DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
No More Adieu
by John Frederick Freeman

Unconscious on thy lap I lay,
A spiritual thing,
Stirless until the yet unlooked-for day
Of human birth
Should call me from thy starry twilight, Earth.
And did thy bosom rock and clear voice sing?
I know not--now no more a spiritual thing.
Nor then thy breathed Adieu
I rightly knew.
--Until those human kind arms caught
And nursed my head
Upon her breast who from the twilight brought
This stranger me.
Mother, it were yet happiness to be
Within your arms; but now that you are dead
Your memory sleeps in mine; so mine is comforted,
Though I breathed dear Adieu
Unheard by you.
And I have gathered to my breast
Wife, mistress, child,
Affections insecure but tenderest
Of all that clutch
Man's heart with their "Too little!" and "Too much!"
O, what anxieties, what passions wild
Bind and unbind me, what storms never to be stilled
Until Adieu, Adieu
Breathe the night through.
O, when all last farewells are said
To these most dear;
O, when within my purged heart peace is shed;
When these old sweet
Humanities move out on hushing feet,
And all is hush; then in that silence clear
Who is it comes again--near and near and near,
Even while the sighed Adieu
Fades the hush through?
O, is it on thy breast I fall,
A spiritual thing
Once more, and hear with ear insensual
The voice of primal Earth
Breathed gently as on Eden faint airs forth;
And so contented to thy bosom cling,
Though all those loves are gone nor faithful echoes ring,
Nor fond Adieu, Adieu
My parted spirit pursue?
--So hidden in green darkness deep,
Feel when I wake
The tides of night and day upon thee sweep,
And know thy forehead bared before the East,
And hear thy forests hushing in the West
And in thy bosom, Earth, the slow heart shake:
But hear no more the infinite forest murmurs break
Into Adieu, Adieu,
No more Adieu!
The Bells Of Heaven
by Ralph Hodgson

'Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.
The Squirtgun Uncle Maked Me
by James Whitcomb Riley

Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here,
Maked me a squirtgun out o' some
Elder-bushes 'at growed out near
Where wuz the brickyard - 'way out clear
To where the toll-gate come!
So when we walked back home again,
He maked it, out in our woodhouse where
Wuz the old workbench, an' the old jack-plane,
An' the old 'pokeshave, an' the tools all lay'n'
Ist like he wants 'em there.
He sawed it first with the old hand-saw;
An' nen he peeled off the bark, an' got
Some glass an' scraped it; an' told 'bout Pa,
When he wuz a boy an' fooled his Ma,
An' the whippin' 'at he caught.
Nen Uncle Sidney, he took an' filed
A' old arn ramrod; an' one o' the ends
He screwed fast into the vise; an' smiled,
Thinkin', he said, o' when he wuz a child,
'Fore him an' Pa wuz mens.
He punched out the peth, an' nen he put
A plug in the end with a hole notched through;
Nen took the old drawey-knife an' cut
An' maked a handle 'at shoved clean shut
But ist where yer hand held to.
An' he wropt th'uther end with some string an' white
Piece o' the sleeve of a' old tored shirt;
An' nen he showed me to hold it tight,
An' suck in the water an' work it right
An' it 'ud ist squirt an' squirt!
The Milkmaid
by Thomas Hardy

Under a daisied bank
There stands a rich red ruminating cow,
And hard against her flank
A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.
The flowery river-ooze
Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;
Few pilgrims but would choose
The peace of such a life in such a vale.
The maid breathes words - to vent,
It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery,
Of whose life, sentiment,
And essence, very part itself is she.
She bends a glance of pain,
And, at a moment, lets escape a tear;
Is it that passing train,
Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? -
Nay! Phyllis does not dwell
On visual and familiar things like these;
What moves her is the spell
Of inner themes and inner poetries:
Could but by Sunday morn
Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,
Trains shriek till ears were torn,
If Fred would not prefer that Other One.
Bear Hunt.
by James McIntyre

