DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To My Bride (Whoever She May Be)
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Oh! little maid! (I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I'll add) Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You'll marry soon within a year or twain
A bachelor of circa two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And when you're intimate, you'll call him "BERTIE."
Neat dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.
You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
A brief or two on Circuit "soup" at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
And, say three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
His faults are not particularly shady,
You'll never find him "SHY" for, once or twice
Already, he's been driven by a lady,
Who parts with him perhaps a poor excuse for him
Because she hasn't any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
Oh! widow wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I've told YOUR fortune; solved the gravest care
With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
Now tell me mine and please be quick about it!
You only you can tell me, an' you will,
To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy modiste's bill?
If so, I want to hear her income stated
(This is a point which interests me greatly).
To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"
Say, must I wait till husband number one
Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
Come, Sibyl, prophesy I'm all attention.
Life
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! I feel the growing glory
Of our life upon this sphere,
Of the life that like a river
Runs forever and forever,
From the somewhere to the here,
And still on and onward flowing,
Leads us out to larger knowing,
Through the hidden, to the clear.
And I feel a deep thanksgiving
For the sorrows I have known;
For the worries and the crosses,
And the grieving and the losses,
That along my path were sown.
Now the great eternal meaning
Of each trouble I am gleaning,
And the harvest is my own.
I am opulent with knowledge
Of the Purpose and the Cause.
And I go my way rejoicing,
And in singing seek the voicing
Of love's never-failing laws.
From the now, unto the Yonder,
Full of beauty and of wonder,
Life flows ever without pause.
And I feel the exaltation
Of a child that loves its play,
Though the ranks of friends are thinning,
Still the end is but beginning
Of a larger, fuller day,
And the joy of life is spilling
From my spirit, as all willing
I go speeding on my way.
On The Same Occasion - (On Seeing The Foundation Preparing For The Erection Of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland)
by William Wordsworth

Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may
The help which slackening Pity requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.
When in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear
The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale;
Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.
He rose, and straight, as by divine command,
They, who had waited for that sign to trace 
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high altar its determined place;
Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.
So taught 'their' creed; nor failed the eastern sky
'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse
The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,
Long as the sun his gladsome course renews. 
For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,
Our Christian altar faithful to the east,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;
That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.
St. Senanus And The Lady.
by Thomas Moore

ST. SENANUS.[1]
"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."
THE LADY.
"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark,
Thro' wintry winds and billows dark:
I come with humble heart to share
Thy morn and evening prayer;
Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned;
The winds blew fresh, the bark returned;
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delayed,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.
The Poet Moralizeth - He Discourseth To Those Who Gorge And Complain.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Oh! Kitty Malone--Mrs. Merdle 'tis now--
Was there ever on earth than this, greater folly?
Still gorging, while groaning, and swearing a vow,
That yours is a case of most sad melancholy.
With table that Croesus never had but might covet,
You live but to eat and to eat 'cause you love it;
And yet while you swallow great sirloins of meat
Complain like a beggar of nothing to eat.
On Miss Jean Scott.
by Robert Burns

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times,
Been Jeany Scott, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward!
Tribute To The Vanquished.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")
[I. v.]
Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,
By exile given, by exile claimed once more,
Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.
Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore
These relics of the monarchy of yore;
And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid
War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!
Fraser's Magazine
To M-----
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1]
Song.
by Joseph Rodman Drake

Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear,
And I will hold thee on my knee;
Thy mother's in her winding sheet,
And thou art all that's left to me.
My hairs are white with grief and age,
I've borne the weight of every ill,
And I would lay me with my child,
But thou art left to love me still.
Should thy false father see thy face,
The tears would fill his cruel e'e,
But he has scorned thy mother's wo,
And he shall never look on thee:
But I will rear thee up alone,
And with me thou shalt aye remain;
For thou wilt have thy mother's smile,
And I shall see my child again.
To Mary.
by Thomas Gent

Oh! is there not in infant smiles
A witching power, a cheering ray,
A charm, that every care beguiles,
And bids the weary soul be gay?
There surely is--for thou hast been,
Child of my heart, my peaceful dove,
Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene,
An emblem of the peace above.
Now all is calm, and dark, and still,
And bright the beam the moonlight throws
On ocean wave, and gentle rill,
And on thy slumbering cheek of rose.
And may no care disturb that breast,
Nor sorrow dim that brow serene;
And may thy latest years be bless'd
As thy sweet infancy has been.
Lines To A Young Lady, Occasioned By Her Declining An Offer Of Marriage Made Her By A Very Accomplished Friend Of The Author.
by John Carr (Sir)

Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear,
At once so sweet, yet so severe!
As much for you as him I grieve;
Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave
A mind with wit and learning bright,
Where Temper sheds its cloudless light;
Where manly honour, taste refin'd,
With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd;
If you can quit a heart so true,
Which has so often throbb'd for you,
I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove;
And did I, such is Florio's love,
Eager he'd fly to take thy part,
E'en in a war against his heart.
The Voices Of The People
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! I hear the people calling through the day time and the night time,
They are calling, they are crying for the coming of the right time.
It behooves you, men and women, it behooves you to be heeding,
For there lurks a note of menace underneath their plaintive pleading.
Let the land usurpers listen, let the greedy-hearted ponder,
On the meaning of the murmur, rising here and swelling yonder,
Swelling louder, waxing stronger, like a storm-fed stream that courses
Through the valleys, down abysses, growing, gaining with new forces.
Day by day the river widens, that great river of opinion,
And its torrent beats and plunges at the base of greed's dominion.
Though you dam it by oppression and fling golden bridges o'er it,
Yet the day and hour advances when in fright you'll flee before it.
Yes, I hear the people calling, through the night time and the day time,
Wretched toilers in life's autumn, weary young ones in life's May time - 
They are crying, they are calling for their share of work and pleasure;
You are heaping high your coffers while you give them scanty measure, - 
You have stolen God's wide acres, just to glut your swollen purses - 
Oh! restore them to His children ere their pleading turns to curses.
In my Garden of Roses.
by John Hartley

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!
Here where the sunlight reposes;
Pink petals lie thick at my feet,
Here in my garden of rose's.
Oh! come to my bower! My Queen!
Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs;
Shaded with curtains of green; - 
Here let us dream through the hours.
The sky is unfleck'd overhead, - 
Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray, - 
The earth to the heavens is wed,
And robin is piping his lay.
Lost is their sweetness upon me;
Vainly their beauties displaying; - 
Cheerless I wander, and lonely, - 
Hoping and longing and praying.
Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower!
Reign in my garden of roses;
Humbly we bow to thy power,
Loving the sway thou imposes.
Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall!
Robin desist from thy singing;
Mar not those sounds that enthrall, - 
Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.
She cometh! My lily! my rose!
Queenlier, - purer, and sweeter!
Haste, every blossom that blows,
Pour out your perfumes to greet her!
Panting she rests in my arms; - 
Now is my bower enchanted!
Essence of all this world's charms; - 
My heart has won all that it wanted.
To Hope.
by Thomas Hood

Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;
For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh! take thy harp!
Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do,
When, all youth's sunny season long,
I sat and listened to thy song,
And yet 'twas ever, ever new,
With magic in its heaven-tuned string--
The future bliss thy constant theme.
Oh! then each little woe took wing
Away, like phantoms of a dream;
As if each sound
That flutter'd round,
Had floated over Lethe's stream!
By all those bright and happy hours
We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs,
Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show,
Ere buds were come, where flowers would blow,
And oft anticipate the rise
Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies;
By many a story of love and glory,
And friendships promised oft to me;
By all the faith I lent to thee,--
Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;
For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh! take thy harp!
Perchance the strings will sound less clear,
That long have lain neglected by
In sorrow's misty atmosphere;
It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken
Such joyous notes so brisk and high;
But are its golden chords all broken?
Are there not some, though weak and low,
To play a lullaby to woe?
But thou canst sing of love no more,
For Celia show'd that dream was vain;
And many a fancied bliss is o'er,
That comes not e'en in dreams again.
Alas! alas!
How pleasures pass,
And leave thee now no subject, save
The peace and bliss beyond the grave!
Then be thy flight among the skies:
Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing,
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing
On skylark's wing!
Another life-spring there adorns
Another youth--without the dread
Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns
Is here for manhood's aching head.
Oh! there are realms of welcome day,
A world where tears are wiped away!
Then be thy flight among the skies:
Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing,
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing
On skylark's wing!
Song
by Rupert Brooke

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings,
And Triumph is his crown.
Earth fades in flame before his wings,
And Sun and Moon bow down."
But that, I knew, would never do;
And Heaven is all too high.
So whenever I meet a Queen, I said,
I will not catch her eye.
"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said,
"The gift of Love is this;
A crown of thorns about thy head,
And vinegar to thy kiss!"
But Tragedy is not for me;
And I'm content to be gay.
So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady,
I went another way.
And so I never feared to see
You wander down the street,
Or come across the fields to me
On ordinary feet.
For what they'd never told me of,
And what I never knew;
It was that all the time, my love,
Love would be merely you.
Dreams
by Edgar Allan Poe

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be, that dream eternally
Continuing, as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood, should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness, have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought, what more could I have seen?
'Twas once, and only once, and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass, some power
Or spell had bound me, 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit, or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly, or the stars, howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind, let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy, and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love, and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
The Bonny, Bonny Dell
by George MacDonald

