DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Caroline.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
2.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this -
3.
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
4.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
5.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
6.
Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested - the dead.
American Boys, Hello!
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French
As along through France we go.
But the moments to us that are keen and sweet
Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,
Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;
And we call to them - 'Boys, hello!'
'Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life's best joys!
American boys, hello!'
We couldn't do that if we were at home - 
It never would do, you know!
For there you must wait till you're told who's who,
And to meet in the way that nice folks do.
Though you knew his name, and your name he knew - 
You never would say 'Hello, hello, American boy!'
But here it's just a joy,
As we pass along in the stranger throng,
To call out, 'Boys, hello!'
For each is a brother away from home;
And this we are sure is so,
There's a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,
And we want him to feel there are friends RIGHT THERE
In this foreign land, and so we dare
To call out 'Boys, hello!'
'Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life's best joys!
American boys, hello!'
Interlude - A Dirge Of Joy
by Henry Lawson

Oh! this is a joyful dirge, my friends, and this is a hymn of praise;
And this is a clamour of Victory, and a p'an of Ancient Days.
It isn't a Yelp of the Battlefield; nor a Howl of the Bounding Wave,
But an ode to the Things that the War has Killed, and a lay of the Festive Grave.
'Tis a triolet of the Tomb, you bet, and a whoop because of Despair,
And it's sung as I stand on my hoary head and wave my legs in the air!
Oh! I dance on the grave of the Suffragette (I dance on my hands and dome),
And the Sanctity-of-the-Marriage-Tie and the Breaking-Up-of-the-Home.
And I dance on the grave of the weird White-Slave that died when the war began;
And Better-Protection-for-Women-and-Girls, and Men-Made-Laws-for-Man!
Oh, I dance on the Liberal Lady's grave and the Labour Woman's, too;
And the grave of the Female lie and shriek, with a dance that is wild and new.
And my only regret in this song-a-let as I dance over dale and hill,
Is the Yarn-of-the-Wife and the Tale-of-the-Girl that never a war can kill.
Oh, I dance on the grave of the want-ter-write, and I dance on the Tomb of the Sneer,
And poet-and-author-and-critic, too, who used to be great round here.
But 'Old Mother Often' ('Mother of Ten') and 'Parent' escaped from the grave, 
And 'Pro Bono Publico' liveth again, as 'Victis,' or 'Honour the Brave.'
Oh, lightly I danced upon Politics' grave where the Friend of the Candidate slept,
And over the Female Political Devil, oh wildly I bounded and leapt.
But this dance shall be nothing compared with the dance of the spook of the writer who sings
On the grave of the bard and the Bulletin's grave, out there at the Finish of Things!
Lines.
by William Cowper

Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!
To A Sleeping Child. I.
by Thomas Hood

Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep, - 
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die
With that unchanging countenance of sleep!
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie
With no more life than roses - just to keep
The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath.
O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose.
So sweet a compromise of life and death,
'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose
For memory to stain their inward leaf,
Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.
Cui Bono
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles,
Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf;
Why should he labour to help his neighbour
Who feels too reckless to help himself?
The wail of the breeze in the bending trees
Is something between a laugh and a groan;
And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore
Is a dull, discordant monotone;
I wish I could guess what sense they express,
There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound,
Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well,
Whom would it profit? The world goes round!
On this earth so rough we know quite enough,
And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much;
The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser,
Is he more to be envied for being such?
Neither more nor less, in his idleness
The sage is doom'd to vexation sure;
The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool,
That he calls his throne, is no sinecure;
And as for the clown, you may give him a crown,
Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not,
And before you can wink he may spend it in drink,
To whom does it profit? We ripe and rot!
Yet under the sun much work is done
By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage;
All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap
Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.
By sea or by soil man is bound to toil,
And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide,
For awhile may shirk his share of the work,
But he grows with his dream dissatisfied;
He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge,
Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels
'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail,
What does it profit? Wheels within wheels!
Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust,
And eat we must our bodies to nurse;
Some folk grow fatter, what does it matter?
I'm blest if I do, quite the reverse;
'Tis a weary round to which we are bound,
The same thing over and over again;
Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble,
That rises and bursts, is the best we gain;
And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get
What good we deserve, can we hope for more?
They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves,
To whom do they profit? Let them roar!
The Turkish Captive.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Si je n''tait captive.")
[IX., July, 1828.]
Oh! were I not a captive,
I should love this fair countree;
Those fields with maize abounding,
This ever-plaintive sea:
I'd love those stars unnumbered,
If, passing in the shade,
Beneath our walls I saw not
The spahi's sparkling blade.
I am no Tartar maiden
That a blackamoor of price
Should tune my lute and hold to me
My glass of sherbet-ice.
Far from these haunts of vices,
In my dear countree, we
With sweethearts in the even
May chat and wander free.
But still I love this climate,
Where never wintry breeze
Invades, with chilly murmur,
These open lattices;
Where rain is warm in summer,
And the insect glossy green,
Most like a living emerald,
Shines 'mid the leafy screen.
With her chapelles fair Smyrna - 
A gay princess is she!
Still, at her summons, round her
Unfading spring ye see.
And, as in beauteous vases,
Bright groups of flowers repose,
So, in her gulfs are lying
Her archipelagoes.
I love these tall red turrets;
These standards brave unrolled;
And, like an infant's playthings,
These houses decked with gold.
I love forsooth these reveries,
Though sandstorms make me pant,
Voluptuously swaying
Upon an elephant.
Here in this fairy palace,
Full of such melodies,
Methinks I hear deep murmurs
That in the deserts rise;
Soft mingling with the music
The Genii's voices pour,
Amid the air, unceasing,
Around us evermore.
I love the burning odors
This glowing region gives;
And, round each gilded lattice,
The trembling, wreathing leaves;
And, 'neath the bending palm-tree,
The gayly gushing spring;
And on the snow-white minaret,
The stork with snowier wing.
I love on mossy couch to sing
A Spanish roundelay,
And see my sweet companions
Around commingling gay, - 
A roving band, light-hearted,
In frolicsome array, - 
Who 'neath the screening parasols
Dance down the merry day.
But more than all enchanting
At night, it is to me,
To sit, where winds are sighing,
Lone, musing by the sea;
And, on its surface gazing,
To mark the moon so fair,
Her silver fan outspreading,
In trembling radiance there.
W.D., Tait's Edin. Magazine
As Good As A Girl.
by Jean Blewett

Oh, a big broad-shouldered fellow was Ben,
And homely as you would see,
Such an awkward walker and stammering talker,
And as bashful as he could be.
The son of a lone, widowed mother was he,
And right well did he act his part,
A giant at sowing and reaping and mowing - 
His farm was the pride of his heart.
His mother depended on his strong arm;
In the cottage so neat and trim
He kept the fires burning, did sweeping and churning - 
Oh, the odd jobs saved up for him!
"My Ben's a comfort," she said every day,
With pride that made his head whirl,
"As handy at sweeping as he is at reaping - 
Ben is just as good as a girl!"
"A six-foot fellow to work round the house!
We'll call him 'Miss Ben,'" said the girls;
But Ben, heaven bless him, never let this distress him
Till there came a day when the curls
And blue eyes of Gladys, the prettiest girl,
And the proudest in all the place,
His young heart set beating at every chance meeting - 
Though she only laughed in his face.
"I'll have none but a gay and a gallant man" - 
Her lips took a scornful curl - 
"Your pride is in hearing your mother declaring,
'Ben is just as good as a girl!'"
But sweet little Marjory laughed not at Ben;
He was homely, awkward, shy,
But she liked the fellow whose voice was so mellow,
And she smiled as she passed him by.
He went to the front when the war broke out,
And filled his post like a man;
The good-natured giant was bold and defiant
As soon as the battle began.
You'd never have thought of the broom and the churn,
Nor of the nickname "Miss Ben,"
Had you heard his voice cheering, seen his arm clearing
A path for his own gallant men.
Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding home
When the war was over and done,
As homely and backward, as shy and as awkward,
As tender and loyal a son.
Now Gladys gave him her sunniest smile - 
On heroes she ever did dote - 
And the proud little beauty felt it her duty
To be kind to this young man of note.
But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best;
He knew her lips did not curl
When mother said sweetly, "Ben does work so neatly - 
He is just as good as a girl!"
So he wooed and won this Marjory true,
And made her his loving bride,
While Gladys she fretted, bemoaned and regretted
The goal she had missed by her pride.
To-day Ben is filling a prominent place,
A statesman, honest and bold;
He frees the opprest, and he helps the distrest,
Wins love, which is better than gold.
For the very grandest men you can find
In this great world's busy whirl
Are men like my farmer - no praise need be warmer
Than "he's just as good as a girl."
To A Poet
by George William Russell

