DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
How Oft Has The Banshee Cried.
by Thomas Moore

How oft has the Banshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days![1]
Star after star decays,
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quenched are our beacon lights--
Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2]
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!
Both mute,--but long as valor shineth,
Or Mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.
Grace
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

How much, preventing God, how much I owe
To the defences thou hast round me set;
Example, custom, fear, occasion slow,--
These scorned bondmen were my parapet.
I dare not peep over this parapet
To gauge with glance the roaring gulf below,
The depths of sin to which I had descended,
Had not these me against myself defended.
Castles In Spain
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
The Paladins of Charlemagne
The Cid Campeador!
And shapes more shadowy than these,
In the dim twilight half revealed;
Phoenician galleys on the seas,
The Roman camps like hives of bees,
The Goth uplifting from his knees
Pelayo on his shield.
It was these memories perchance,
From annals of remotest eld,
That lent the colors of romance
To every trivial circumstance,
And changed the form and countenance
Of all that I beheld.
Old towns, whose history lies hid
In monkish chronicle or rhyme,
Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid,
Zamora and Valladolid,
Toledo, built and walled amid
The wars of Wamba's time;
The long, straight line of the high-way,
The distant town that seems so near,
The peasants in the fields, that stay
Their toil to cross themselves and pray,
When from the belfry at midday
The Angelus they hear;
White crosses in the mountain pass,
Mules gay with tassels, the loud din
Of muleteers, the tethered ass
That crops the dusty wayside grass,
And cavaliers with spurs of brass
Alighting at the inn;
White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat,
White cities slumbering by the sea,
White sunshine flooding square and street,
Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet
The river-beds are dry with heat,--
All was a dream to me.
Yet something sombre and severe
O'er the enchanted landscape reigned;
A terror in the atmosphere
As if King Philip listened near,
Or Torquemada, the austere,
His ghostly sway maintained.
The softer Andalusian skies
Dispelled the sadness and the gloom;
There Cadiz by the seaside lies,
And Seville's orange-orchards rise,
Making the land a paradise
Of beauty and of bloom.
There Cordova is hidden among
The palm, the olive, and the vine;
Gem of the South, by poets sung,
And in whose Mosque Ahmanzor hung
As lamps the bells that once had rung
At Compostella's shrine.
But over all the rest supreme,
The star of stars, the cynosure,
The artist's and the poet's theme,
The young man's vision, the old man's dream,--
Granada by its winding stream,
The city of the Moor!
And there the Alhambra still recalls
Aladdin's palace of delight;
Allah il Allah! through its halls
Whispers the fountain as it falls,
The Darro darts beneath its walls,
The hills with snow are white.
Ah yes, the hills are white with snow,
And cold with blasts that bite and freeze;
But in the happy vale below
The orange and pomegranate grow,
And wafts of air toss to and fro
The blossoming almond-trees.
The Vega cleft by the Xenil,
The fascination and allure
Of the sweet landscape chains the will;
The traveller lingers on the hill,
His parted lips are breathing still
The last sigh of the Moor.
How like a ruin overgrown
With flower's that hide the rents of time,
Stands now the Past that I have known,
Castles in Spain, not built of stone
But of white summer clouds, and blown
Into this little mist of rhyme!
Sonnet 6
by Michael Drayton

How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
That now in Coaches trouble eu'ry Street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings,
Ere they be well wrap'd in their winding Sheet?
Where I to thee Eternitie shall giue,
When nothing else remayneth of these dayes,
And Queenes hereafter shall be glad to liue
Vpon the Almes of thy superfluous prayse;
Virgins and Matrons reading these my Rimes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
That they shall grieve, they liu'd not in these Times,
To haue seene thee, their Sexes onely glory:
So shalt thou flye aboue the vulgar Throng,
Still to suruiue in my immortall Song.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXIX. Relics.
by Unknown

How many days has my baby to play?
Saturday, Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday.
Verses Why Burnt
by Walter Savage Landor

How many verses have I thrown
Into the fire because the one
Peculiar word, the wanted most,
Was irrecoverably lost!
How Many Years Ago?
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

