DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The French And the Spanish Guerillas
by William Wordsworth

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height,
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these, and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled,
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now? Their sword is at the Foeman's heart;
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.
The Dead Child.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

("I believe ... in the resurrection of the body.")
How young you are, for such lone majesty
Of silence and repose!
That lip was vowed to laughter and that eye,
That white cheek to the rose!
What age your spirit hath, who thinks to say?
If young, or young no more;
But all for merriment, oh, all for play.
That new, sweet shape it wore!
So, in His time, to whom all time is now.
From flower and wind and steep.
Shall He not summon you to keep your vow,
Since He hath made you sleep?
Written for a Musician
by Vachel Lindsay

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
Hungry for music with a desperate hunger
I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town;
The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking,
Vulgar and pitiful - my heart bowed down - 
Till I remembered duller hours made noble
By strangers clad in some surprising grace.
Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight
Appearing in some unexpected place
With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face.
A Thousand Miles Away
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'Ten Thousand Miles Away.')
Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward Ho'
To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that's where the cattle stray
On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away.
Chorus
Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
We'll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what some folks say;
And frozen we'll send home the cattle that now roam
On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles away.
Knee-deep in grass we've got to pass'for the truth I'm bound to tell'
Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell'
As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they weigh,
On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away.
Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
No Yankee hide e'er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o'er the seas'
As we send o'er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they weigh'
From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles away.
Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
The Maid Of Orleans.
by Friedrich Schiller

Humanity's bright image to impair.
Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust;
Wit wages ceaseless war on all that's fair, 
In angel and in God it puts no trust;
The bosom's treasures it would make its prey, 
Besieges fancy, dims e'en faith's pure ray.
Yet issuing like thyself from humble line,
Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she 
Sweet poesy affords her rights divine,
And to the stars eternal soars with thee.
Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown;
The heart 'twas formed thee, ever thou'lt live on!
The world delights whate'er is bright to stain,
And in the dust to lay the glorious low;
Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain,
That for the lofty, for the radiant glow
Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth;
A nobler mind loves forms of nobler worth.
Nursery Rhyme. CXCIV. Riddles.
by Unknown

[An egg.]
Humpty Dumpty lay in a beck,[*]
With all his sinews round his neck;
Forty doctors and forty wrights
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty to rights!
[Footnote *: A brook.]
How Happy, Once.
by Thomas Moore

How happy, once, tho' winged with sighs,
My moments flew along,
While looking on those smiling eyes,
And listening to thy magic song!
But vanished now, like summer dreams,
Those moments smile no more;
For me that eye no longer beams,
That song for me is o'er.
Mine the cold brow,
That speaks thy altered vow,
While others feel thy sunshine now.
Oh, could I change my love like thee,
One hope might yet be mine--
Some other eyes as bright to see,
And hear a voice as sweet as thine:
But never, never can this heart
Be waked to life again;
With thee it lost its vital part,
And withered then!
Cold its pulse lies,
And mute are even its sighs,
All other grief it now defies.
Humility.
by Robert Herrick

Humble we must be, if to heaven we go:
High is the roof there; but the gate is low:
Whene'er thou speak'st, look with a lowly eye:
Grace is increased by humility.
The Poet And The Baby
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,--
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,--
When a-toddling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
An Inspiration
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

However the battle is ended,
Though proudly the victor comes
With fluttering flags and prancing nags
And echoing roll of drums,
Still truth proclaims this motto
In letters of living light, - 
No question is ever settled
Until it is settled right.
Though the heel of the strong oppressor
May grind the weak in the dust;
And the voices of fame with one acclaim
May call him great and just,
Let those who applaud take warning.
And keep this motto in sight, - 
No question is ever settled
Until it is settled right.
Let those who have failed take courage;
Though the enemy seems to have won,
Though his ranks are strong, if he be in the wrong
The battle is not yet done;
For, sure as the morning follows
The darkest hour of the night,
No question is ever settled
Until it is settled right.
O man bowed down with labour!
O woman young, yet old!
O heart oppressed in the toiler's breast
And crushed by the power of gold
Keep on with your weary battle
Against triumphant might;
No question is ever settled
Until it is settled right.
The Great Day
by William Butler Yeats

Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot!
A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!
The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
Song: Hush, Hush! Tread Softly!
by John Keats

1
Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very well
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear.
Tho' you've padded his night-cap O sweet Isabel!
Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet,
Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,
Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear!
For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.
2
No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;
And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
Hath fled to her bower, well knowing I want
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.
3
Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly sweet!
We are dead if that latchet gives one little chink!
Well done now those lips, and a flowery seat
The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink;
The shut rose shall dream of our loves, and awake
Full blown, and such warmth for the morning's take;
The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace and shall coo,
While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!
The Comet.
by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

