DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To the Pliocene Skull
by Bret Harte (Francis)

'Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil!
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
Of volcanic tufa!
'Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium;
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
Of earth's epidermis!
'Eo Mio Plio whatsoe'er the 'cene' was
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,
Tell us thy strange story!
'Or has the professor slightly antedated
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted
For cold-blooded creatures?
'Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant
Carboniferous epoch?
'Tell us of that scene, the dim and watery woodland,
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect,
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club mosses,
Lycopodiacea,
'When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled
Cheerful Pterodactyls.
'Tell us of thy food, those half-marine refections,
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,
Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo
Seems a periwinkle.
'Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,
Solitary fragment of remains organic!
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,
Speak! thou oldest primate!'
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,
Ground the teeth together.
And from that imperfect dental exhibition,
Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian,
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
Of expectoration:
'Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County;
But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
Home to old Missouri!'
A Sunset Fantasy
by Victor James Daley

Spellbound by a sweet fantasy
At evenglow I stand
Beside an opaline strange sea
That rings a sunset land.
The rich lights fade out one by one,
And, like a peony
Drowning in wine, the crimson sun
Sinks down in that strange sea.
His wake across the ocean-floor
In a long glory lies,
Like a gold wave-way to the shore
Of some sea paradise.
My dream flies after him, and I
Am in another land;
The sun sets in another sky,
And we sit hand in hand.
Gray eyes look into mine; such eyes
I think the angel's are,
Soft as the soft light in the skies
When shines the morning star,
And tremulous as morn, when thin
Gold lights begin to glow,
Revealing the bright soul within
As dawn the sun below.
So, hand in hand, we watch the sun
Burn down the Western deeps,
Dreaming a charmed dream, as one
Who in enchantment sleeps;
A dream of how we twain some day,
Careless of map or chart,
Will both take ship and sail away
Into the sunset's heart.
Our ship shall be of sandal built,
Like ships in old-world tales,
Carven with cunning art, and gilt,
And winged with scented sails
Of silver silk, whereon the red
Great gladioli burn,
A rainbow-flag at her masthead,
A rose-flag at her stern;
And, perching on the point above
Wherefrom the pennon blows,
The figure of a flying dove,
And in her beak a rose.
And from the fading land the breeze
Shall bring us, blowing low,
Old odours and old memories,
And airs of long ago.
A melody that has no words
Of mortal speech a part,
Yet touching all the deepest chords
That tremble in the heart:
A scented song blown oversea,
As though from bowers of bloom
A wind-harp in a lilac-tree
Breathed music and perfume.
And we, no more with longings pale,
Will smile to hear it blow;
I in the shadow of the sail,
You in the sunset-glow.
For, with the fading land, our fond
Old fears shall all fade out,
Paled by the light from shores beyond
The dread of Death or Doubt.
And from a gloomy cloud above
When Death his shadow flings,
The Spirit of Immortal Love
Will shield us with his wings.
He is the lord of dreams divine,
And lures us with his smiles
Along the splendour opaline
Unto the Blessed Isles.
Speak Of The North! A Lonely Moor
by Charlotte Bronte

Speak of the North! A lonely moor
Silent and dark and tractless swells,
The waves of some wild streamlet pour
Hurriedly through its ferny dells.
Profoundly still the twilight air,
Lifeless the landscape; so we deem
Till like a phantom gliding near
A stag bends down to drink the stream.
And far away a mountain zone,
A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,
And one star, large and soft and lone,
Silently lights the unclouded skies.
An Invocation.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell
Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear
Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!
That from the bonds in which thou'rt forced to dwell
Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled,
Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead.
Speak to me through thy prison bars; my life
With all things round, is one eternal strife,
'Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice;
Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light!
That I may know thou'rt with me, and rejoice.
Shall not this weary warfare pass away?
Shall there not come a better, brighter day?
Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite,
And thou to heaven spring,
With thine immortal wing,
And I, still following,
With steps that do not tire,
Reach my desire,
And to thy worship bring
Some worthy offering?
Oh! let but these dark days be once gone by,
And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain,
With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky,
O'er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign.
But, while I'm doomed beneath the yoke to bow,
Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear,
Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy brow
Of shining brightness; sometimes let me hear
Thy blessed voice, singing the songs of Heaven,
Whence thou and I, together have been driven;
Give me assurance that thou still art nigh,
Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die!
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXV.
by Thomas Moore

