DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Minnie
by Kate Seymour Maclean

"And Jesu called a little child unto him."
MATT. xviii. 2.
Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.
Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed,
Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny    head;
Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake,
I stretch my empty arms for thee,--my heart--my heart will break.
The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill,
The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still;
And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light,
Have lain beneath them--can it be?--a whole day and a night.
The autumn winds will sigh and moan; the dreary, dreary rain
Will drench thy lowly pillow, sweet, with tears like mine in vain;
And weary, weary months drag on, and long years stretch before,
Whilst thou to me, my beautiful, returnest nevermore.
Beyond our earthly vision--beyond the burial sod,
Where the palm trees and the amaranths grow on the hills of God,
Oh, golden gates, that stand within the holy, heavenly place,
Open for me but a little, that I may behold her face.
Open for me but a little, that I may touch her hand,
And hear her sing the hymn she loved about "The Promised Land."
Oh, my blossom! Oh, my darling! though it be but in a dream,
Speak to me,--I watch--I listen,--speak to me across the stream.
Kneeling--praying at the threshold--day and night, and night and day,
When I rise with heavy eyelids--when I kneel at night to pray--
Still I wait to catch the far-off music of they starry hymn,
Till I hear the voice that called thee bid me rise and enter in.
Manipulation
by Richard Harris Barham

Oh, my head! my head! my head!
Lack! for my poor unfortunate head!
Mister de Ville
Has been to feel,
And what do you think he said?
He felt it up, and he felt it down,
Behind the ears, and across the crown,
Sinciput, occiput, great and small,
Bumps and organs, he tickled 'em all;
And he shook his own, as he gravely said,
'Sir, you really have got a most singular head!
'Why here's a bump,
Only feel what a lump;
Why the organ of "Sound" is an absolute hump;
And only feel here,
Why, behind each ear,
There's a bump for a butcher or a bombardier;
Such organs of slaughter
Would spill blood like water;
Such "lopping and topping" of heads and of tails,
Why, you'll cut up a jackass with Alderman S'.'
[Caetera desunt.]
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXVI. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

THE KEYS OF CANTERBURY.
Oh, madam, I will give you the keys of Canterbury,
To set all the bells ringing when we shall be merry,
If you will but walk abroad with me,
If you will but walk with me.
Sir, I'll not accept of the keys of Canterbury,
To set all the bells ringing when we shall be merry;
Neither will I walk abroad with thee,
Neither will I talk with thee!
Oh, madam, I will give you a fine carved comb,
To comb out your ringlets when I am from home,
If you will but walk with me, & c.
Sir, I'll not accept, & c.
Oh, madam, I will give you a pair of shoes of cork,[*]
One made in London, the other made in York,
If you will but walk with me, & c.
Sir, I'll not accept, & c.
Madam, I will give you a sweet silver bell,[+]
To ring up your maidens when you are not well,
If you will but walk with me, & c.
Sir, I'll not accept, & c.
Oh, my man John, what can the matter be?
I love the lady and the lady loves not me!
Neither will she walk abroad with me,
Neither will she talk with me.
Oh, master dear, do not despair,
The lady she shall be, shall be your only dear,
And she will walk and talk with thee,
And she will walk with thee!
Oh, madam, I will give you the keys of my chest,
To count my gold and silver when I am gone to rest,
If you will but walk abroad with me,
If you will but talk with me.
Oh, sir, I will accept of the keys of your chest,
To count your gold and silver when you are gone to rest,
And I will walk abroad with thee,
And I will talk with thee!
Sonnet.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball.
Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,
Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?
'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush,
Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,
Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,
Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,
Along the heaven's amber-paved floor,
The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.
O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow
Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair
Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere
Day's chariot-wheels upon th' horizon glow,
Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,
And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.
Sonnet VIII
by Alan Seeger

