DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
At The Pantomime
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The house was crammed from roof to floor,
Heads piled on heads at every door;
Half dead with August's seething heat
I crowded on and found my seat,
My patience slightly out of joint,
My temper short of boiling-point,
Not quite at Hate mankind as such,
Nor yet at Love them overmuch.
Amidst the throng the pageant drew
Were gathered Hebrews not a few,
Black-bearded, swarthy, - at their side
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed:
If scarce a Christian hopes for grace
Who crowds one in his narrow place,
What will the savage victim do
Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew?
Next on my left a breathing form
Wedged up against me, close and warm;
The beak that crowned the bistred face
Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race, - 
That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown hue, - 
Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew
I started, shuddering, to the right,
And squeezed - a second Israelite.
Then woke the evil brood of rage
That slumber, tongueless, in their cage;
I stabbed in turn with silent oaths
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes,
The snaky usurer, him that crawls
And cheats beneath the golden balls,
Moses and Levi, all the horde,
Spawn of the race that slew its Lord.
Up came their murderous deeds of old,
The grisly story Chaucer told,
And many an ugly tale beside
Of children caught and crucified;
I heard the ducat-sweating thieves
Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,
And, thrust beyond the tented green,
The lepers cry, "Unclean! Unclean!"
The show went on, but, ill at ease,
My sullen eye it could not please,
In vain my conscience whispered, "Shame!
Who but their Maker is to blame?"
I thought of Judas and his bribe,
And steeled my soul against their tribe
My neighbors stirred; I looked again
Full on the younger of the twain.
A fresh young cheek whose olive hue
The mantling blood shows faintly through;
Locks dark as midnight, that divide
And shade the neck on either side;
Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam
Clear as a starlit mountain stream; - 
So looked that other child of Shem,
The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!
And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood
That flows immingled from the Flood, - 
Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!
The New World's foundling, in thy pride
Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,
And lo! the very semblance there
The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!
I see that radiant image rise,
The flowing hair, the pitying eyes,
The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows
The blush of Sharon's opening rose, - 
Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet
Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat,
Thy lips would press his garment's hem
That curl in wrathful scorn for them!
A sudden mist, a watery screen,
Dropped like a veil before the scene;
The shadow floated from my soul,
And to my lips a whisper stole, - 
"Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame,
From thee the Son of Mary came,
With thee the Father deigned to dwell, - 
Peace be upon thee, Israel!"
18 - . Rewritten 1874.
Winter Walk
by John Clare

The holly bush, a sober lump of green,
Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,
And smiles at winter be it eer so keen
With all the leafy luxury of May.
And O it is delicious, when the day
In winter's loaded garment keenly blows
And turns her back on sudden falling snows,
To go where gravel pathways creep between
Arches of evergreen that scarce let through
A single feather of the driving storm;
And in the bitterest day that ever blew
The walk will find some places still and warm
Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm
To little birds that flirt and start away.
Forsaken And Forlorn
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

The house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.
From the balcony I can hear the Isar moan,
Can see the white
Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under a sky of stone.
Some fireflies drift through the middle air Tinily.
I wonder where
Ends this darkness that annihilates me.
To Speak Of Woe That Is In Marriage
by Robert Lowell

"It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours."
Schopenhauer
"The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust...
It's the injustice... he is so unjust
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh....
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant."
What Man Is There Of You?
by George MacDonald

The homely words how often read!
How seldom fully known!
"Which father of you, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?"
How oft has bitter tear been shed,
And heaved how many a groan,
Because thou wouldst not give for bread
The thing that was a stone!
How oft the child thou wouldst have fed,
Thy gift away has thrown!
He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread:
He cried, "It is a stone!"
Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread
Lest I be left to moan,
Am I not he who, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?
Songs in the Night.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

"Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.
The hour of midnight had swept past,
The city bell tolled three,
The moon had sank behind the clouds,
No rustling in the tree.
All, all was silent as the grave,
And memories of the tomb,
Had banished sweet sleep far away,
All spoke of tears and gloom.
When suddenly upon the air.
Rang out a sweet bird's song,
No feeble, weak, uncertain note,
No plaint of grief or wrong,
No "Miserere Domine,"
No "Dies Irea" sad,
But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang,
In accents wild and glad.
How could he sing? a birdling caged,
And in the dark alone,
And then methought that he had seen,
Some vision from God's throne,
The little birdling's eyes were bright,
While mine with tears were dim,
Had some bright watcher glided by,
And spake in joy to him?
Then I remembered what Christ said,
The God of love's dear Son,
"Not one of these small birds forgot
Beneath the glorious sun."
They have no load of grief to bear,
Of sin no dark, deep stain,
And yet in patience take their share
Of storm, and frost and rain.
Oh, can it be unknown to us,
Without one human word,
The universal Father soothes
The death-bed of each bird;
"The whole creation groaneth," yet
These pure things of the sky,
Are they not nearer to the gates
Than mortals such as I?
Yet while I mused, it seemed some form,
Ere yet I was aware,
Bent o'er my pillow, dried my tears,
And turned to sing my prayer;
Some subtle presence unrevealed,
Seemed to repeat the words,
"Fear not, for you are dearer far,
Than many little birds."
I do not ask what seemed to speak;
Whether the angel blest,
Who hath been my appointed guard
In calm or wild unrest;
Or whether some sweet voice I love,
But hushed to me a while,
Came down on gentle mission sent,
To change for tears a smile.
It matters not; God knows faith's wings
Droop sometimes in the dust,
And hands grow weak and lose their hold
On Hope's firm anchor trust;
And so, while sending dew and rain,
And glowing sunbeams bright.
God giveth unto those who hear,
Songs in the darkest night.
Shade
by Theodosia Garrison

The kindliest thing God ever made,
His hand of very healing laid
Upon a fevered world, is shade.
His glorious company of trees
Throw out their mantles, and on these
The dust-stained wanderer finds ease.
Green temples, closed against the beat
Of noontime's blinding glare and heat,
Open to any pilgrim's feet.
The white road blisters in the sun;
Now, half the weary journey done,
Enter and rest, Oh weary one!
And feel the dew of dawn still wet
Beneath thy feet, and so forget
The burning highway's ache and fret.
This is God's hospitality,
And whoso rests beneath a tree
Hath cause to thank Him gratefully.
Night and Day.
by Sidney Lanier

The innocent, sweet Day is dead.
Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.
O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!
- Put out the light, said he.
A sweeter light than ever rayed
From star of heaven or eye of maid
Has vanished in the unknown Shade.
- She's dead, she's dead, said he.
Now, in a wild, sad after-mood
The tawny Night sits still to brood
Upon the dawn-time when he wooed.
- I would she lived, said he.
Star-memories of happier times,
Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes,
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.
- Come back, O Day! said he.
Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
The Wakers
by John Frederick Freeman

The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass
And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,
And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awake
Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.
"Before the daisy and the sorrel buy
Their brightness back from that close-folding night,
Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,
Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!"
Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred
Above the Roman bones that may not stir
Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:
The grass stirred as that happy music rang.
O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!
The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,
The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,
And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.
As if she had found wings, light as the wind,
The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,
Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all
Her dews for happiness to hear morning call....
But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,
I saw the fading edge of all delight.
The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,
And there was the old scolding of the birds.
The Thread Of Life.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

1.
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me: -
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand? -
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2.
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3.
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
The Judicious Jubilant Jay
by Edward Lear

The Judicious Jubilant Jay,
who did up her Back Hair every morning with a Wreath of Roses,
Three feathers, and a Gold Pin.
The Wild Duck's Nest
by William Wordsworth

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring,
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-gleaming Nest, a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow:
I gazed and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!
A Winter Minster
by Michael Earls

(For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell)
The interlacing trees
Arise in Gothic traceries,
As if a vast cathedral deep and dim;
And through the solemn atmosphere
The low winds hymn
Such thoughts as solitude will hear.
To lead your way across
Gray carpet aisles of moss
Unto the chantry stalls,
The sumach candelabra are alight;
Along the cloister walls,
Like chorister and acolyte,
The shrubs are vested white;
The dutiful monastic oak
In his gray-friar cloak
Keeps penitential ways
And solemn orisons of praise;
For beads upon the cincture-vine
Red berries warm with color shine,
And to their constant rosary
The bedesmen firs incline;
And fair as frescoes be
Among the shrines of Italy,
These lights and shadows are,
Impalpable in gray and green
Upon the hills afar
And the gold westering sun between.
The music! Hark!
Oh, an it be no rapturous lark,
Yet has the lesser chant
The blessedness of song.
The snowbird mendicant
Intones the antiphon-
Et laboremus nos;
Creation.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The impulse of all love is to create.
God was so full of love, in his embrace
He clasped the empty nothingness of space,
And low! the solar system! High in state
The mighty sun sat, so supreme and great
With this same essence, one smile of its face
Brought myriad forms of life forth; race on race,
From insects up to men.
Through love, not hate,
All that is grand in nature or in art
Sprang into being. He who would build sublime
And lasting works, to stand the test of time,
Must inspiration draw from his full heart.
And he who loveth widely, well, and much,
The secret holds of the true master touch.
North And South.
by Robert Herrick

The Jews their beds and offices of ease,
Placed north and south for these clean purposes;
That man's uncomely froth might not molest
God's ways and walks, which lie still east and west.
On A Horn
by Jonathan Swift

The joy of man, the pride of brutes,
Domestic subject for disputes,
Of plenty thou the emblem fair,
Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care!
I saw thee raised to high renown,
Supporting half the British crown;
And often have I seen thee grace
The chaste Diana's infant face;
And whensoe'er you please to shine,
Less useful is her light than thine:
Thy numerous fingers know their way,
And oft in Celia's tresses play.
To place thee in another view,
I'll show the world strange things and true;
What lords and dames of high degree
May justly claim their birth from thee!
The soul of man with spleen you vex;
Of spleen you cure the female sex.
Thee for a gift the courtier sends
With pleasure to his special friends:
He gives, and with a generous pride,
Contrives all means the gift to hide:
Nor oft can the receiver know,
Whether he has the gift or no.
On airy wings you take your flight,
And fly unseen both day and night;
Conceal your form with various tricks;
And few know how or where you fix:
Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast
That they to others give thee most.
Meantime, the wise a question start,
If thou a real being art;
Or but a creature of the brain,
That gives imaginary pain?
But the sly giver better knows thee;
Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.
Juno's Speech. - Translations From Horace.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

OD. iii. 3.
The just man's single-purposed mind
Not furious mobs that prompt to ill
May move, nor kings' frowns shake his will
Which is as rock; not warrior-winds
That keep the seas in wild unrest;
Nor bolt by Jove's own finger hurled:
The fragments of a shivered world
Would crash round him still self-possest.
Jove's wandering son reached, thus endowed,
The fiery bastions of the skies;
Thus Pollux; with them Caesar lies
Beside his nectar, radiant-browed.
For this rewarded, tiger-drawn
Rode Bacchus, reining necks before
Untamed; for this War's horses bore
Quirinus up from Acheron,
When in heav'n's conclave Juno said,
Thrice welcomed: "Troy is in the dust;
Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust,
And that strange woman prostrated.
"The day Laomedon ignored
His god-pledged word, resigned to me
And Pallas ever-pure, was she,
Her people, and their traitor lord.
"No more the Greek girl's guilty guest
Sits splendour-girt: Priam's perjured sons
Find not against the mighty ones
Of Greece a shield in Hector's breast:
"And, long drawn out by private jars,
The war sleeps. Lo! my wrath is o'er:
And him the Trojan vestal bore
(Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,
"To Mars restore I. His be rest
In halls of light: by him be drained
The nectar-bowl, his place obtained
In the calm companies of the blest.
"While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves
A length of ocean, where they will
Rise empires for the exiles still:
While Paris's and Priam's graves
"Are hoof-trod, and the she-wolf breeds
Securely there, unharmed shall stand
Rome's lustrous Capitol, her hand
Impose proud laws on trampled Medes.
"Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne
Her story; where the central main
Europe and Libya parts in twain,
Where full Nile laves a land of corn:
"The buried secret of the mine,
(Best left there) resolute to spurn,
And not to man's base uses turn
With hand that spares not things divine.
"Earth's utmost end, where'er it be,
May her hosts reach; careering proud
O'er lands where watery rain and cloud,
Or where wild suns hold revelry.
"But, to the soldier-sons of Rome,
Tied by this law, such fates are willed;
That they seek never to rebuild,
Too fond, too bold, their grandsires' home.
"With darkest omens, deadliest strife,
Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat
Her history; I the victor-fleet
Shall lead, Jove's sister and his wife.
"Thrice let Apollo rear the wall
Of brass; and thrice my Greeks shall hew
The fabric down; thrice matrons rue
In chains their sons', their husbands' fall."
Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.
Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse
God-utterances in puny verse
That may but mar a mighty theme.
The Khan's Devil
by John Greenleaf Whittier