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled,
Stream on the breeze like floating gold;
Come, within a fragrant cloud
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh, waft me hence away!
Love! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.
But she, the nymph for whom I glow
The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe;
Smiles at the chill and hoary hues
That time upon my forehead strews.
Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,
In store for younger, happier arms!
Sestina Of The Tramp-Royal
by Rudyard Kipling

Speakin' in general, I'ave tried 'em all
The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.
Speakin' in general, I'ave found them good
For such as cannot use one bed too long,
But must get 'ence, the same as I'ave done,
An' go observin' matters till they die.
What do it matter where or 'ow we die,
So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all,
The different ways that different things are done,
An' men an' women lovin' in this world;
Takin' our chances as they come along,
An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good?
In cash or credit, no, it aren't no good;
You've to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die,
Unless you lived your life but one day long,
Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all,
But drew your tucker some'ow from the world,
An' never bothered what you might ha' done.
But, Gawd, what things are they I'aven't done?
I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good,
In various situations round the world
For 'im that doth not work must surely die;
But that's no reason man should labour all
'Is life on one same shift, life's none so long.
Therefore, from job to job I've moved along.
Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done,
For something in my 'ead upset it all,
Till I'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good,
An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die,
An' met my mate, the wind that tramps the world!
It's like a book, I think, this bloomin, world,
Which you can read and care for just so long,
But presently you feel that you will die
Unless you get the page you're readi'n' done,
An' turn another, likely not so good;
But what you're after is to turn'em all.
Gawd bless this world! Whatever she'oth done,
Excep' When awful long, I've found it good.
So write, before I die, "'E liked it all!"
The Promise of the Hawthorn
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Spring sleeps and stirs and trembles with desire
Pure as a babe's that nestles toward the breast.
The world, as yet an all unstricken lyre,
With all its chords alive and all at rest,
Feels not the sun's hand yet, but feels his breath
And yearns for love made perfect. Man and bird,
Thrilled through with hope of life that casts out death,
Wait with a rapturous patience till his word
Speak heaven, and flower by flower and tree by tree
Give back the silent strenuous utterance. Earth,
Alive awhile and joyful as the sea,
Laughs not aloud in joy too deep for mirth,
Presageful of perfection of delight,
Till all the unborn green buds be born in white.
An Easter Carol.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Spring bursts to-day,
For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play.
Flash forth, thou Sun,
The rain is over and gone, its work is done.
Winter is past,
Sweet Spring is come at last, is come at last.
Bud, Fig and Vine,
Bud, Olive, fat with fruit and oil and wine.
Break forth this morn
In roses, thou but yesterday a Thorn.
Uplift thy head,
O pure white Lily through the Winter dead.
Beside your dams
Leap and rejoice, you merry-making Lambs.
All Herds and Flocks
Rejoice, all Beasts of thickets and of rocks.
Sing, Creatures, sing,
Angels and Men and Birds and everything.
All notes of Doves
Fill all our world: this is the time of loves.
Tyranny.
by Sidney Lanier

"Spring-germs, spring-germs,
I charge you by your life, go back to death.
This glebe is sick, this wind is foul of breath.
Stay: feed the worms.
"Oh! every clod
Is faint, and falters from the war of growth
And crumbles in a dreary dust of sloth,
Unploughed, untrod.
"What need, what need,
To hide with flowers the curse upon the hills,
Or sanctify the banks of sluggish rills
Where vapors breed?
"And - if needs must -
Advance, O Summer-heats! upon the land,
And bake the bloody mould to shards and sand
And dust.
"Before your birth,
Burn up, O Roses! with your dainty flame.
Good Violets, sweet Violets, hide shame
Below the earth.
"Ye silent Mills,
Reject the bitter kindness of the moss.
O Farms! protest if any tree emboss
The barren hills.
"Young Trade is dead,
And swart Work sullen sits in the hillside fern
And folds his arms that find no bread to earn,
And bows his head.
"Spring-germs, spring-germs,
Albeit the towns have left you place to play,
I charge you, sport not. Winter owns to-day,
Stay: feed the worms."
Prattville, Alabama, 1868.
Dedication - ristram of Lyonesse and Other Poems
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