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin sings,
Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings;
Whaur the birks are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht,
And the brume hings its lamps by day and by nicht;
Whaur the burnie comes trottin ower shingle and stane
Liltin bonny havers til 'tsel its lane;
And the sliddery troot wi' ae soop o' its tail
Is ahint the green weed's dark swingin veil!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw
The yorlin, the brume, and the burnie, and a'!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses won,
Luikin oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun;
Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame,
And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;
Whaur the bee swings ower the white-clovery sod,
And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God;
Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow,
The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see
The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon
As gien she war hearin a soughless tune,
Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep,
And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;
Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye,
And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry;
Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope,
And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt
The mune and the darkness baith into me melt!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in
Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"
Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht,
And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht;
Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne,
Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn;
Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome bliss
That, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in
Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,
Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy;
Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tips
War as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips;
Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw,
Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a';
Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen,
For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,
Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies
A' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies;
Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht,
Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht;
Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps;
Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps;
Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair,
For she's up and awa up the angels' stair!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies,
Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!
Epitaph On H. Walmsley, Esq. - In Alverstoke Church, Hants.
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew
Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true;
The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,
Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;
Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease
Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze,
Pale from thy hospitable home depart,
Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart!
But how shall she her love, her loss express,
Thy widow, in this uttermost distress,
When she with anguish hears her lisping train
Upon their buried father call in vain!
She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow,
She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe,
And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels)
On Him who only knows how much she feels.
Don Cupid
by Virna Sheard

Oh! little pink and white god of love,
With your tender smiling mouth,
And eyes as blue as the blue above,
Afar in the sunny south.
No army e'er laid so many low
Or wounded so many hearts,
No mighty gunner e'er wrought such woe
As you with your feathered darts.
The Parting Soul And Her Guardian Angel.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

(Written during sickness).
Soul - 
Oh! say must I leave this world of light
With its sparkling streams and sunshine bright,
Its budding flowers, its glorious sky?
Vain 'tis to ask me - I cannot die!
Angel - 
But, sister, list! in the realms above,
That happy home of eternal love,
Are flowers more fair, and skies more clear
Than those thou dost cling to so fondly here.
Soul - 
Ah! yes, but to reach that home of light
I must pass through the fearful vale of night;
And my soul with alarm doth shuddering cry - 
O angel, I tell thee, I dare not die!
Angel - 
Ah! mortal beloved, in that path untried
Will I be, as ever, still at thy side,
Through gloom to guide till, death's shadows passed,
Thou nearest, unharmed, God's throne at last.
Soul - 
Alas! too many close ties of love
Around my wavering heart are wove!
Fond, tender voices, press me to stay - 
Think'st thou from them I would pass away?
Daily my mother, with anguish wild,
Bends o'er the couch of her dying child,
And one, nearer still, with silent tears,
Betrays his anguish, his gloomy fears - 
Yes, even now, while to thee I speak,
Are hot drops falling upon my cheek;
Think you I'd break from so close a tie?
No, my guardian angel, I cannot die!
Angel - 
Poor child of earth! how closely clings
Thy heart to earth and to earthly things!
Wilt thou still revolt if I whisper low
That thy Father in Heaven wills it so - 
Wills that with Him thou should'st henceforth dwell,
To pray for those whom thou lovest so well,
Till a time shall come when you'll meet again,
To forget for ever life's grief and pain?
Soul - 
Spirit, thy words have a potent power
O'er my sinking heart in this awful hour,
And thy soft-breathed hopes, with magic might.
Have chased from my soul the shades of night.
Console the dear ones I part from now,
Who hang o'er my couch with pallid brow,
Tell them we'll meet in yon shining sky - 
And, Saviour tender, now let me die!
The Land Of The Gone-Away-Souls
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! that is a beautiful land I wis,
The land of the Gone-Away Souls.
Yes, a lovelier region by far than this
(Though this is a world most fair),
The goodliest goal of all good goals,
Else why do our friends stay there?
I walk in a world that is sweet with friends,
And earth I have ever held dear;
Yes, love with duty and beauty blends,
To render the earth plane bright.
But faster and faster, year on year
My comrades hurry from sight.
They hurry away to the Over-There,
And few of them say Farewell.
Yes, they go away with a secret air
As if on a secret quest.
And they come not back to the earth to tell
Why that land seems the best.
Messages come from the mystic sphere,
But few know the code of that land;
Yes, many the message, but few who hear
In the din of the world below,
Or hearing the message, can understand
Those truths which we long to know.
But it must be the goal of all good goals,
And I think of it more and more,
Yes I think of that land of the Gone-Away-Souls
And its growing host of friends
Who will hail my bark when it touches shore
Where the last brief journey ends.
Sonnet CCXVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Far potess' io vendetta di colei.
HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.
Oh! that from her some vengeance I could wrest
With words and glances who my peace destroys,
And then abash'd, for my worse sorrow, flies,
Veiling her eyes so cruel, yet so blest;
Thus mine afflicted spirits and oppress'd
By sure degrees she sorely drains and dries,
And in my heart, as savage lion, cries
Even at night, when most I should have rest.
My soul, which sleep expels from his abode,
The body leaves, and, from its trammels free,
Seeks her whose mien so often menace show'd.
I marvel much, if heard its advent be,
That while to her it spake, and o'er her wept,
And round her clung, asleep she alway kept.
MACGREGOR.