How many years ago, love,
Since you came courting me?
Through oak-tree wood and o'er the lea,
With rosy cheeks and waistcoat gay,
And mostly not a word to say,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
How many years ago, love,
Since you to Father spoke?
Between your lips a sprig of oak:
You were not one with much to say,
But Mother spoke for you that day,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
So many years ago, love,
That soon our time must come
To leave our girl without a home;--
She's like her mother, love, you've said:
--At her age I had long been wed,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
For love of long-ago, love,
If John has aught to say,
When he comes up to us to-day,
(A likely lad, though short of tongue,)
Remember, husband, we were young,--
How many years ago, love,
How many years ago?
Met
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

How odd and strange seems our meeting
Like a grim rendezvous of the dead.
All day I have sat here repeating
The commonplace things that we said.
They sounded so oddly when uttered -
They sound just as odd to me now;
Was it we, or our two ghosts who muttered
Last evening, with simper and bow?
I had grown used to living without you.
In revel and concert and ball,
I had flown from much thinking about you,
And your picture I turned to the wall.
For to call back the dream that was broken,
To fancy your hand on my hair,
To remember the words we had spoken,
Was madness, and gall, and despair.
I knew I could never forget you;
But I wanted to put you away.
And now, just to think how I met you -
It has seemed like a nightmare all day.
We two with our record of passion,
We two who have been as one heart,
To meet in that calm, quiet fashion,
And chat for a moment and part.
We two who remember such blisses
Not heaven itself can eclipse,
We two who had kissed with the kisses
That draw out the soul through the lips,
We two who have known the ideal,
The rare perfect love in its might -
Nay, nay, they were ghosts, and not real,
Who met, and who parted, last night.
They were ghosts, unprepared for the meeting;
'Twas a chance rendezvous of the dead;
And all day I sit here repeating
The odd sounding words that were said.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXVIII. Games.
by Unknown

[The following is a game played as follows: A string of boys and girls, each holding by his predecessor's skirts, approaches two others, who with joined and elevated hands form a double arch. After the dialogue, the line passes through, and the last is caught by a sudden lowering of the arms - if possible.]
How many miles is it to Babylon? - 
Threescore miles and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light? - 
Yes, and back again!
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candle-light.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto.
HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.
How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat
From man and from myself I strive to fly,
Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,
And swelling every blossom with a sigh!
How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,
Along the dark and silent glens I lie,
In thought again that dearest form to meet
By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!
How oft I see her rising from the tide
Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;
Or pensive wander by the river's side;
Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;
Bright as in life; while angel pity throws
O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.
MERIVALE.
The Gipsy's Camp
by John Clare

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags,
Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniformly pricks
Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks:
While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I've bent me oer her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forged her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck,
And hoping chink, she talked of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee,
I never failed to gain the honours sought,
And Squire and Lord were purchased with a groat.
But as man's unbelieving taste came round,
She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,
Wiped bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,
While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,
Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,
Which like as footboys on her actions wait,
That fortune's scale should to my sorrow turn,
And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;
That good to bad should change, and I should be
Lost to this world and all eternity;
That poor as Job I should remain unblest:--
(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)
Of not a hoarded farthing be possesst,
And when all's done, be shoved to hell at last!
When Shall We Meet Again?
by John Clare

How many times Spring blossoms meek
Have faded on the land
Since last I kissed that pretty cheek,
Caressed that happy hand.
Eight time the green's been painted white
With daisies in the grass
Since I looked on thy eyes so bright,
And pressed my bonny lass.
The ground lark sung about the farms,
The blackbird in the wood,
When fast locked in each other's arms
By hedgerow thorn we stood.
It was a pleasant Sabbath day,
The sun shone bright and round,
His light through dark oaks passed, and lay
Like gold upon the ground.
How beautiful the blackbird sung,
And answered soft the thrush;
And sweet the pearl-like dew-drops hung
Upon the white thorn bush.
O happy day, eight years ago!
We parted without pain:
The blackbird sings, primroses blow;
When shall we meet again?
Barleymow And Dunghill.
by John Gay

