DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Mermaids
by Walter De La Mare

Sand, sand; hills of sand;
And the wind where nothing is
Green and sweet of the land;
No grass, no trees,
No bird, no butterfly,
But hills, hills of sand,
And a burning sky.
Sea, sea, mounds of the sea,
Hollow, and dark, and blue,
Flashing incessantly
The whole sea through;
No flower, no jutting root,
Only the floor of the sea,
With foam afloat.
Blow, blow, winding shells;
And the watery fish,
Deaf to the hidden bells,
In the water splash;
No streaming gold, no eyes,
Watching along the waves,
But far-blown shells, faint bells,
From the darkling caves.
Awr Annie.
by John Hartley

Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een?
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,'
Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen;
Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo, - 
Shoo does just what shoo likes to do, - 
But then shoo's loved, - an knows it too; - 
That's awr Annie.
If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid, - 
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade,
Shoo puts all others into th' shade.
At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry,
An nivver give a reason why:
Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy;
That's awr Annie.
Roamin throo meadows green an sweet,
That's awr Annie;
Trippin away wi' fairy feet,
Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet;
Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars
Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars;
Singin like happy burd for haars,
That's awr Annie.
Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit,
That's awr Annie; - 
But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit,
Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit.
But could aw have mi way i' this,
Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is, - 
Th' same innocent an artless miss,
That's awr Annie.
Child ov mi old age, dearest, best!
That's awr Annie;
Cloise to mi weary bosom prest,
Far mooar nor others aw feel blest; - 
Jewels an gold are nowt to me,
For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee,
Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me,
Unless it's Annie.
The Defence Of The Alamo
by Joaquin Miller

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;
There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum 
Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.
The chivalry, flower of Mexico;
And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!
And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;
For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long.
'Surrender, or die!' 'Men, what will you do?'
And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;
Drew a line at his feet. . . . 'Will you come' Will you go?
I die with my wounded, in the Alamo.'
Then Bowie gasped, 'Lead me over that line!'
Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,
Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign
Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one,
One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow
Across; to die at her post in the Alamo.
Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night
When all men silently prayed and thought
Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,
Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,
In answer to insolent Mexico,
From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!
Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;
Such an unequal fight as never had name
Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.
All day all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,
Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.
Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead
In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath
Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,
All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;
And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know
Another like this of the Alamo?
Shout 'Victory, victory, victory ho!'
I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!
I say that the victory, high or low,
Is given the hero who grapples with sin,
Or legion or single; just asking to know
When duty fronts death in his Alamo.
The Gift
by Oliver Goldsmith

To Iris, In Bow Street, Convent Garden
Say, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give and let 'em;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them when I get 'em.
I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil:
I'll give thee Ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee To the devil.
Insularum Ocelle'
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover,
Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark
As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover,
Sark.
We mourn, for love of a song that outsang the lark,
That nought so lovely beholden of Sirmio's lover
Made glad in Propontis the flight of his Pontic bark.
Here earth lies lordly, triumphal as heaven is above her,
And splendid and strange as the sea that upbears as an ark,
As a sign for the rapture of storm-spent eyes to discover,
Sark.
Milton.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Say not that England ever kingless was:
'Twixt Charles and Charles two royal men appear, -
Cromwell, to give her health with arms and laws,
And Milton, thou, to speak out loud and clear
For freedom of man's conscience and the state,
For England and her deeds before the world,
And for the victims of religious hate
From Alpine summits pitilessly hurl'd.
Thou wast a Champion of Liberty:
In fair Italian cities thou had'st heard
Her voice upon the north wind summon thee,
And, like another Moses, had'st preferr'd
Affliction with thy brethren to the lure
Of beauty, art and cultur'd ease secure.
Hymn to the Saviour.
by William Hayley

Saviour! pure source of life and zeal intense,
Whose words were peace, whose deeds benificence,
Around thy servant ever may I see
The sunshine of the soul deriv'd from Thee.
While their true faith enlighten'd Christians prove,
By mutual aid, and evangelic love,
By sins environ'd, may we strive alone
To pardon others, and repent our own.
So may we, comforted by words from Heaven,
That clearly prove the penitent forgiven,
With trust beyond the confidence of youth,
Rest on our guardian God--the God of Truth!
The Steam-Boat.
by Thomas Gent