Two youths came over from York state,
Bill Brown and Tom Dawes his mate,
For many months they were wishing
The sport of hunting and of fishing.
They rowed along the lake in punt,
When tired of fishing they would hunt,
At river's mouth they caught fine trout,
In woods close by they saw bear's snout.
In front of her play little chubs,
Fat and slick her darling cubs,
Kind thoughts in their breasts they smother
And cruelly they shoot the mother.
And bullet fearful tore her jaws,
A bloody wound, but with her paws,
Erect in air an awful sight,
She was prepared for her young to fight.
But this did not daunt bold Bill Brown,
With club he tried to knock her down,
But she gave him an awful hug,
With paws she at him fierce did tug.
He would been smothered but for Dawes,
Who rescued him from her great paws,
With club he knocked her on the crown
And thus he saved the life of Brown.
She rose again with savage frown
And quickly broke two ribs for Brown,
His clothes were all torn with her claws,
She smeared with blood both Brown and Dawes.
But Dawes now quick doth end the strife
By stabbing her with hunting knife,
And now around this hunter bold
His bear skin coat keeps out the cold.
Duty surviving Self-Love
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The only sure friend of declining life
A Soliloquy
Unchanged within, to see all changed without,
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.
Yet why at others' Wanings should'st thou fret?
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight.
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed,
While, and on whom, thou may'st, shine on! nor heed
Whether the object by reflected light
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite:
And tho' thou notest from thy safe recess
Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air,
Love them for what they are ; nor love them less,
Because to thee they are not what they were
In The Cenote
by Paul Cameron Brown

Under a candlelit operetta
of stars,
the vertigo horizon trails
to a shudder
until,
swallows the size of kites
handstand in flying motion
about pools of water
then glide within reach of the cenote,*
cisterns deep
and flagellant
scars in earth
that cradle still hands
of pale, pumice stone.
All the tears
of old Mexico
refurbish this soil,
anxious in blessing
a brittle toil
in sisal* groves
harvesting hennequin*
to symbolize pity
in flat expanse
of Mission stone.
* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.
* Hemp.
Tyranny. (Melbourne.)
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

[The Delegates speak.]
"'Tyranny'? Yes, that's it!
We are not afraid
To face the word that's fit
For what we've said!
"It's the tyranny of the Many,
That will not allow
There's the right to any
To seek wealth and power now
"At the expense of the Many.
Say, that one or this
Works 'over hours': then he
Drives us all to the abyss,
"Where, struggling together
One rises again
While the rest all together
Are stifled and slain.
"From this death-strife of brothers
Comes the tyranny of One.
That's your sort. But we others,
We prefer our own!"
Virginia Capta.
by Margaret J. Preston

APRIL 9TH, 1865.
I.
Unconquered captive! - close thine eye,
And draw the ashen sackcloth o'er,
And in thy speechless woe deplore
The fate that would not let thee die!
II.
The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
The hand that held the martial rein,
And hurled the spear on many a plain - 
Stretch - till they clasp the shackles there!
III.
The foot that once could crush the crown,
Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
Beneath their weight: - thou dost not need
It now, to tread the tyrant down.
IV.
Thou thought'st him vanquish'd - boastful trust!
- His lance, in twain - his sword, a wreck - 
But with his heel upon thy neck,
He holds thee prostrate in the dust!
V.
Bend though thou must, beneath his will,
Let not one abject moan have place;
But with majestic, silent grace,
Maintain thy regal bearing still.
VI.
Look back through all thy storied past,
And sit erect in conscious pride: - 
No grander heroes ever died - 
No sterner, battled to the last!
VII.
Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mein,
Thy blasted hopes - thy peace undone, - 
Yet brave, live on, - nor seek to shun
Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen.
VIII.
Though forced a captive's place to fill,
In the triumphal train, - yet there,
Superbly, like Zenobia, wear
Thy chains, - Virginia Victrix still!
The Rue-Anemone
by Madison Julius Cawein

Under an oak-tree in a woodland, where
The dreaming Spring had dropped it from her hair,
I found a flower, through which I seemed to gaze
Beyond the world and see what no man dare
Behold and live the myths of bygone days
Diana and Endymion, and the bare
Slim beauty of the boy whom Echo wooed;
And Hyacinthus whom Apollo dewed
With love and death: and Daphne, ever fair;
And that reed-slender girl whom Pan pursued.
I stood and gazed and through it seemed to see
The Dryad dancing by the forest tree,
Her hair wild blown: the Faun with listening ear,
Deep in the boscage, kneeling on one knee,
Watching the wandered Oread draw near,
Her wild heart beating like a honey-bee
Within a rose. All, all the myths of old,
All, all the bright shapes of the Age of Gold,
Peopling the wonder-worlds of Poetry,
Through it I seemed in fancy to behold.
What other flower, that, fashioned like a star,
Draws its frail life from earth and braves the war
Of all the heavens, can suggest the dreams
That this suggests? in which no trace of mar
Or soil exists: where stainless innocence seems
Enshrined; and where, beyond our vision far,
That inaccessible beauty, which the heart
Worships as truth and holiness and art,
Is symbolized; wherein embodied are
The things that make the soul's immortal part.
Upon Umber.
by Robert Herrick

Umber was painting of a lion fierce,
And, working it, by chance from Umber's erse
Flew out a crack, so mighty, that the fart,
As Umber states, did make his lion start.
Creole Serenade
by Madison Julius Cawein