How many saucy beaux we meet
'Twixt Westminster and Aldgate-street!
Rascals - the mushrooms of a day,
Who sprung and shared the South Sea prey,
Nor in their zenith condescend
To own or know the humble friend.
A careful farmer took his way
Across his yard at break of day:
He leant a moment o'er the rail,
To hear the music of the flail;
In his quick eye he viewed his stock, - 
The geese, the hogs, the fleecy flock.
A barleymow there, fat as mutton,
Then held her master by the button:
"Master, my heart and soul are wrung - till
They can't abide that dirty dunghill:
Master, you know I make your beer - 
You boast of me at Christmas cheer;
Then why insult me and disgrace me,
And next to that vile dunghill place me?
By Jove! it gives my nose offence:
Command the hinds to cart it hence."
"You stupid Barleymow," said Dunghill;
"You talk about your heart and wrung-ill:
Where would you be, I'd like to know,
Had I not fed and made you grow?
You of October brew brag - pshaw!
You would have been a husk of straw.
And now, instead of gratitude,
You rail in this ungrateful mood."
Easy Knowledge
by Arthur Macy

How nice 'twould be if knowledge grew
On bushes, as the berries do!
Then we could plant our spelling seed,
And gather all the words we need.
The sums from off our slates we'd wipe,
And wait for figures to be ripe,
And go into the fields, and pick
Whole bushels of arithmetic;
Or if we wished to learn Chinese,
We'd just go out and shake the trees;
And grammar then, in all the towns,
Would grow with proper verbs and nouns;
And in the gardens there would be
Great bunches of geography;
And all the passers-by would stop,
And marvel at the knowledge crop;
And I my pen would cease to push,
And pluck my verses from a bush!
The Gipsy's Camp.
by John Clare

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tatter'd rags,
Uncouth-brimm'd hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
'Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniformly pricks
Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks;
While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I've bent me o'er her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forg'd her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck,
And hoping chink, she talk'd of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee,
I never fail'd to gain the honours sought,
And Squire and Lord were purchas'd with a groat.
But as man's unbelieving taste came round,
She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,
Wip'd bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,
While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,
Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,
Which like as footboys on her actions wait,
That fortune's scale should to my sorrow turn,
And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;
That good to bad should change, and I should be
Lost to this world and all eternity;
That poor as Job I should remain unblest;--
(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)
Of not a hoarded farthing be possest,
And when all's done, be shov'd to hell at last!
A Live-Oak Leaf
by Clark Ashton Smith

How marvellous this bit of green
I hold, and soon shall throw away!
Its subtile veins, its vivid sheen,
Seem fragment of a god's array.
In all the hidden toil of earth,
Which is the more laborious part -
To rear the oak's enormous girth,
Or shape its leaves with poignant art?
Wasted Hours
by William Henry Davies

How many buds in this warm light
Have burst out laughing into leaves!
And shall a day like this be gone
Before I seek the wood that holds
The richest music known?
Too many times have nightingales
Wasted their passion on my sleep,
And brought repentance soon:
But this one night I'll seek the woods,
The nightingale, and moon.
The Joy Of Creation.
by W. M. MacKeracher

How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind
With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,
Ever new self-expressive forms to find
In those six days of rapturous employ!
How must He have delighted when He made
The stars, and meted ocean with His span,
And formed the insect and the tender blade,
And fashioned, after His own image, man!
And unto man such joy in his degree
He hath appointed, work of mind and hand,
To mould in forms of useful symmetry
Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his command
To toil upon the navigable sea
And ply his industry upon the land.
Troubled About Many Things.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

How many times these low feet staggered,
Only the soldered mouth can tell;
Try! can you stir the awful rivet?
Try! can you lift the hasps of steel?
Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often,
Lift, if you can, the listless hair;
Handle the adamantine fingers
Never a thimble more shall wear.
Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window;
Brave shines the sun through the freckled pane;
Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling --
Indolent housewife, in daisies lain!
The Ass And The Lap Dog
by Walter Crane