Ich armer Komet in dem himmlischen Feld
Wie ist's doch so windig mit mir bestellt!
Ich leb' in steten Sorgen,
Mein Licht selbst muss ich borgen ...
Ich erscheine nur von Zeit zu Zeit
Dann muss ich wieder fort in die Dunkelheit.
I a poor comet on high, you see,
How windy and wild is my destiny!
I live in constant sorrow,
My light e'en I must borrow;
I only appear from time to time,
Then must wander away in gloom and grime.
By lady Sun I'm ever distracted,
And to her by power magnetic attracted;
Yet she will not endure
That I should rise up to her,
I must long for her from flights afar,
For, alas! I'm in fact an eccentric star.
The fixed stars all in bitter fun
Declare I'm a lost and prodigal son.
They say I still go tottering
Here, there, among them pottering,
And where I once on my way have been
Nothing but dimness and darkness are seen.
The planets regard me with scorn, and say
That I always come bothering in their way.
Dame Venus and her sisters
Call me one of those crazy twisters,
'His tail is too great, and his nucleus too small.
Such an ill-made night stroller's worth nothing at all.'
That I'm a scandal they cry or lisp,
And call me a dreamer or Will-o'-the-wisp.
And down on earth a-squinting,
I see the learned ones printing,
'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,
Though he should spin to all eternity.'
E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,
Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,
And should he write - I ask all - 
And am I such a rascal? - 
'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,
With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'
But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls! - bide?
You don't know me yet from the innermost side.
Some day I'll catch you - curse ye?
And make you cry for mercy?
Then you'll go through me, and I'll meet your hope,
For with meteors I'll smash up your telescope.
Translated From The German Of Joseph Victor Scheffel By Charles G. Leland.
And The Laughter Of The Young And Gay Was Far Too Glad And Loud.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Hush, hush! my thoughts are resting on a changeless world of bliss;
Oh! come not with the voice of mirth to lure them back to this.
'Tis true, we've much of sadness in our weary sojourn here,
That fades, and leaves no deeper trace than childhood's reckless tear;
But there are woes which scathe the heart till all its bloom is o'er,
A deadly blight we feel but once, that once for evermore.
Oh, then, 'tis sweet on fancy's wing to cleave that bright domain!
The loved and the redeemed are there, why lure me back again?
The cadences of gladness to your hearts may yet be dear;
They have no melody for mine, all, all is desert here.
The sunshine still is bright to you, the moonlight and the flowers;
To me they tell a harrowing tale of dear departed hours.
I would not cull Hope's blossoms now, they seem of deadly bloom;
And can I love the sunshine, when it smiles upon the tomb?
When on one little hallowed spot its joyous beams are thrown,
That sacred turf the all of earth I now may call my own.
For there my joys are sepulchred, my hopes are buried there;
Yet with that holy earth are linked high thoughts that mock despair;
Unfaltering faith, that whispers of a purer world than this,
Where spirits that are parted here may "mingle into bliss;"
"Deep trust" that all our sinless hopes, which death forbids to bloom,
Shall ripen 'neath the cloudless sky that dawns beyond the tomb;
Conviction firm that things of time were never yet designed
To quench the vast and deathless thirst of an immortal mind.
Then hush! my thoughts are resting on a changeless world of bliss;
There is no voice of gladness now can lure them back to this.
I look to Thee, Redeemer! Oh! be every crime forgiven,
And take the weary captive to Thy paradise in Heaven;
Or teach my heart resignedly to say, "Thy will be done,"
And calmly wait thy summons home, thou just and holy One!
Thou mayst have spoiled my cherished schemes, to let my spirit see
That happiness is only found, great God, in serving Thee.
Sonnet CLXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Di d' in d' vo cangiando il viso e 'l pelo.
HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.
I alter day by day in hair and mien,
Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,
Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,
Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.
Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,
Ere I shall cease to covet and to fear
Her lovely shadow, and--which ill I screen--
To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here:
For never hope I respite from my pain,
From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,
Unless mine enemy some pity deign,
Till things impossible accomplish'd be,
None but herself or death the blow can heal
Which Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.
MACGREGOR.
The Cloud
by Sara Teasdale

I am a cloud in the heaven's height,
The stars are lit for my delight,
Tireless and changeful, swift and free,
I cast my shadow on hill and sea
But why do the pines on the mountain's crest
Call to me always, 'Rest, rest'?
I throw my mantle over the moon
And I blind the sun on his throne at noon,
Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind,
I am a child of the heartless wind
But oh the pines on the mountain's crest
Whispering always, 'Rest, rest.'
Hush, Sweet Lute.
by Thomas Moore

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
Of bright hopes but born to die.
Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
Than smile o'er any left us yet.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCIX. Lullabies.
by Unknown

[A favourite lullaby in the north of England fifty years ago, and perhaps still heard. The last word is pronounced bee.]
Hush-a-bye, lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to see thee weep,
For when thou weep'st thou wearies me,
Hush-a-bye, lie still and bye.
Sunset: St. Louis
by Sara Teasdale

Hushed in the smoky haze of summer sunset,
When I came home again from far-off places,
How many times I saw my western city
Dream by her river.
Then for an hour the water wore a mantle
Of tawny gold and mauve and misted turquoise
Under the tall and darkened arches bearing
Gray, high-flung bridges.
Against the sunset, water-towers and steeples
Flickered with fire up the slope to westward,
And old warehouses poured their purple shadows
Across the levee.
High over them the black train swept with thunder,
Cleaving the city, leaving far beneath it
Wharf-boats moored beside the old side-wheelers
Resting in twilight.
Hush, Hush!
by Thomas Moore

"Hush, hush!"--how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, "Hush, hush!"
"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, "Hush, hush!"
Senlin, A Biography: Part 02: His Futile Preoccupations - 01
by Conrad Potter Aiken

I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened,
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind.
Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind.
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway;
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane,
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly,
Pausing above some gallery of the brain . . .
I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair;
I am a room of rock . . . a maiden dances
Lifting her hands, tossing her golden hair.
She combs her hair, the room of rock is darkened,
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep.
It is my pride that starlight is above me;
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.
I am a door . . . before me roils the darkness,
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light.
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen
The crying of violins assails the night . . .
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them;
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange
That I should know so little what means this music,
Hearing it always within me change and change.
Knock on the door, and you shall have an answer.
Open the heavy walls to set me free,
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,
And startled, then, what a strange thing you will see!
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners,
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere.
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.
The Lawyers' Ways
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I 've been list'nin' to them lawyers
In the court house up the street,
An' I 've come to the conclusion
That I'm most completely beat.
Fust one feller riz to argy,
An' he boldly waded in
As he dressed the tremblin' pris'ner
In a coat o' deep-dyed sin.
Why, he painted him all over
In a hue o' blackest crime,
An' he smeared his reputation
With the thickest kind o' grime,
Tell I found myself a-wond'rin',
In a misty way and dim,
How the Lord had come to fashion
Sich an awful man as him.
Then the other lawyer started,
An' with brimmin', tearful eyes,
Said his client was a martyr
That was brought to sacrifice.
An' he give to that same pris'ner
Every blessed human grace,
Tell I saw the light o' virtue
Fairly shinin' from his face.
Then I own 'at I was puzzled
How sich things could rightly be;
An' this aggervatin' question
Seems to keep a-puzzlin' me.
So, will some one please inform me,
An' this mystery unroll--
How an angel an' a devil
Can persess the self-same soul?
Jealous
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Hyeah come C'sar Higgins,
Don't he think he 's fine?
Look at dem new riggin's
Ain't he tryin' to shine?
Got a standin' collar
An' a stove-pipe hat,
I 'll jes' bet a dollar
Some one gin him dat.
Don't one o' you mention,
Nothin' 'bout his cloes,
Don't pay no attention,
Er let on you knows
Dat he 's got 'em on him,
Why, 't 'll mek him sick,
Jes go on an' sco'n him,
My, ain't dis a trick!
Look hyeah, whut 's he doin'
Lookin' t' othah way?
Dat ere move 's a new one,
Some one call him, "Say!"
Can't you see no pusson--
Puttin' on you' airs,
Sakes alive, you 's wuss'n
Dese hyeah millionaires.
Need n't git so flighty,
Case you got dat suit.
Dem cloes ain't so mighty,--
Second hand to boot,
I 's a-tryin' to spite you!
Full of jealousy!
Look hyeah, man, I 'll fight you,
Don't you fool wid me!
Who'll Buy My Love-Knots? (Portuguese Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling,
Called at many a maiden's dwelling:
None could doubt, who saw or knew them,
Hymen's call was welcome to them.
"Who'll buy my love-knots?
"Who'll buy my love-knots?"
Soon as that sweet cry resounded
How his baskets were surrounded!
Maids, who now first dreamt of trying
These gay knots of Hymen's tying;
Dames, who long had sat to watch him
Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;--
"Who'll buy my love-knots?
"Who'll buy my love-knots?"--
All at that sweet cry assembled;
Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled.
"Here are knots," said Hymen, taking
Some loose flowers, "of Love's own making;
"Here are gold ones--you may trust 'em"--
(These, of course, found ready custom).
"Come, buy my love-knots!
"Come, buy my love-knots!
"Some are labelled 'Knots to tie men--
"Love the maker--Bought of Hymen.'"
Scarce their bargains were completed,
When the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated!
"See these flowers--they're drooping sadly;
"This gold-knot, too, ties but badly--
"Who'd buy such love-knots?
"Who'd buy such love-knots?
"Even this tie, with Love's name round it--
"All a sham--He never bound it."
Love, who saw the whole proceeding,
Would have laughed, but for good breeding;
While Old Hymen, who was used to
Cries like that these dames gave loose to--
"Take back our love-knots!
"Take back our love-knots!"
Coolly said, "There's no returning
"Wares on Hymen's hands--Good morning!"
Sicilian Lullaby
by Eugene Field

Hush, little one, and fold your hands;
The sun hath set, the moon is high;
The sea is singing to the sands,
And wakeful posies are beguiled
By many a fairy lullaby:
Hush, little child, my little child!
Dream, little one, and in your dreams
Float upward from this lowly place,--
Float out on mellow, misty streams
To lands where bideth Mary mild,
And let her kiss thy little face,
You little child, my little child!
Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,
With angels bending over thee,--
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast
Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled;
But stay not there,--come back to me,
O little child, my little child!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXVI. Lullabies.
by Unknown

[From 'The Pleasant Com[oe]die of Patient Grissell,' 1603.]
Hush, hush, hush, hush!
And I dance mine own child,
And I dance mine own child,
Hush, hush, hush, hush!
On The Road
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I 's boun' to see my gal to-night--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De moon ain't out, de stars ain't bright--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
Dis hoss o' mine is pow'ful slow,
But when I does git to yo' do'
Yo' kiss 'll pay me back, an' mo',
Dough lone de way, my dearie.
De night is skeery-lak an' still--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
'Cept fu' dat mou'nful whippo'will--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De way so long wif dis slow pace,
'T 'u'd seem to me lak savin' grace
Ef you was on a nearer place,
Fu' lone de way, my dearie.
I hyeah de hootin' of de owl--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
I wish dat watch-dog would n't howl:--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
An' evaht'ing, bofe right an' lef',
Seem p'int'ly lak hit put itse'f
In shape to skeer me half to def--
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
I whistles so's I won't be feared--
Oh lone de way, my dearie!
But anyhow I's kin' o' skeered,
Fu' lone de way, my dearie.
De sky been lookin' mighty glum,
But you kin mek hit lighten some,
Ef you 'll jes' say you's glad I come,
Dough lone de way, my dearie.
Soothing.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

I aimless wandered thro' the woods, and flung
My idle limbs upon a soft brown bank,
Where, thickly strewn, the worn-out russet leaves
Rustled a faint remonstrance at my tread.
The yellow fungi, shewing pallid stems,
The mossy lichen creeping o'er the stones
And making green the whitened hemlock-bark,
The dull wax of the woodland lily-bud,
On these my eye could rest, and I was still.
No sound was there save a low murmured cheep
From an ambitious nestling, and the slow
And oft-recurring plash of myriad waves
That spent their strength against the unheeding shore.
Over and through a spreading undergrowth
I saw the gleaming of the tranquil sea.
The woody scent of mosses and sweet ferns,
Mingled with the fresh brine, and came to me,
Bringing a laudanum to my ceaseless pain;
A quietness stole in upon me then,
And o'er my soul there passed a wave of peace.
Roman Law
by James Williams

I am a "coach" in Roman law by fate,
But Nature must have meant me for a poet,
And while I struggle with a rule or date,
Poetic thoughts intrude before I know it.
The changing sunshine on the summer sea
Drives forth the law of cessio bonorum,
Peculium castrense speaks to me
Of Horace and his Dulce et decorum.
I see the matine bee among the flowers
Instead of testamentum militare,
And wander far away from agent's powers
To picture me again some Maud or Mary.
In truth there is no sequence in the thought,
Why should the title De Societate
Suggest, not trading partners, as it ought,
But visions of my last night's valse with Katie?
But worse than this, when I have done my task,
Stern law again asserts her domination,
'Tis cruel 'mid the new-mown hay to bask,
And find one's mind is running on novation;
Or in the dusk, when glow-worms light the moss,
To hear the distant voice of Philomela
Expound the three varieties of dos
And wax right eloquent about tutela.
I had a little respite yesterday,
Dining with one who well knew how to dine us,
But when I slept, the charm soon fled away,
I dreamed I was a pr'tor peregrinus.
Dismasted in the deep of law I lie,
A poor reward it is to stand confessed as
The Virgil of the interdict de vi,
The Petrarch of the patria potestas.