Oh, love of woman, you are known to be
A passion sent to plague the hearts of men;
For every one you bring felicity
Bringing rebuffs and wretchedness to ten.
I have been oft where human life sold cheap
And seen men's brains spilled out about their ears
And yet that never cost me any sleep;
I lived untroubled and I shed no tears.
Fools prate how war is an atrocious thing;
I always knew that nothing it implied
Equalled the agony of suffering
Of him who loves and loves unsatisfied.
War is a refuge to a heart like this;
Love only tells it what true torture is.
Poe.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
Oh, melancholy child of want and woe!
A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!
Thy soul's weird music all did flow
From heart-strings touched by destiny!
II.
The Raven, perched above thy chamber door,
Responsive croaked with a prophetic word--
For in the realm of song may "Nevermore"
Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard!
III.
Where now doth that proud spirit dwell,
Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom?
In regions with the sweet-voiced "Israfel,"
Where never-fading flowerets bloom?
IV.
Dost rest within some "distant Aidenn,
Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore?
And clasp again a sainted maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore?"
V.
Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time"
Will have a tone that ages yet will know,
And blend with all that's beautiful--sublime--
The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe!
The Knights Of St. John.
by Friedrich Schiller

Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherub's sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far,
When by the sick man's bed ye stood, O lions of the war!
When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness,
The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness 
Religion of the cross, thou blend'st, as in a single flower,
The twofold branches of the palm humility and power. [49]
The Destruction Of Magdeburg.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Oh, Magdeberg the town!
Fair maids thy beauty crown,
Thy charms fair maids and matrons crown;
Oh, Magdeburg the town!
Where all so blooming stands,
Advance fierce Tilly's bands;
O'er gardens and o'er well till'd lands
Advance fierce Tilly's bands.
Now Tilly's at the gate.
Our homes who'll liberate?
Go, loved one, hasten to the gate,
And dare the combat straight!
There is no need as yet,
However fierce his threat;
Thy rosy cheeks I'll kiss, sweet pet!
There is no need as yet.
My longing makes me pale.
Oh, what can wealth avail?
E'en now thy father may be pale.
Thou mak'st my courage fail.
Oh, mother, give me bread!
Is then my father dead?
Oh, mother, one small crust of bread!
Oh, what misfortune dread!
Thy father, dead lies he,
The trembling townsmen flee,
Adown the street the blood runs free;
Oh, whither shall we flee?
The churches ruined lie,
The houses burn on high,
The roofs they smoke, the flames out fly,
Into the street then hie!
No safety there they meet!
The soldiers fill the Street,
With fire and sword the wreck complete:
No safety there they meet!
Down falls the houses' line,
Where now is thine or mine?
That bundle yonder is not thine,
Thou flying maiden mine!
The women sorrow sore.
The maidens far, far more.
The living are no virgins more;
Thus Tilly's troops make war!
The Masters
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Oh, Masters, you who rule the world,
Will you not wait with me awhile,
When swords are sheathed and sails are furled,
And all the fields with harvest smile?
I would not waste your time for long,
I ask you but, when you are tired,
To read how by the weak, the strong
Are weighed and worshipped and desired.
When weary of the Mart, the Loom,
The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks,
The Barrack-square, the Engine-room,
The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,--
When tents are pitched and work is done,
While restful twilight broods above,
By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun,
See in my songs how women love.
We shared your lonely watch by night,
We knew you faithful at the helm,
Our thoughts went with you through the fight,
That saved a soul,--or wrecked a realm
Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you,
In pride and joy, when you prevailed,
And when you died, serene and true:
--We wept in silence when you failed!
Oh, brain that did not gain the gold!
Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword,
Here is the love, that is not sold,
Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!
You played and lost the game?    What then?
The rules are harsh and hard we know,
You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men
Whom we in secret reverence so.
Your work was waste?    Maybe your share
Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed;
Who knows but what your son shall wear
The laurels that his father missed?
Ay, you who win, and you who lose,