Under mossy oak and pine
Whispering falls the fountained stream;
In its pool the lilies shine
Silvery, each a moonlight gleam.
Roses bloom and roses die
In the warm rose-scented dark,
Where the firefly, like an eye,
Winks and glows, a golden spark.
Amber-belted through the night
Swings the alabaster moon,
Like a big magnolia white
On the fragrant heart of June.
With a broken syrinx there,
With bignonia overgrown,
Is it Pan in hoof and hair,
Or his image carved from stone?
See! her casement's jessamines part,
And, with starry blossoms blent,
Like the moon she leans O heart,
'Tis another firmament.
Lines To The Memory Of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth, Late Of Mount Galpin, Devonshire.
by John Carr (Sir)

Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,
Behold thy beauteous victim! - Ah! tis thine
To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear
Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.
Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,
Blest shade! how purely pass'd thy life away,
Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint,
How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.
'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life,
Such as approving angels smile upon; - 
The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife, - 
Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.
Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,
Where oft the pensive melodist retires,
From his sweet instrument, the note of love,
Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.
Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave
Oblivion ne'er shall spread her freezing shade;
Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave
Where her reposing fav'rite child is laid.
There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom.
Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair;
Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb,
And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there.
The Coliseum
by Edgar Allan Poe

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length at length after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now I feel ye in your strength 
O spells more sure than e'er Jud'an king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls these ivy-clad arcades 
These mouldering plinths these sad and blackened shafts 
These vague entablatures this crumbling frieze 
These shattered cornices this wreck this ruin 
These stones alas! these gray stones are they all 
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
"Not all" the Echoes answer me "not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone not all our fame 
Not all the magic of our high renown 
Not all the wonder that encircles us 
Not all the mysteries that in us lie 
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
Kossuth
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Type of two mighty continents! combining
The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow
Of Asian song and prophecy, the shining
Of Orient splendors over Northern snow!
Who shall receive him? Who, unblushing, speak
Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break
The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off
At the same blow the fetters of the serf,
Rearing the altar of his Fatherland
On the firm base of freedom, and thereby
Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand,
Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie!
Who shall be Freedom's mouthpiece? Who shall give
Her welcoming cheer to the great fugitive?
Not he who, all her sacred trusts betraying,
Is scourging back to slavery's hell of pain
The swarthy Kossuths of our land again!
Not he whose utterance now from lips designed
The bugle-march of Liberty to wind,
And call her hosts beneath the breaking light,
The keen reveille of her morn of fight,
Is but the hoarse note of the blood-hound's baying,
The wolf's long howl behind the bondman's flight!
Oh for the tongue of him who lies at rest
In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees,
Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best,
To lend a voice to Freedom's sympathies,
And hail the coming of the noblest guest
The Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West!
Love-Knot, The
by Nora Perry

Tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But, not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
They were strolling together up the hill,
Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill;
And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race,
All over the happy peach-coloured face,
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,
Under her beautiful dimpled chin.
And it blew a colour bright as the bloom
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl
That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.
Steeper and steeper grew the hill,
Madder, merrier, chillier still,
The western wind blew down and played
The wildest tricks with the little maid,
As, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
Oh, western wind, do you think it was fair
To play such tricks with her floating hair?
To gladly, gleefully do your best
To blow her against the young man's breast,
Where he as gladly folded her in,
And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin?
Oh, Ellery Vane! you little thought
An hour ago, when you besought
This country lass to walk with you,
After the sun had dried the dew,
What perilous danger you'd be in
As she tied her bonnet under her chin.
Fight With A Bear In The Northwest.
by James McIntyre

Two youths employed at the fur fort
Resolved to have half day of sport,
From Jasper House, in the far north,
For game they joyous issued forth,
The factor of the Hudson Bay
Granted them a few hours play,
And it was in cold winter time
When thick on lake was glassy rime,
But beneath, o'er all their route,
They saw below big speckled trout,
With hatchet ice they did clear,
And the beauteous trout did spear.
Soon bear they saw and youths did skate,
Resolved for to seal his fate,
A pistol shot made bruin roar,
And from him trickled drops of gore,
They round him skate and fresh blood drew,
When they at him the hatchet threw;
He first chased one and then the other,
For men on skates did him bother,
But the bold Scottish lad McBeth
Alas he nearly met his death,
When he so boldly did press near
To probe with the sharp fish spear.
They knew their game was no trifle,
So they secured a trusty rifle,
Returning he had fled to wood,
But they traced him with his blood,
They saw the elder bushes sway
While he did force through them his way,
They skated swiftly o'er the ice
And were near brushwood in a trice,
Full soon the savage beast is slain
With rifle bullet in his brain,
And now these hunters do take pride
In skin as large as Buffalo hide.
Upon Roses
by Robert Herrick