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine
Stalk'st proudly--heeding not what wind may blow,
What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,
Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?
Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea?
Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire?
Were I a Savage I must bend to thee,
A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."
The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout,
Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din,
Blackness and darkness track thy course without,
And fire and groans and vapours strive within.
And they who cling about thee--who are they?
And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits
On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say!
Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight.
Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore,
Straining my very eye-balls from my Cab;
First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar,
"Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"
Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud,
While from my bosom this reflection broke;
Although I think the steam-boat something proud,
Such lofty questions often end in smoke.
To all Grandiloquents a hint I deem it,
And whilst I live, I'll ever such esteem it.
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain;
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
Sonnet CXXVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea.
HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA.
Say from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew,
From what idea, that so perfect mould
To form such features, bidding us behold,
In charms below, what she above could do?
What fountain-nymph, what dryad-maid e'er threw
Upon the wind such tresses of pure gold?
What heart such numerous virtues can unfold?
Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew.
He for celestial charms may look in vain,
Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes,
And felt their glances pleasingly beguile.
How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again,
He only knows, who knows how sweet her sighs,
How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.
NOTT.
In what celestial sphere--what realm of thought,
Dwelt the bright model from which Nature drew
That fair and beauteous face, in which we view
Her utmost power, on earth, divinely wrought?
What sylvan queen--what nymph by fountain sought,
Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw?
When did such virtues one sole breast imbue?
Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught.
For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires,
Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain,
Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires:
He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again,
Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respires
The sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!
ANON.
Solomon To Sheba
by William Butler Yeats

Sang Solomon to Sheba,
And kissed her dusky face,
'All day long from mid-day
We have talked in the one place,
All day long from shadowless noon
We have gone round and round
In the narrow theme of love
Like an old horse in a pound.'
To Solomon sang Sheba,
Planted on his knees,
'If you had broached a matter
That might the learned please,
You had before the sun had thrown
Our shadows on the ground
Discovered that my thoughts, not it,
Are but a narrow pound.'
Said Solomon to Sheba,
And kissed her Arab eyes,
'There's not a man or woman
Born under the skies
Dare match in learning with us two,
And all day long we have found
There's not a thing but love can make
The world a narrow pound.'
Ha'nacker Mill
by Hilaire Belloc

Sally is gone that was so kindly,
Sally is gone from Ha'nacker Hill
And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly;
And ever since then the clapper is still...
And the sweeps have fallen from Ha'nacker Mill.
Ha'nacker Hill is in Desolation:
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation,
Spirits that loved her calling aloud,
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.
Spirits that call and no one answers
Ha'nacker's down and England's done.
Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers,
And never a ploughman under the Sun:
Never a ploughman. Never a one.
Hymn for Christmas Day.
by William Hayley

Saviour inspire the voice of earth,
To hail the day that gave Thee birth;
The Heavens resound in blest accord,
Hosanna! to the highest! praise the Lord.
Let hymns of gratulation flow
From Adam's race redeem'd from woe;
For Paradise to man restored,
Hosanna! to the highest! praise the Lord.
Wisdom, and power, and peace proclaim
The new-born Saviour's blessed name,
His glory stars to stars record,
Hosanna! to the highest! praise the Lord.
Nature to Him in homage fall;
He comes--the Judge, the Lord of all:
His welcome sound on every chord,
Hosanna! to the highest! praise the Lord.
The Murdered Lover
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother,
Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it,
Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother,
Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.
Dark were her eyes as the sloe and they called me,
Called me with voice independent of breath.
God! how my heart beat; her beauty appalled me,
Dazed me, and drew to the sea-brink of death.
Lithe was her form like a willow. She beckoned,
What could I do save to follow and follow,
Nothing of right or result could be reckoned;
Life without her was unworthy and hollow.
Ay, but I wronged thee, my brother, my brother;
Ah, but I loved her, thy beautiful wife.
Shade of our father, and soul of our mother,
Have I not paid for my love with my life?
Dark was the night when, revengeful, I met you,
Deep in the heart of a desolate land.
Warm was the life-blood which angrily wet you
Sharp was the knife that I felt from your hand.
Wept you, oh, wept you, alone by the river,
When my stark carcass you secretly sank.
Ha, now I see that you tremble and shiver;
'T was but my spirit that passed when you shrank!
Weep not, oh, weep not, 't is over, 't is over;
Stir the dark weeds with the turn of the tide;
Go, thou hast sent me forth, ever a rover,
Rest and the sweet realm of heaven denied.
Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother,
Say a mass for my soul, I need it.
Sin of mine was it, and sin of no other,
Mine was it all, but I pray you not heed it.
To Sapho
by Robert Herrick

Sapho, I will choose to go
Where the northern winds do blow
Endless ice, and endless snow;
Rather than I once would see
But a winter's face in thee,
To benumb my hopes and me.
Say Not The Struggle Naught Availeth
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!
Another of the Same (A Report Song in a Dream)
by Nicholas Breton

Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if Love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that Love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if Truth and Love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are bless'd out of measure.
Song Of Parting
by James Whitcomb Riley

Say farewell, and let me go;
Shatter every vow!
All the future can bestow
Will be welcome now!
And if this fair hand I touch
I have worshipped overmuch,
It was my mistake - and so,
Say farewell, and let me go.
Say farewell, and let me go:
Murmur no regret,
Stay your tear-drops ere they flow -
Do not waste them yet!
They might pour as pours the rain,
And not wash away the pain:
I have tried them and I know. -
Say farewell, and let me go.
Say farewell, and let me go:
Think me not untrue -
True as truth is, even so
I am true to you!
If the ghost of love may stay
Where my fond heart dies to-day,
I am with you alway - so,
Say farewell, and let me go.
To a Sea-Bird
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Sauntering hither on listless wings,
Careless vagabond of the sea,
Little thou heedest the surf that sings,
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,
Give me to keep thy company.
Little thou hast, old friend, that's new;
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;
Sick am I of these changes, too;
Little to care for, little to rue,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.
All of thy wanderings, far and near,
Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here:
This our tether must be our cheer,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.
Lazily rocking on ocean's breast,
Something in common, old friend, have we:
Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest,
I to the waters look for rest,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.
Jim
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Say there! P'r'aps
Some on you chaps
Might know Jim Wild?
Well, no offense:
Thar ain't no sense
In gittin' riled!
Jim was my chum
Up on the Bar:
That's why I come
Down from up yar,
Lookin' for Jim.
Thank ye, sir! You
Ain't of that crew,
Blest if you are!
Money? Not much:
That ain't my kind;
I ain't no such.
Rum? I don't mind,
Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim,
Did you know him?
Jes' 'bout your size;
Same kind of eyes;
Well, that is strange:
Why, it's two year
Since he came here,
Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us:
Eh?
The h    you say!
Dead?
That little cuss?
What makes you star',
You over thar?
Can't a man drop
's glass in yer shop
But you must r'ar?
It wouldn't take
D    d much to break
You and your bar.
Dead!
Poor little Jim!
Why, thar was me,
Jones, and Bob Lee,
Harry and Ben,
No-account men:
Then to take Him!
Well, thar    Good-by
No more, sir I
Eh?
What's that you say?
Why, dern it! sho!
No? Yes! By Joe!
Sold!
Sold! Why, you limb,
You ornery,
Derned old
Long-legged Jim.
Sonnet.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"
But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains that which was thine before
Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie
Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards
Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,
Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye
Look thou on dear things, though they turn away,
For thou and they, perchance, some future day
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return;
For its departure then make thou no mourn,
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell;
That which the past hath given the future gives as well.
In Memory of an Actress
by Victor James Daley

Say little: where she lies, so let her rest:
What cares she now for Fame, and what for Art?
What for applause? She has played out her part.
Her hands are folded calmly on her breast,
God knows the best!
She has gone down, as all must go, to where
The players of the past are lying low,
Players who played their parts out long ago,
With the life-hue still bright on lips and hair
And forehead fair.
Cheek's colour, poise of head, and flash of eye
Who will remember them when we are dead?
Whom that is dead have we remember'd?
The end is one although we smile or sigh,
We live; we die.
Bitter to some is Death, to some is sweet,
Sweetest to youth and bitterest to age;
But simple is the costume for the stage,
The darkened stage of death, and very meet,
A winding-sheet.
So we may fill our days with grief or mirth,
Each as he pleases: but what boots it all,
When on the coffin-lid the cold clods fall,
Though we had been most eloquent on earth
Or dumb from birth?
So, let her rest who perished in her prime:
Surely through darkness she shall find the light
And, though obscured to us in outer night,
Shall play her part yet in a play sublime
In God's good time.
Good-By Er Howdy-Do
by James Whitcomb Riley