Whether you triumph,--or despair,--
When your returning footsteps choose
The homeward track, our love is there.
For, since the world is ordered thus,
To you the fame, the stress, the sword,
We can but wait, until to us
You give yourselves, for our reward.
To Whaler's deck and Coral beach,
To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort,
Beyond the narrow bounds of speech
I lay the cable of my thought.
I fain would send my thanks to you,
(Though who am I, to give you praise?)
Since what you are, and work you do,
Are lessons for our easier ways.
'Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow,
I know you not,--your tents are far.
My hope is but in song to show,
How honoured and dear you are.
To The Beloved
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Oh, not more subtly silence strays
Amongst the winds, between the voices,
Mingling alike with pensive lays,
And with the music that rejoices,
Than thou art present in my days.
My silence, life returns to thee
In all the pauses of her breath.
Hush back to rest the melody
That out of thee awakeneth;
And thou, wake ever, wake for me.
Full, full is life in hidden places,
For thou art silence unto me.
Full, full is thought in endless spaces.
Full is my life. A silent sea
Lies round all shores with long embraces.
Thou art like silence all unvexed
Though wild words part my soul from thee.
Thou art like silence unperplexed,
A secret and a mystery
Between one footfall and the next.
Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
Thou art inwoven with every air.
With thee the wildest tempests play,
And snatches of thee everywhere
Make little heavens throughout a day.
Darkness and solitude shine, for me.
For life's fair outward part are rife
The silver noises; let them be.
It is the very soul of life
Listens for thee, listens for thee.
O pause between the sobs of cares!
O thought within all thought that is;
Trance between laughters unawares!
Thou art the form of melodies,
And thou the ecstasy of prayers.
Music
by Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, let me die in Music's arms,
Clasped by some milder melody
Than that which thrills with soft alarms
The souls of Love and Ecstasy!
Until the tired heart in me
Is stilled of storms.
So let me die, a slave of slaves,
Within her train of lyric gold:
Borne onward through her vasty caves
Of harmony, that echo old
With all our sad hearts hope and hold,
And all life craves.
Come with the pleasures dear to men
In one long Triumph! what are they
Beside the one that sweeps us when
Her harp she smites? and far away
She bears us from the cares of day
Unto her glen?
Her hollow glen, where, like a star,
That, in deep heaven, thrills and throbs,
She sits, her wild harp heard afar,
Strung with the gold of grief that sobs,
And love that sighs, and, whispering, robs
All life of jar.
Beneath her all-compelling eye
Our souls lie naked: nothing seems
That is: but that which is not, by
Her magic, lives: and all our dreams
Are real, and, clothed in heavenly gleams,
Smile, leaning nigh.
The soul of love that can not die
Breathes on our eyelids starry fire;
And sorrow, with sweet lips that sigh,
Kisses our lips; and faith, the choir
Of all our hopes, its heart a lyre,
Goes singing by.
The Outlaw.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Oh, let my lord laugh in his halls
When he the tale shall tell!
But woe to Jarlwell and its walls
When I shall laugh as well!
And he that laughs the last, lads,
Laughs well, laughs well!
He's lord of many a burg and farm
And mickle thralls and gold,
And I am but my own right arm,
My dwelling-place the wold.
But when we twain meet face to face,
He will hot laugh so bold.
The shame he chuckles as he shows
This time he need not tell;
I'll give his body to the crows,
And his black soul to Hell.
For he that laughs the last, lads,
Laughs well, laughs well!
The Wind And The Moon
by Clark Ashton Smith

Oh, list to the wind of the night, oh, hark,
How it shrieks as it goes on its hurrying quest!
Forever its voice is a voice of the dark,
Forever its voice is a voice of unrest.
Oh, list to the pines as they shiver and sway
'Neath the ceaseless beat of its myriad wings -
How they moan and they sob like living things
That cry in the darkness for light and day!
Now bend they low as the wind mounts higher,
And its eerie voice comes piercingly,
Like the plaint of humanity's misery,
And its burden of vain desire.
Now to a sad, tense whisper it fails,
Then wildly and madly it raves and it wails.
Oh, the night is filled with its sob and its shriek,
Its weird and its restless, yearning cry,
As it races adown the darkened sky,
With scurry of broken clouds that seek,
Borne on the wings of the hastening wind,
A place of rest that they never can find.
And around the face of the moon they cling,
Its fugitive face to veil they aspire;
But ever and ever it peereth out,
Rending the cloud-ranks that hem it about;
And it seemeth a lost and phantom thing,
Like a phantom of dead desire.
Love
by Arthur Macy

[TRIO]
Oh, love hits all humanity, humanity, my dear;
But after all it's vanity, a vanity, I fear;
And sometimes 'tis insanity, insanity, so queer;
Humanity, yes, a vanity, yes, insanity so queer.
And love is often curious, so curious to see,
And oftentimes is spurious, so spurious, ah, me!
And surely 'tis injurious, injurious when free,
So curious, yes, and spurious, yes, injurious when free.
Oh, love brings much anxiety, anxiety and grief,
But seasoned with propriety, propriety, relief,
It's mixed with joy and piety, but piety is brief;
Anxiety, yes, propriety, yes, but piety is brief.
Oh, young love's all timidity, timidity, I'm told,
Gains courage with rapidity, rapidity, so bold,
With traces of acidity, acidity, when old;
Timidity, yes, rapidity, yes, acidity, when old.
Fishing Song: To J. A. Froude And Tom Hughes
by Charles Kingsley

Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory - 
They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon!    What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I'll tell you where we think of going,
To swate and far o'er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon!    There's a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We'll flog and troll in strid and hole,
And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and - Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
A Job For McGuinness
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Oh, it's dreadful to think in a country like this
With its chances for work, and enjoyment
That a man like McGuinness was certain to miss
Whenever he tried for employment.
He wrote to employers from Bondi to Bourke,
From Woolloomooloo to Glen Innes,
But he found, though his wife could get plenty of work,
There was never a job for McGuinness.
But perhaps, later on, when the Chow and the Jap
Begin to drift down from the tropics,
When a big yellow stain spreading over the map
Provides some disquieting topics,
Oh, it's then when they're wanting a man that will stand
In the trench where his own kith and kin is,
With a frown on his face and a gun in his hand,
Then there might be a job for McGuinness!
Uncle Harry
by Henry Lawson

Oh, never let on to your own true love
That ever you drank a drop;
That ever you played in a two-up school
Or slept in a sly-grog shop;
That ever a bad girl nursed you round,
That ever you sank so low.
But she pulled you through, and it's only you
And your old mate Harry know.
"Billy the Link" they called you then,
And it makes me sad to think
Of the strenuous days when it took three cops
And a pimp to couple the Link.
"Mister Linkhurst" they call you now,
And your kitchen garden grows;
And no one knows in your family,
But your Uncle Harry knows.
Oh, never let on to your fair young bride
How a "straight" girl stabbed your heart
With a devilish wire to the Western side
Where we were a world apart.
With pick and shovel you fought it out
Where the red sirocco blows;
And no one knew in the gang save you,
But your old mate Harry knows.
Oh, never let on to your own good wife,
For a tender heart has she,
Of the girl that loved and the girl that lies
In the graveyard there by the sea!
'Twas not for his "manners" she loved the cad,
'Twas not for his verse or prose,
But the pity she felt for the country lad,
And your Uncle Harry knows.
The bad girl went where the bad girls go
And I see her dark eyes yet;
The good girl left me her broken heart,
But I trow that their souls have met.
The cry of the heart we send not forth
On every wind that blows;
You are hiding a sorrow from someone now,
But your Uncle Harry knows.
To The Beloved
by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Oh, not more subtly silence strays
Amongst the winds, between the voices,
Mingling alike with pensive lays,
And with the music that rejoices,
Than thou art present in my days.
My silence, life returns to thee
In all the pauses of her breath.
Hush back to rest the melody
That out of thee awakeneth;
And thou, wake ever, wake for me.
Full, full is life in hidden places,
For thou art silence unto me.
Full, full is thought in endless spaces.
Full is my life.    A silent sea
Lies round all shores with long embraces.
Thou art like silence all unvexed
Though wild words part my soul from thee.
Thou art like silence unperplexed,
A secret and a mystery
Between one footfall and the next.
Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
Thou art inwoven with every air.
With thee the wildest tempests play,
And snatches of thee everywhere
Make little heavens throughout a day.
Darkness and solitude shine, for me.
For life's fair outward part are rife
The silver noises; let them be.
It is the very soul of life
Listens for thee, listens for thee.
O pause between the sobs of cares!
O thought within all thought that is;
Trance between laughters unawares!
Thou art the form of melodies,
And thou the ecstasy of prayers.
A Garden-Seat At Home
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home,
Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose,
And slender woods that the still scene inclose,
For yon magnificent and ample dome[1]
That glitters in my sight! yet I can praise
Thee, Arundel, who, shunning the thronged ways
Of glittering vice, silently dost dispense
The blessings of retired munificence.
Me, a sequestered cottage, on the verge
Of thy outstretched domain, delights; and here
I wind my walks, and sometimes drop a tear
O'er Harriet's urn, scarce wishing to emerge
Into the troubled ocean of that life,
Where all is turbulence, and toil, and strife.
Calm roll the seasons o'er my shaded niche;
I dip the brush, or touch the tuneful string,
Or hear at eve the unscared blackbirds sing;
Enough if, from their loftier sphere, the rich
Deign my abode to visit, and the poor
Depart not, cold and hungry, from my door.
To One I Love.
by Eric Mackay

