grassy vale delights to hear,
Base were, indeed, the wretch, who could forbear
To love a spirit elegant as thine,
That manifests a sweetness all divine,
Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,
And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are,
Temp'ring thy virtues to a softer shine.
When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay
Such strains as might the senseless forest move,
Ah then turn each his eyes and ears away,
Who feels himself unworthy of thy love!
Grace can alone preserve him, e'er the dart
Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.
To A Lady, With A Present Of A Pair Of Drinking-Glasses.
by Robert Burns

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous toast,
"The whole of human kind!"
"To those who love us!" second fill;
But not to those whom we love;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third, "to thee and me, love!"
Prismatic Boston
by Arthur Macy

Fair city by the famed Batrachian Pool,
Wise in the teachings of the Concord School;
Home of the Eurus, paradise of cranks,
Stronghold of thrift, proud in your hundred banks;
Land of the mind-cure and the abstruse book,
The Monday lecture and the shrinking Cook;
Where twin-lensed maidens, careless of their shoes,
In phrase Johnsonian oft express their views;
Where realistic pens invite the throng
To mention "spades," lest "shovels" should be wrong;
Where gaping strangers read the thrilling ode
To Pilgrim Trousers on the West-End road;
Where strange sartorial questions as to pants
Offend our "sisters, cousins, and our aunts;"
Where men expect by simple faith and prayer
To lift a lid and find a dollar there;
Where labyrinthine lanes that sinuous creep
Make Theseus sigh and Ariadne weep;
Where clubs gregarious take commercial risks
'Mid fluctuations of alluring disks;
Where Beacon Hill is ever proud to show
Her reeking veins of liquid indigo;
To thee, fair land, I dedicate my song,
And tell how simple, artless minds go wrong.
A Common Councilman, with lordly air,
One day went strolling down through Copley Square.
Within his breast there beat a spotless heart;
His taste was pure, his soul was steeped in art.
For he had worshiped oft at Cass's shrine,
Had daily knelt at Cogswell's fount divine,
And chaste surroundings of the City Hall
Had taught him much, and so he knew it all.
Proud, in a sack coat and a high silk hat,
Content in knowing just "where he was at,"
He wandered on, till gazing toward the skies,
A nameless horror met his modest eyes;
For where the artist's chisel had engrossed
An emblem fit on Boston's proudest boast,
There stood aloft, with graceful equipoise,
Two very small, unexpurgated boys.
Filled with solicitude for city youth,
Whose morals suffer when they're told the truth,
Whose ethic standards high and higher rise,
When taught that God and nature are but lies,
In haste he to the council chamber hied,
His startled fellow-members called aside,
His fearful secret whispering disclosed,
Till all their separate joints were ankylosed.
Appalling was the silence at his tale;
Democrats turned red, Republicans turned pale.
What mugwumps turned 'tis difficult to think,
But probably they compromised on pink.
When these stern moralists had their breaths regained,
And told how deeply they were shocked and pained,
They then resolved how wrong our children are,
Said, "Boys should be contented with a scar,"
Rebuked Dame Nature for her deadly sins,
And damned trustees who foster "Heavenly Twins."
O Councilmen, if it were left for you
To say what art is false and what is true,
What strange anomalies would the world behold!
Dolls would be angels, dross would count for gold;
Vice would be virtue, virtues would be taints;
Gods would be devils, Councilmen be saints;
And this sage law by your wise minds be built:
"No boy shall live if born without a kilt."
Then you'd resolve, to soothe all moral aches,
"We're always right, but God has made mistakes."
A Lyke-wake Song
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Fair of face, full of pride,
Sit ye down by a dead man's side.
Ye sang songs a' the day:
Sit down at night in the red worm's way.
Proud ye were a' day long:
Ye'll be but lean at evensong.
Ye had gowd kells on your hair:
Nae man kens what ye were.
Ye set scorn by the silken stuff:
Now the grave is clean enough.
Ye set scorn by the rubis ring:
Now the worm is a saft sweet thing.
Fine gold and blithe fair face,
Ye are come to a grimly place.
Gold hair and glad grey een,
Nae man kens if ye have been.