Under a lawn, than skies more clear,
Some ruffled Roses nestling were,
And snugging there, they seem'd to lie
As in a flowery nunnery;
They blush'd, and look'd more fresh than flowers
Quickened of late by pearly showers;
And all, because they were possest
But of the heat of Julia's breast,
Which, as a warm and moisten'd spring,
Gave them their ever-flourishing.
To Janus, On New Year's Day, 1726
by Jonathan Swift

Two-faced Janus,[1] god of Time!
Be my Phoebus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new year's gift;
She has got but half a face;
Janus, since thou hast a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.
God of Time, if you be wise,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward sight?
Well, if you could lose it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor Isle's[2] approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vast
Sees the glorious ages past?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!
Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me time when coming on;
Who regards him when he's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New-years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new-year's lace
Burnishes an old-year's face.
Give me velvet and quadrille,
I'll have youth and beauty still.
Hamlet
by Walter De La Mare

Umbrageous cedars murmuring symphonies
Stooped in late twilight o'er dark Denmark's Prince:
He sat, his eyes companioned with dream - 
Lustrous large eyes that held the world in view
As some entranc'd child's a puppet show.
Darkness gave birth to the all-trembling stars,
And a far roar of long-drawn cataracts,
Flooding immeasurable night with sound.
He sat so still, his very thoughts took wing,
And, lightest Ariels, the stillness haunted
With midge-like measures; but, at last, even they
Sank 'neath the influences of his night.
The sweet dust shed faint perfume in the gloom;
Through all wild space the stars' bright arrows fell
On the lone Prince - the troubled son of man - 
On Time's dark waters in unearthly trouble:
Then, as the roar increased, and one fair tower
Of cloud took sky and stars with majesty,
He rose, his face a parchment of old age,
Sorrow hath scribbled o'er, and o'er, and o'er.
Rhymes And Rhythms - XIII
by William Ernest Henley

(To James McNeill Whistler)
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily, wretchedly, on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, fall of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble, to a broken tune
(Once, O the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder short
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash,
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death!    O Change!    O Time!
Without you, O the insufferable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
Chivalrie.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Under the maple boughs we sat,
Annie Leslie and I together;
She was trimming her sea-side hat
With leaves we talked about the weather.
The sun-beams lit her gleaming hair
With rippling waves of golden glory,
And eyes of blue, and ringlets fair,
Suggested many an ancient story
Of fair-haired, blue-eyed maids of old,
In durance held by grim magicians,
Of knights in armor rough with gold,
Who rescued them from such positions.
Above, the heavens aglow with light,
Beneath our feet the sleeping ocean,
E'en as the sky my hope was bright,
Deep as the sea was my devotion.
Her father's voice came through the wood,
He'd made a fortune tanning leather;
I was his clerk; I thought it good
To keep on talking about the weather.
Apple-Blossoms.
by William McKendree Carleton

Underneath an apple-tree
Sat a maiden and her lover;
And the thoughts within her he
Yearned, in silence, to discover.
Round them danced the sunbeams bright,
Green the grass-lawn stretched before them;
While the apple-blossoms white
Hung in rich profusion o'er them.
Naught within her eyes he read
That would tell her mind unto him;
Though their light, he after said,
Quivered swiftly through and through him;
Till at last his heart burst free
From the prayer with which 'twas laden,
And he said, "When wilt thou be
Mine for evermore, fair maiden?"
"When," said she, "the breeze of May
With white flakes our heads shall cover,
I will be thy brideling gay - 
Thou shall be my husband-lover."
"How," said he, in sorrow bowed,
"Can I hope such hopeful weather?
Breeze of May and Winter's cloud
Do not often fly together."
Quickly as the words he said,
From the west a wind came sighing,
And on each uncovered head
Sent the apple-blossoms flying;
"'Flakes of white!' thou'rt mine," said he,
"Sooner than thy wish or knowing!"
"Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she,
"When in yonder forest blowing."
Epitaph On General Gorges,[1] And Lady Meath[2]
by Jonathan Swift

Under this stone lies Dick and Dolly.
Doll dying first, Dick grew melancholy;
For Dick without Doll thought living a folly.
Dick lost in Doll a wife tender and dear:
But Dick lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year;
A loss that Dick thought no mortal could bear.
Dick sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd;
Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost;
The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.
Thus loaded with grief, Dick sigh'd and he cried:
To live without both full three days he tried;
But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.
Dick left a pattern few will copy after:
Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water;
For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.
Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late;
The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate;
And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate.
Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day,
Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday,
And here rest -    - sic transit gloria mundi!