The Khan came from Bokhara town
To Hamza, santon of renown.
"My head is sick, my hands are weak;
Thy help, O holy man, I seek."
In silence marking for a space
The Khan's red eyes and purple face,
Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread,
"Thou hast a devil!" Hamza said.
"Allah forbid!" exclaimed the Khan.
Rid me of him at once, O man!"
"Nay," Hamza said, "no spell of mine
Can slay that cursed thing of thine.
"Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink
Water of healing on the brink
"Where clear and cold from mountain snows,
The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.
"Six moons remain, then come to me;
May Allah's pity go with thee!"
Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan
Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.
Roots were his food, the desert dust
His bed, the water quenched his thirst;
And when the sixth moon's scimetar
Curved sharp above the evening star,
He sought again the santon's door,
Not weak and trembling as before,
But strong of limb and clear of brain;
"Behold," he said, "the fiend is slain."
"Nay," Hamza answered, "starved and drowned,
The curst one lies in death-like swound.
"But evil breaks the strongest gyves,
And jins like him have charmed lives.
"One beaker of the juice of grape
May call him up in living shape.
"When the red wine of Badakshan
Sparkles for thee, beware, O Khan,
"With water quench the fire within,
And drown each day thy devilkin!"
Thenceforth the great Khan shunned the cup
As Shitan's own, though offered up,
With laughing eyes and jewelled hands,
By Yarkand's maids and Samarcand's.
And, in the lofty vestibule
Of the medress of Kaush Kodul,
The students of the holy law
A golden-lettered tablet saw,
With these words, by a cunning hand,
Graved on it at the Khan's command:
"In Allah's name, to him who hath
A devil, Khan el Hamed saith,
"Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine
The fiend that loves the breath of wine,
"No prayer can slay, no marabout
Nor Meccan dervis can drive out.
"I, Khan el Hamed, know the charm
That robs him of his power to harm.
"Drown him, O Islam's child! the spell
To save thee lies in tank and well!
Prologue To "Don Sebastian." Spoken By A Woman.
by John Dryden

The judge removed, though he's no more my lord,
May plead at bar, or at the council board:
So may cast poets write; there's no pretension
To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
I see not one that wears a damning face.
The British nation is too brave to show
Ignoble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe.
At last be civil to the wretch imploring;
And lay your paws upon him without roaring.
Suppose our poet was your foe before,
Yet now, the business of the field is o'er;
'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
When troops are into winter quarters gone.
Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
And you well know, a play's of no religion.
Take good advice, and please yourselves this day;
No matter from what hands you have the play.
Among good fellows every health will pass,
That serves to carry round another glass:
When with full bowls of Burgundy you dine,
Though at the mighty monarch you repine,
You grant him still Most Christian in his wine.
Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle,
And all the rest is purely from his noddle.
You have seen young ladies at the senate door
Prefer petitions, and your grace implore;
However grave the legislators were,
Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair.
Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring;
But I could bribe you with as good a thing.
I heard him make advances of good nature;
That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire.
Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again
The sacred names of fops and beaux profane.
Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear,
As times go now, he offers very fair.
Be not too hard on him with statutes neither;
Be kind; and do not set your teeth together,
To stretch the laws, as cobblers do their leather.
Horses by Papists are not to be ridden,
But sure the Muses' horse was ne'er forbidden;
For in no rate-book it was ever found
That Pegasus was valued at five pound;
Fine him to daily drudging and inditing:
And let him pay his taxes out in writing.
The Kicking Kangaroo
by Edward Lear

The Kicking Kangaroo,
who wore a Pale Pink Muslin dress
with Blue spots.
To Jane: 'The Keen Stars Were Twinkling'.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane!
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.
2.
As the moon's soft splendour
O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.
3.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
To-night;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
4.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
The Keeper Of The Jewel
by Paul Cameron Brown

The keeper of the jewel.
I file it down,
keep it smooth.
I can be found any day,
busy disguising the
jaded and unproved.
I follow forget-me-nots
in a forest pool.
I undo knots
in groves of shallow trees.
I pretend unfit sores can sit
alongside water smoothed
pebbles in a sunlit stream.