Say good-by er howdy-do -
What's the odds betwixt the two?
Comin' - goin', ev'ry day -
Best friends first to go away -
Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold
Than their weight in solid gold
Slips their grip while greetin' you. -
Say good-by er howdy-do!
Howdy-do, and then, good-by -
Mixes jes' like laugh and cry;
Deaths and births, and worst and best,
Tangled their contrariest;
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell
Skeerin' up some funer'l knell. -
Here's my song, and there's your sigh. -
Howdy-do, and then, good-by!
Say good-by er howdy-do -
Jes' the same to me and you;
'Taint worth while to make no fuss,
'Cause the job's put up on us!
Some One's runnin' this concern
That's got nothin' else to learn:
Ef He's willin', we'll pull through -
Say good-by er howdy-do!
Sonnets From The Portuguese XXI
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem a 'cuckoo-song,' as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Belov'd, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, 'Speak once more, thou lovest!' Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me, toll
The silver iterance! only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
The Black Tower
by William Butler Yeats

Say that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in.
i(There in the tomb stand the dead upright,)
i(But winds come up from the shore:)
i(They shake when the winds roar,)
i(Old bones upon the mountain shake.)
Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
Or whisper that a man's a fool
Who, when his own right king's forgotten,
Cares what king sets up his rule.
If he died long ago
Why do yopu dread us so?
i(There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,)
i(But wind comes up from the shore:)
i(They shake when the winds roar,)
i(Old bones upon the mountain shake.)
The tower's old cook that must climb and clamber
Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
Swears that he hears the king's great horn.
But he's a lying hound:
Stand we on guard oath-bound!
i(There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,)
i(But wind comes up from the shore:)
i(They shake when the winds roar,)
i(Old bones upon the mountain shake.)
Poem At The Dedication Of The Halleck Monument, July 8, 1869
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Say not the Poet dies!
Though in the dust he lies,
He cannot forfeit his melodious breath,
Unsphered by envious death!
Life drops the voiceless myriads from its roll;
Their fate he cannot share,
Who, in the enchanted air
Sweet with the lingering strains that Echo stole,
Has left his dearer self, the music of his soul!
We o'er his turf may raise
Our notes of feeble praise,
And carve with pious care for after eyes
The stone with "Here he lies;"
He for himself has built a nobler shrine,
Whose walls of stately rhyme
Roll back the tides of time,
While o'er their gates the gleaming tablets shine
That wear his name inwrought with many a golden line!
Call not our Poet dead,
Though on his turf we tread!
Green is the wreath their brows so long have worn, - 
The minstrels of the morn,
Who, while the Orient burned with new-born flame,
Caught that celestial fire
And struck a Nation's lyre
These taught the western winds the poet's name;
Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden flowers of fame!
Count not our Poet dead!
The stars shall watch his bed,
The rose of June its fragrant life renew
His blushing mound to strew,
And all the tuneful throats of summer swell
With trills as crystal-clear
As when he wooed the ear
Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell,
With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well!
He sleeps; he cannot die!
As evening's long-drawn sigh,
Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound,
Spreads all their sweets around,
So, laden with his song, the breezes blow
From where the rustling sedge
Frets our rude ocean's edge
To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow.
His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below!
The Asthmatic Man To The Satan That Binds Him
by George MacDonald

Satan, avaunt!
Nay, take thine hour,
Thou canst not daunt,
Thou hast no power;
Be welcome to thy nest,
Though it be in my breast.
Burrow amain;
Dig like a mole;
Fill every vein
With half-burnt coal;
Puff the keen dust about,
And all to choke me out.
Fill music's ways
With creaking cries,
That no loud praise
May climb the skies;
And on my labouring chest
Lay mountains of unrest.
My slumber steep
In dreams of haste,
That only sleep,
No rest, I taste--
With stiflings, rimes of rote,
And fingers on my throat.
Satan, thy might
I do defy;
Live core of night
I patient lie:
A wind comes up the gray
Will blow thee clean away.
Christ's angel, Death,
All radiant white,
With one cold breath
Will scare thee quite,
And give my lungs an air
As fresh as answered prayer.
So, Satan, do
Thy worst with me
Until the True
Shall set me free,
And end what he began,
By making me a man.