Oh, be not led away.
Lured by the colour of the sun-rich day.
The gay romances of song
Unto the spirit-life doth not belong.
Though far-between the hours
In which the Master of Angelic Powers
Lightens the dusk within
The Holy of Holies;    be it thine to win
Rare vistas of white light,
Half-parted lips, through which the Infinite
Murmurs her ancient story;
Hearkening to whom the wandering planets hoary
Waken primeval fires,
With deeper rapture in celestial choirs
Breathe, and with fleeter motion
Wheel in their orbits through the surgeless ocean.
So, hearken thou like these,
Intent on her, mounting by slow degrees,
Until thy song's elation
Echoes her multitudinous meditation.
--November 15, 1893
Interlude. A Dirge of Joy
by Henry Lawson

Oh! this is a joyful dirge, my friends, and this is a hymn of praise;
And this is a clamour of Victory, and a p'an of Ancient Days.
It isn't a Yelp of the Battlefield; nor a Howl of the Bounding Wave,
But an ode to the Things that the War has Killed, and a lay of the Festive Grave.
'Tis a triolet of the Tomb, you bet, and a whoop because of Despair,
And it's sung as I stand on my hoary head and wave my legs in the air!
Oh! I dance on the grave of the Suffragette (I dance on my hands and dome),
And the Sanctity-of-the-Marriage-Tie and the Breaking-Up-of-the-Home.
And I dance on the grave of the weird White-Slave that died when the war began;
And Better-Protection-for-Women-and-Girls, and Men-Made-Laws-for-Man!
Oh, I dance on the Liberal Lady's grave and the Labour Woman's, too;
And the grave of the Female lie and shriek, with a dance that is wild and new.
And my only regret in this song-a-let as I dance over dale and hill,
Is the Yarn-of-the-Wife and the Tale-of-the-Girl that never a war can kill.
Oh, I dance on the grave of the want-ter-write, and I dance on the Tomb of the Sneer,
And poet-and-author-and-critic, too, who used to be great round here.
But 'Old Mother Often' ('Mother of Ten') and 'Parent' escaped from the grave,
And 'Pro Bono Publico' liveth again, as 'Victis,' or 'Honour the Brave.'
Oh, lightly I danced upon Politics' grave where the Friend of the Candidate slept,
And over the Female Political Devil, oh wildly I bounded and leapt.
But this dance shall be nothing compared with the dance of the spook of the writer who sings
On the grave of the bard and the Bulletin's grave, out there at the Finish of Things!
Ossian's Address To The Sun In "Carthon." [1]
by George Gordon Byron

Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire,
Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire,
Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze,
Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?
Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine!
Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline;
Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave
Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave;
But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source - 
Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course?
Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay,
Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away.
A certain space to yonder Moon is given,
She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven.
Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows,
But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows!
When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies,
When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies,
Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform,
Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm.
To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain,
Nor cans't thou glad his ag'd eyes again,
Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream,
Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam - 
But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend;
Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end,
No more yon azure vault with rays adorn,
Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn.
Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength!
Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length,
As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud
While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud - 
The Northern tempest howls along at last,
And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast.
Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers,
Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours!
I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn,
My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn - 
Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more
The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before;
Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies,
To thy bright canopy the mourner flies:
Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest,
And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest;
Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul,
Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul.
Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge,
To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge:
Swift as your wings my happier days have past,
Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast;
To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been,
Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.
To----
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! well I know your subtle Sex,
Frail daughters of the wanton Eve, - 
While jealous pangs our Souls perplex,
No passion prompts you to relieve.
2
From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall,
By you, no mutual Flame is felt,
"Tis Vanity, which rules you all,
Desire alone which makes you melt.
3
I will not say no souls are yours,
Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too,
Souls to contrive those smiling lures,
To snare our simple hearts for you.
4
Yet shall you never bind me fast,
Long to adore such brittle toys,
I'll rove along, from first to last,
And change whene'er my fancy cloys.
5
Oh! I should be a baby fool,
To sigh the dupe of female art - 
Woman! perhaps thou hast a Soul,
But where have Demons hid thy Heart?
Lost Nation
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! we are a lone, lost nation,
We, who sing your songs.
With his moods, and his desolation
The poet nowhere belongs.
We are not of the people
Who labour, believe, and doubt.
Like the bell that rings in the steeple,
We are in the world, yet out.
In the rustic town, or the city
We seek our place in vain;
And our hearts are starved for pity,
And our souls are sick with pain.
Yes, the people are buying, selling,
And the world is one great mart.
And woe for the thoughts that are dwelling
Up in the poet's heart.
We know what the waves are saying
As they roll up from the sea,
And the weird old wind is playing
Our own sad melody.
We send forth a song to wander
Like a spirit of ill or good;
And here it is heard, and yonder,
But is nowhere understood.
For the world it lives for fashion,
For glory, and gain, and strife;
And what can it know of the passion
And pain of a poet's life?
Oh, Call It By Some Better Name.
by Thomas Moore

Oh, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold:
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm will set as soon--
Then call it none of these.
Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human, still as they:
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!
Eveleen's Bower.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! weep for the hour,
When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
The moon hid her light
From the heavens that night.
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds past soon
From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame:
But none will see the day,
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
And many a deep print
On the white snow's tint
Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.
The next sun's ray
Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.
Lines To Lady Warren, On The Departure Of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B. To Take The Command Of A Squadron.
by John Carr (Sir)

Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,
Where mind and beauty vie with grace?
Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,
Who gallantly, upon the deep,
Is gone to tell the madd'ning foe,
Tho' vict'ry laid our Nelson low,
We still have chiefs as greatly brave,
Proudly triumphant on the wave?
Dear to thy Country shall thou be,
Fair mourner! and her sympathy
Is thine; for, in the war's alarms,
Thou gav'st thine hero from thine arms;
And only ask'd to sigh alone,
To look to heav'n, and weep him gone.
Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease,
And, to thine aching bosom, peace
Shall quick return; - another tear
To love and joy, supremely dear,
Shall give thy gen'rous mind relief - 
That tear shall gem the laurel leaf.
Time's Hymn Of Hate
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great,
How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate,
While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate!
Time's voice is just.    His words ring true.    For as the past recedes,
The clear-eyed Future slowly writes the story of its deeds;
And as Time toward the Infinite his ceaseless flight is winging
He shall go singing
The hymn of hate, of men and gods, for all your deeds of lust,
For all your acts of cruelty and hell-concocted schemes
(More hideous than the darkest plot of which a devil dreams)
Which sprang from your Medusa head before it touched the dust.
Beneath the strangling hand of Fate
That strident voice of yours
Shall hush to silence, soon or late
That Justice that endures
Will mobilise its mighty ranks and free the human race,
Then shall all Space,
Yea, all the chains of sphere on sphere,
With that loud hymn be ringing,
Which Time goes singing
His far flight winging
And all the cherubims of God that dwell in regions o'er us
Shall swell the chorus.
Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great,
How desolate and dark must be your self-invited fate,
While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate!
Hope.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Oh! why should sorrow wound the heart,
And rob the soul of rest?
Why is misfortune's bitter dart
Allowed to pierce the breast?
We dare not ask; 'tis heaven's decree,
While faring here below,
Man's bark is tossed upon the sea
Of trouble, grief and woe.
But Mercy holdeth forth a light
Upon the waves to shine,
And cheer him in the darkest night, -
The star of Hope divine.
Enabled thus, he looks before,
And sees, Oh! joyful sight!
The waves subside, the storm is o'er,
The sky is clear and bright.
What comfort 'tis when cares annoy
To know they are from One
Whose hand dispenses peace and joy
As well as grief and pain.
Then cherish hope, despondent heart,
With strength renew the fight;
And God will gladness yet impart,
Thy darkness turn to light.
The dreary winter soon is done,
And then - the month of May!
The clouds, which now obscure the sun,
Will soon have passed away.
As It Fell Upon A Day
by Thomas Hood

Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown,
She stands so squalling in the street;
She's let her pitcher tumble down,
And all the water's at her feet!
The little school-boys stood about,
And laugh'd to see her pumping, pumping;
Now with a curtsey to the spout,
And then upon her tiptoes jumping.
Long time she waited for her neighbors,
To have their turns: - but she must lose
The watery wages of her labors, - 
Except a little in her shoes!
Without a voice to tell her tale,
And ugly transport in her face;
All like a jugless nightingale,
She thinks of her bereav'd case.
At last she sobs - she cries - she screams!
And pours her flood of sorrows out,
From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,
Just like the lion on the spout.
For well poor Bessy knows her mother
Must lose her tea, for water's lack,
That Sukey burns - and baby-brother
Must be dryrubb'd with huck-a-back!