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook,
A garden nook, not far from thy domain,
That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book,
I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain,
Rehearse the songs of nature once again: -
The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook
To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain,
And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook!
I die to serve thee, and for this alone, -
To be thy bard-elect, from day to day, -
I would forego the right to fill a throne.
I would consent to be the famine-prey
Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown
I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.
Sonnets X
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this:
How in the years to come unscrupulous Time,
More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss,
And make you old, and leave me in my prime?
How you and I, who scale together yet
A little while the sweet, immortal height
No pilgrim may remember or forget,
As sure as the world turns, some granite night
Shall lie awake and know the gracious flame
Gone out forever on the mutual stone;
And call to mind that on the day you came
I was a child, and you a hero grown?--
And the night pass, and the strange morning break
Upon our anguish for each other's sake!
Hymn Of The Triumphant Airman
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh, long had we paltered
With bridle and girth
Ere those horses were haltered
That gave us the Earth,
Ere the Flame and the Fountain,
The Spark and the Wheel,
Sank Ocean and Mountain
Alike 'neath our keel.
But the Wind in her blowing,
The bird on the wind,
Made naught of our going,
And left us behind.
Till the gale was outdriven,
The gull overflown,
And there matched us in Heaven
The Sun-God alone.
He only the master
We leagued to o'erthrow,
He only the faster
And, therefore, our foe!
.     .     .     .     .
Light steals to uncurtain
The dim-shaping skies
That arch and make certain
Where he shall arise.
We lift to the onset.
We challenge anew.
From sunrise to sunset,
Apollo, pursue!
.     .     .     .     .
What ails thee, O Golden?
Thy Chariot is still?
What Power has withholden
The Way from the Will?
Lo, Hesper hath paled not,
Nor darkness withdrawn.
The Hours have availed not
To lead forth the Dawn!
Do they flinch from full trial,
The Coursers of Day?
The shade on our dial
Moves swifter than they!
We fleet, but thou stayest
A God unreleased;
And still thou delayest
Low down in the East,
A beacon faint-burning,
A glare that decays
As the blasts of our spurning
Blow backward its blaze.
The mid-noon grows colder,
Night rushes to meet,
And the curve of Earth's shoulder
Heaves up thy defeat.
Storm on at that portal,
We have thee in prison!
Apollo, immortal,
Thou hast not arisen!
A Song Of Kabir
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh, light was the world that he weighed in his hands!
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the guddee and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of bairagi avowed!
Now the white road to Delhi is mat for his feet.
The sal and the kikar must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and waste, and the crowd,
He is seeking the Way as bairagi avowed!
He has looked upon Man, and his eyeballs are clear,
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud,
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed!
To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud
("Can ye hear?" saith Kabir), a bairagi avowed!