TO MY BEST FRIEND
THEODORE WATTS
I DEDICATE IN THIS BOOK
THE BEST I HAVE TO GIVE HIM
Spring speaks again, and all our woods are stirred,
And all our wide glad wastes aflower around,
That twice have heard keen April's clarion sound
Since here we first together saw and heard
Spring's light reverberate and reiterate word
Shine forth and speak in season. Life stands crowned
Here with the best one thing it ever found,
As of my soul's best birthdays dawns the third.
There is a friend that as the wise man saith
Cleaves closer than a brother: nor to me
Hath time not shown, through days like waves at strife,
This truth more sure than all things else but death,
This pearl most perfect found in all the sea
That washes toward your feet these waifs of life.
THE PINES
April 1882
Magni Nominis Umbra
by Robert Fuller Murray

St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be
Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
The remnant only of an ancient fame
Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.
For thou, to whom was given the earliest key
Of knowledge in this land (and all men came
To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim
The glory that of right belongs to thee.
Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides
The force of youth, to make thyself anew
A name of honour and a place of power.
Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;
Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;
Again thou shalt be great.    Quick come the hour!
Upon Spokes.
by Robert Herrick

Spokes, when he sees a roasted pig, he swears
Nothing he loves on't but the chaps and ears:
But carve to him the fat flanks, and he shall
Rid these, and those, and part by part eat all.
Gunpaader Plot (Prose)
by John Hartley

Squibs an' crackers! Starleets an' catterin wheels! Bunfires an' traikle parkin! This is th' time for a bit ov a jollification. Guy Fawkes did a gooid turn, after all, when he tried to blow th' Parliament haase up; for we should ha' had one spree less i' the' year but for him. Ax twenty fowk this question o' th' fourth o' November, "Are yo gooin to buy ony fireworks this year?" an aw dar be bun to say yo willn't find one i'th' lot but what'll say "Aw've summat else to do wi' my brass nor to waste it o' sich like fooilery as that." An' still, aw'll wager at nineteen on 'em buy some after all. Ther's a deal o' difference i'th way they spend it. I' th' country they all sit raand th' fire wi' their parkin an' milk' or else rooasted puttaties, an' they tell tales, an' they laf an' talk till they've varry near burned ther shoo toas off, an' getten soa starved o' ther back 'at they willn't be shut ov a cold for a month; but i'th' taan there's allus th' mooast to do i'th' public haases. Aw think aw shall niver forget a marlock we had th' last plot. It wor in a public haase somewhere between "Spice Cake-loin" an' Whiskum Dandy; ther wor a raam full o' fowk, an' aw nooatised 'at iverybody's pockets wor swelled aat, an' thinks aw, aw shouldn't be capp'd if ther wor a dust here in a while. They just wanted somdy to start. In a bit one on 'em gate up to goa aat, an' th' landlord (he'd a cork leg) drop'd a cracker into his pocket. He hadn't gooan far when bang it went; he turns back an' leets abaat two dozzen an' sends 'em in to th' middle o'th' raam. "Nah, lads! for God's sake show a bit o' sense," says th' landlord, "dooant begin sich like wark as that i' this raam, nah dooant." He mud as weel ha' just whistled jigs to a mile-stoop; aat coom iverybody's stock, an' i' less nor hauf a minit ther wor sich a hullabaloo i' that shop as aw niver heeared afoor. To mak matters war, somdy had shut th' door an' fesened it, an' th' place wor full o' rick, an iverybody ommost chooak'd. Aw gate under th' seat, an' in a bit somdy smashes th' window an' bawls aat "fire! fire!" I' two or three minits ther coom a stream o' watter into th' raam as thick as my shackle, an' smash went th' chandilleer. Th' landlord wor mad ommost - lukkin glasses an' picters went one after tother, an' aw faand aat 'as aw couldn't swim, aw should ha' to shift, or else aw should be draaned. Some kind soul managed to braik th' door daan an' we gate aat, but aw could hear th' landlord yelling aat 'at sombdy had stown his cork leg. Ha' they went on aw dooant know, for aw steered straight hooam. At abaat six o'clock th' next morning, as aw went to my wark, aw saw a cork leg with a varry good booit on it, hangin' to a gas lamp, an aw wonder'd whose it wor.
The April Snow-Storm - 1858.
by Charles Sangster

Spread lightly, virgin shower,
Your winding-sheet of snow;
Winter has lost his power,
But mock not at his woe.
Fall not so cold and bleak,
Nor blow the breath of scorn;
Gently.    Thy sire is weak;
And thou, his latest-born.
Frail type of life thou art:
At first, pure as the snow
We come - abide - depart;
What more, th' Immortals know.
Fall gently, virgin shower,
Though wild the west wind raves;
Watch through this midnight hour
Above the new-made graves!
-    -    - 
Spread gently, virgin shower,
Your winding sheet of snow;
My heart has lost its power,
But mock not at its woe.
Fall not so cold and bleak,
Treat not her corse with scorn;
Gently.    My heart is weak;
She, too, was April-born.
Fall gently, virgin shower;
The heart once strong and brave
Hath lost its wonted power;
'Tis buried in her grave.
In Memoriam. - Denison Olmsted, Ll.D.,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859.
Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds,
And woke to joyance every leaf and flower,
Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find
Refreshment from his toils.
'Twas sweet to see
How Nature met him there, and took away
All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held
Higher communion than with fragrant shrub,
Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd.
His talk was with the stars, as one by one,
Night, in her queenly regency, put forth
Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe.
He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names,
And by their heavenly conversation sought
Acquaintance with their Maker.
Sang they not
Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd
From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks,
With its attendant angel?
We are dark.
We ask, and yet no answer.
But we trace
In clearest lines the shining course he took
Among life's duties, for so many years,
And hear those parting words, that "all is peace!"[1]
The harvest-song of true philosophy.
His epitaph is that which cannot yield
A mouldering motto to the tooth of time.
--Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust,
But the immortal mind doth ever keep
The earnest impress of the moulding hand,
And bear it onward to a race unborn.
--That is his monument.
Spring's Bedfellow.
by William Morris

Spring went about the woods to-day,
The soft-foot winter-thief,
And found where idle sorrow lay
'Twixt flower and faded leaf.
She looked on him, and found him fair
For all she had been told;
She knelt adown beside him there,
And sang of days of old.
His open eyes beheld her nought,
Yet 'gan his lips to move;
But life and deeds were in her thought,
And he would sing of love.
So sang they till their eyes did meet,
And faded fear and shame;
More bold he grew, and she more sweet,
Until they sang the same.
Until, say they who know the thing,
Their very lips did kiss,
And Sorrow laid abed with Spring
Begat an earthly bliss.
To Mary Boyle
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
'Spring-flowers'! While you still delay to take
Your leave of town,
Our elm-tree's ruddy-hearted blossom-flake
Is fluttering down.
II.
Be truer to your promise. There! I heard
Our cuckoo call.
Be needle to the magnet of your word,
Nor wait, till all
III.
Our vernal bloom from every vale and plain
And garden pass,
And all the gold from each laburnum chain
Drop to the grass.
IV.
Is memory with your Marian gone to rest,
Dead with the dead?
For ere she left us, when we met, you prest
My hand, and said
V.
'I come with your spring-flowers.' You came not, my friend;
My birds would sing,
You heard not. Take then this spring-flower I send,
This song of spring,
VI.
Found yesterday'forgotten mine own rhyme
By mine old self,
As I shall be forgotten by old Time,
Laid on the shelf'
VII.
A rhyme that flower'd betwixt the whitening sloe
And kingcup blaze,
And more than half a hundred years ago,
In rick-fire days,
VIII.
When Dives loathed the times, and paced his land
In fear of worse,
And sanguine Lazarus felt a vacant hand
Fill with his purse.
IX.
For lowly minds were madden'd to the height
By tonguester tricks,
And once'I well remember that red night
When thirty ricks,
X.
All flaming, made an English homestead hell'
These hands of mine
Have helpt to pass a bucket from the well
Along the line,
XI.
When this bare dome had not begun to gleam
Thro' youthful curls,
And you were then a lover's fairy dream,
His girl of girls;
XII.
And you, that now are lonely, and with Grief
Sit face to face,
Might find a flickering glimmer of relief
In change of place.
XIII.
What use to brood? This life of mingled pains
And joys to me,
Despite of every Faith and Creed, remains
The Mystery.
XIV.
Let golden youth bewail the friend, the wife,
For ever gone.
He dreams of that long walk thro' desert life
Without the one.
XV.
The silver year should cease to mourn and sigh'
Not long to wait'
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I
To that dim gate.
XVI.
Take, read! and be the faults your Poet makes
Or many or few,
He rests content, if his young music wakes
A wish in you
XVII.
To change our dark Queen-city, all her realm
Of sound and smoke,
For his clear heaven, and these few lanes of elm
And whispering oak.
A Song.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Spring-time is coming again, my dear;
Sunshine and violets blue, you know;
Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads
Out of their sheets of snow.
And I know a blossom sweeter by far
That violets blue, or crocuses are,
And bright as the sunbeam's glow.
But how can I dare to look in her eyes,
Colored with heaven's own hue?
That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
It really wouldn't do.
Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;
In its golden depths the fairies play,
Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,
Luring my heart away.
And her merry lips are the ripest red
That ever addled a poor man's head,
Or led his wits astray.
What wouldn't I give to taste the sweets
Of those rose-leaves wet with dew!
But that wouldn't do at all, my dear,
It really wouldn't do.
Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure;
It rings like the chime of a silver bell,
And the thought it wakes in my foolish head,
I'm really afraid to tell.
Her little feet kiss the ground below,
And her hand is white as the whitest snow
That e'er from heaven fell.
But I wouldn't dare to take that hand,
Reward for my love to sue;
That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
It really wouldn't do.
Presence Of Mind
by Paul Cameron Brown

Spring heralds the summer with lilacs perched from that door.
In snows, a swarm of bushes lie black and apparently rootless as the town's iron-gate bridge collapses under the centre part of the main road.
Little enclaves of activity pass as stores, mere centrefolds across busy highway arteries this time of year.
I am a grey fleck in my dark wool coat near the perimeter of a winding fence.
The casual observer gives me half a chance to be seen in the deathless white, opaque coloured moonstone so still against the field's shores.
A plaster river, her sides inserted with isle-dotted chunks, hands across a winter solstice tribal dance.
Ostensibly, I poke the land from stylized limbo, a chalky substance disturbed with every movement's cough.
And if I were to fall, lie down, and cry, the agonized winter's frantic sun would bury me with shadows, give forth dark branches to my freedom.
In the growing dark, I ponder white and infinity.
The hectic pace of the distant highway absorbs less and less my hope.
In private cold, my face burns a tallow white, toes flake in frostbite or erode every sensation.
Stars in the dark canopy above are cryptic mourners and people frigid sorrow.
Black is my colour as I ebb steadily toward their heights.
By morning, when the first wisp of straw or dry leaf catches light near this stringent fence, an occasional passerby with the presence of mind shall comment how lifeless fields are in the clutch of brittle snow.
Above the Battle's Front
by Vachel Lindsay

St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John - 
Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand,
Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare,
And walked upon the water and the land,
If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings
For sober conclave, ere their battle great,
Would they for one deep instant then discern
Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate?
If you should float above the battle's front,
Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay,
Bearing a fifth within your regal train,
The Son of David in his strange array - 
If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven,
Would they have hearts to see or understand?
... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know,
Thorn-crowned above the water and the land.