"How Master that little Dog pets!"
Thinks the Ass; & with jealousy frets,
So he climbs Master's knees,
Hoping dog-like to please,
And a drubbing is all that he gets.
Asses Must Not Expect To Be Fondled
Improvisations: Light And Snow: 12
by Conrad Potter Aiken

How many times have we been interrupted
Just as I was about to make up a story for you!
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself
A little tent of light in the darkness!
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us
And the plat-plat of drops on the window,
And we ran to watch the rain
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field!
Or at other times it was because we saw a star
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off,
Among pine-dark hills;
Or because we found a crimson eft
Darting in the cold grass!
These things interrupted us and left us wondering;
And the stories, whatever they might have been,
Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing?
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb?
A love-story of long ago?
Some day, just as we are beginning again,
Just as we blow the first sweet note,
Death itself will interrupt us.
Second Song (Three Songs of Zahir-u-Din)
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

How much I loved that way you had
Of smiling most, when very sad,
A smile which carried tender hints
Of delicate tints
And warbling birds,
Of sun and spring,
And yet, more than all other thing,
Of Weariness beyond all Words!
None other ever smiled that way,
None that I know, - 
The essence of all Gaiety lay,
Of all mad mirth that men may know,
In that sad smile, serene and slow,
That on your lips was wont to play.
It needed many delicate lines
And subtle curves and roseate tints
To make that weary radiant smile;
It flickered, as beneath the vines
The sunshine through green shadow glints
On the pale path that lies below,
Flickered and flashed, and died away,
But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhile
Were wont to stay.
Thoughts of Strange Things you used to know
In dim, dead lives, lived long ago,
Some madly mirthful Merriment
Whose lingering light is yet unspent, - 
Some unimaginable Woe, - 
Your strange, sad smile forgets these not,
Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!
The Alde
by John Frederick Freeman

How near I walked to Love,
How long, I cannot tell.
I was like the Alde that flows
Quietly through green level lands,
So quietly, it knows
Their shape, their greenness and their shadows well;
And then undreamingly for miles it goes
And silently, beside the sea.
Seamews circle over,
The winter wildfowl wings,
Long and green the grasses wave
Between the river and the sea.
The sea's cry, wild or grave,
From, bank to low bank of the river rings;
But the uncertain river though it crave
The sea, knows not the sea.
Was that indeed salt wind?
Came that noise from falling
Wild waters on a stony shore?
Oh, what is this new troubling tide
Of eager waves that pour
Around and over, leaping, parting, recalling?...
How near I moved (as day to same day wore)
And silently, beside the sea!
Chance
by Sara Teasdale

How many times we must have met
Here on the street as strangers do,
Children of chance we were, who passed
The door of heaven and never knew.
To Mr John Moore, Author Of The Celebrated Worm-Powder.
by Alexander Pope

How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceived by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find
E'er since our grandame's evil;
She first conversed with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The learn'd themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm:
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux.
And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!
O learned friend of Abchurch Lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat even thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years--no more;
Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
Sonnet VIII.
by Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa

How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces,
Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,
Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a whole world on their forgot causing;
And, when a thought would unmask our soul's masking,
Itself goes not unmasked to the unmasking.
The Death Of Artists
by Charles Baudelaire

How many times must I jingle my little bells
And kiss your ugly forehead, shabby substitute?
How many, 0 my quiver, spears and bolts to lose
Trying to hit the target, nature's mystic self?
We will wear out our souls concocting subtle schemes,
And we'll be wrecking heavy armatures we've done
Before we gaze upon the great and wondrous One,
For whom we've often sobbed, wracked by the devil's dreams!
But some have never known their Idol face to face
These poor, accursed sculptors, marked by their disgrace,
Who go to beat themselves about the breast and brow,
Have only but a hope, strange sombre Capitol!
It is that Death, a new and hovering sun, will find
A way to bring to bloom the flowers of their minds!
A Night Thought.
by Thomas Moore

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night!
'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen.