DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
I Was A Stranger, And Ye Took Me In
by John Greenleaf Whittier

'Neath skies that winter never knew
The air was full of light and balm,
And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew
Through orange bloom and groves of palm.
A stranger from the frozen North,
Who sought the fount of health in vain,
Sank homeless on the alien earth,
And breathed the languid air with pain.
God's angel came! The tender shade
Of pity made her blue eye dim;
Against her woman's breast she laid
The drooping, fainting head of him.
She bore him to a pleasant room,
Flower-sweet and cool with salt sea air,
And watched beside his bed, for whom
His far-off sisters might not care.
She fanned his feverish brow and smoothed
Its lines of pain with tenderest touch.
With holy hymn and prayer she soothed
The trembling soul that feared so much.
Through her the peace that passeth sight
Came to him, as he lapsed away
As one whose troubled dreams of night
Slide slowly into tranquil day.
The sweetness of the Land of Flowers
Upon his lonely grave she laid
The jasmine dropped its golden showers,
The orange lent its bloom and shade.
And something whispered in her thought,
More sweet than mortal voices be
"The service thou for him hast wrought
O daughter! hath been done for me.
His Dancing Days
by Theodosia Garrison

Never did I find me mate for charmin' an' delightin',
Never one that had me bate for courtin' an' for fightin';--
(A white moon at the crossroads then, and Denny with the fiddle;
The parish round admirin', when I danced down the middle.)
Up the earth and down again, me like you'd not discover;
Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over!
Never was a moon so low it didn't find me courtin',
Never blade I couldn't show a wilder way of sportin'.
(Is it at the fair I'd be, the gentry'd troop to talk with me;
Leapin' with delight was she,--the girl I'd choose to walk with me.)
'Twas I could win the pick of them from any lad or lover;
Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over!
What's come to all the lads to-day,--these mournful ways they're keepin',
Grudgin' any hour to play and wastin' nights in sleepin'.
(Readin' be the chimney-place,--that dacent in their habits,
You'd sooner get a fight or song be callin' upon rabbits.)
Faith, I'd change the lot for one rejoicin', rantin' rover,
The like of me, myself, before me dancin' days were over.
The Hare And The Partridge (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

Never mock at other people's misfortune; for you cannot tell how soon you yourself may be unhappy. 'sop the sage has given us one or two examples of this truth, and I am going to tell you of a similar one now.
A hare and a partridge were living as fellow-citizens very peacefully in a field, when a pack of hounds making an onset obliged the hare to seek refuge. He rushed into his form and succeeded in putting the hounds at fault. But here the scent from his over-heated body betrayed him. Towler, philosophising, concluded that this scent came from his hare, and with admirable zeal routed him out. Then old Trusty, who never is at fault, proclaimed that the hare was gone away. The poor unfortunate creature at last died in his form.
The partridge, his companion, thought fit to soothe his last moments with some scoffing remarks upon his fate. "You boasted of being so swift," she said "What has come to your feet, then?"
But even as she was chuckling her own turn came. Secure in the belief that her wings would save her whatever happened, she did not reckon upon the cruel talons of the hawk.
The Old Guitar
by James Whitcomb Riley

Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips to-day.
The keys hold only nerveless strings -
The sinews of brave old airs
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings
So closely here declares
A sad regret in its ravelings
And the faded hue it wears.
But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
Has cherished a smile for me;
And its features hint of a fairer face
That comes with a memory
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place
And a moonlit balcony.
Music sweeter than words confess
Or the minstrel's powers invent,
Thrilled here once at the light caress
Of the fairy hands that lent
This excuse for the kiss I press
On the dear old instrument.
The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem
Still blooms; and the tiny sets
In the circle all are here; the gem
In the keys, and the silver frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them -
Alas for the heart's regrets! -
Alas for the loosened strings to-day,
And the wounds of rift and scar
On a worn old heart, with its roundelay
Enthralled with a stronger bar
That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay
Like that of the old guitar!
Near The Wall Of A House
by Yehuda Amichai

Near the wall of a house painted
to look like stone,
I saw visions of God.
A sleepless night that gives others a headache
gave me flowers
opening beautifully inside my brain.
And he who was lost like a dog
will be found like a human being
and brought back home again.
Love is not the last room: there are others
after it, the whole length of the corridor
that has no end.
Translated by Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell
A Quiet Life And A Good Name
by Jonathan Swift

TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724
NELL scolded in so loud a din,
That Will durst hardly venture in:
He mark'd the conjugal dispute;
Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute;
But, when he saw his friend appear,
Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!"
At sight of Will she bawl'd no more,
But hurried out and clapt the door.
Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell,
(Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell.
Why what a peal the jade has rung!
D - n her, why don't you slit her tongue?
For nothing else will make it cease.
Dear Will, I suffer this for peace:
I never quarrel with my wife;
I bear it for a quiet life.
Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it;
Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it.
Will went again to visit Dick;
And entering in the very nick,
He saw virago Nell belabour,
With Dick's own staff, his peaceful neighbour.
Poor Will, who needs must interpose,
Received a brace or two of blows.
But now, to make my story short,
Will drew out Dick to take a quart.
Why, Dick, thy wife has devilish whims;
Ods-buds! why don't you break her limbs?
If she were mine, and had such tricks,
I'd teach her how to handle sticks:
Z - ds! I would ship her to Jamaica,[1]
Or truck the carrion for tobacco:
I'd send her far enough away -    - 
Dear Will; but what would people say?
Lord! I should get so ill a name,
The neighbours round would cry out shame.
Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit;
But who believed him when he said it?
Can he, who makes himself a slave,
Consult his peace, or credit save?
Dick found it by his ill success,
His quiet small, his credit less.
She served him at the usual rate;
She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate:
And what he thought the hardest case,
The parish jeer'd him to his face;
Those men who wore the breeches least,
Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast.
At home he was pursued with noise;
Abroad was pester'd by the boys:
Within, his wife would break his bones:
Without, they pelted him with stones;
The 'prentices procured a riding,[2]
To act his patience and her chiding.
False patience and mistaken pride!
There are ten thousand Dicks beside;
Slaves to their quiet and good name,
Are used like Dick, and bear the blame.
Nettie.
by John Hartley

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty!
With her wreath of golden curls;
None compare with charming Nettie,
She's the prettiest of girls.
Not her face alone is sweetest, - 
Nor her eyes the bluest blue,
But her figure is the neatest
Of all forms I ever knew.
But she has a fault, - the greatest
That a pretty girl could have;
When she's looking the sedatist,
And pretending to be grave, - 
You discover, 'spite of hiding,
What I feel constrained to tell;
That she knows she is a beauty, - 
Knows it, - knows it, - aye, too well.
May be when the bloom has vanished;
Which we know in time it will;
And her foolish fancies banished,
May be, she'll be lovely still.
For though Time may put his finger,
On her dainty-fashioned face;
There will still some beauty linger,
Round her form so full of grace.
And her heart, - the priceless treasure,
Which so many long to win,
Still shall prove a fount of pleasure,
To the love that enters in.
Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms
Must in time fall from the tree;
Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms
Must yield up their symmetry.
Brightest eyes will lose their love-light,
Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray; - 
Golden locks will lose their sunlight,
And the loveliest limbs decay.
But whilst life is left we hunger
For a taste of earthly bliss;
But the man need seek no longer,
Who can call sweet Nettie his.
The Bliss Of Sorrow.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Never dry, never dry,
Tears that eternal love sheddeth!
How dreary, how dead doth the world still appear,
When only half-dried on the eye is the tear!
Never dry, never dry,
Tears that unhappy love sheddeth!
The Two Jars
by Walter Crane

"Never fear!" said The Brass to the Clay
Of two Jars that the flood bore away:
"Keep you close to my side!"
But the porcelain replied,
"I'll be smashed if beside you I stay."
Our Friend Our Enemy
Love's Secret
by William Blake

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.
Wives In The Sere
by Thomas Hardy

I
Never a careworn wife but shows,
If a joy suffuse her,
Something beautiful to those
Patient to peruse her,
Some one charm the world unknows
Precious to a muser,
Haply what, ere years were foes,
Moved her mate to choose her.
II
But, be it a hint of rose
That an instant hues her,
Or some early light or pose
Wherewith thought renews her -
Seen by him at full, ere woes
Practised to abuse her -
Sparely comes it, swiftly goes,
Time again subdues her.
Nursery Rhyme. XCVI. Proverbs.
by Unknown

Needles and pins, needles and pins,
When a man marries his trouble begins.
Never Give All the Heart
by William Butler Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
The Ten Lepers.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

'Neath the olives of Samaria, in far-famed Galilee,
Where dark green vines are mirrored in a placid silver sea,
'Mid scenes of tranquil beauty, glowing sun-sets, rosy dawn,
The Master and disciples to the city journeyed on.
And, as they neared a valley where a sheltered hamlet lay,
A strange, portentous wailing made them pause upon their way - 
Voices fraught with anguish, telling of aching heart and brow,
Which kept moaning: "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us now!"
Softly raised the gentle Saviour His eyes like midnight star,
And His mournful gaze soon rested on ten lepers, who, afar,
Stood motionless and suppliant, in sackcloth rudely clothed,
Poor Pariahs! by their nearest, their dearest, shunned and loathed.
Not unto Him prayed vainly those sore afflicted ten,
No! He yearned too fondly over the erring sons of men,
Even sharing in their sorrows, though He joined not in their feasts, - 
So He kindly told the Lepers: "Show yourselves unto the priests."
When, miracle of mercy! as they turned them to obey,
And towards the Holy Temple quickly took their hopeful way,
Lo! the hideous scales fell off them, health's fountains were unsealed,
Their skin grew soft as infant's - their leprosy was healed.
O man! so oft an ingrate, to thy thankless nature true,
Thyself see in those Lepers, who did as thou dost do;
Nine went their way rejoicing, healed in body - glad in soul - 
Nor once thought of returning thanks to Him who made them whole.
One only, a Samaritan, a stranger to God's word,
Felt his joyous, panting bosom, with gratitude deep stirred,
And without delay he hastened, in the dust, at Jesus' feet,
To cast himself in worship, in thanksgiving, warm and meet.
Slowly questioned him the Saviour, with majesty divine: - 
"Ten were cleansed from their leprosy - where are the other nine?
Is there none but this one stranger - unlearned in Gods ways,
His name and mighty power, to give word of thanks or praise?"
The sunbeams' quivering glories softly touched that God-like head,
The olives blooming round Him sweet shade and fragrance shed,
While o'er His sacred features a tender sadness stole:
"Rise, go thy way," He murmured, "thy faith hath made thee whole!"
Companion To The Foregoing
by William Wordsworth

Never enlivened with the liveliest ray
That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay,
Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,
This Flower, that first appeared as summer's guest,
Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves
And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,
One after one submitting to their doom,
When her coevals each and all are fled,
What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed?
The old mythologists, more impressed than we
Of this late day by character in tree
Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy,
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,
Or with the language of the viewless air
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales.
Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed
The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid,
Who, while each stood companionless and eyed
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed,
Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure,
A fate that has endured and will endure,
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding,
Called the dejected Lingerer, 'Loves lies bleeding'.
Years Ago.
by George Pope Morris

Near the banks of that lone river,
Where the water-lilies grow,
Breathed the fairest flower that ever
Bloomed and faded years ago.
Now we met and loved and parted,
None on earth can ever know--
Nor how pure and gentle-hearted
Beamed the mourned one years ago!
Like the stream with lilies laden,
Will life's future current flow,
Till in heaven I meet the maiden
Fondly cherished years ago.
Hearts that love like mine forget not;
They're the same in weal or wo;
And that star of memory set not
In the grave of years ago.
A Conversation
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

'Neither the Jungfrau nor the Finsteraarhorn has yet been trodden by the foot of man!'
The topmost peaks of the Alps ... A whole chain of rugged precipices ...
The very heart of the mountains.
Over the mountain, a pale green, clear, dumb sky. Bitter, cruel frost; hard, sparkling snow; sticking out of the snow, the sullen peaks of the ice-covered, wind-swept mountains.
Two massive forms, two giants on the sides of the horizon, the Jungfrau and the Finsteraarhorn.
And the Jungfrau speaks to its neighbour: 'What canst thou tell that is new? thou canst see more. What is there down below?'
A few thousand years go by: one minute. And the Finsteraarhorn roars back in answer: 'Thick clouds cover the earth.... Wait a little!'
Thousands more years go by: one minute.
'Well, and now?' asks the Jungfrau.
'Now I see, there below all is the same. There are blue waters, black forests, grey heaps of piled-up stones. Among them are still fussing to and fro the insects, thou knowest, the bipeds that have never yet once defiled thee nor me.'
'Men?'
'Yes, men.'
Thousands of years go by: one minute.
'Well, and now?' asks the Jungfrau.
'There seem fewer insects to be seen,' thunders the Finsteraarhorn, 'it is clearer down below; the waters have shrunk, the forests are thinner.' Again thousands of years go by: one minute.
'What seeest thou?' says the Jungfrau.
'Close about us it seems purer,' answers the Finsteraarhorn, 'but there in the distance in the valleys are still spots, and something is moving.' 'And now?' asks the Jungfrau, after more thousands of years: one minute.
'Now it is well,' answers the Finsteraarhorn, 'it is clean everywhere, quite white, wherever you look ... Everywhere is our snow, unbroken snow and ice. Everything is frozen. It is well now, it is quiet.'
'Good,' said the Jungfrau. 'But we have gossipped enough, old fellow. It's time to slumber.'
'It is time, indeed.'
The huge mountains sleep; the green, clear sky sleeps over the region of eternal silence.
February 1878.
Endless Resource.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

New days are dear, and cannot be unloved,
Though in deep grief we mourn, and cling to death;
Who has not known, in living on, a breath
Of infinite joy that has life's rapture proved?
If I have thought that in this rainbow world
The best we see was but a preface given
Of infinite greater tints in heaven,
And life or no, heaven yet would be unfurl'd, - 
I did belie the soul-wide joys of earth,
And feelings deep as lights that dwell in seas.
Can heaven itself outlove such depths as these?
Live on! Life holds more than we dream of worth!
Change Should Breed Change
by William Henry Drummond

New doth the sun appear,
The mountains' snows decay,
Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.
My soul, time posts away;
And thou yet in that frost
Which flower and fruit hath lost,
As if all here immortal were, dost stay.
For shame! thy powers awake,
Look to that Heaven which never night makes black,
And there at that immortal sun's bright rays,
Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!
Niagara Falls.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Niagara, thou mighty flood.
I've seen thee fall, I've heard thee roar,
And on the frightful verges stood,
That overhang thy rocky shore.
I've sailed o'er surging waves below,
And view'd the rainbow's colour'd light,
And felt the spray, thy waters throw,
When leaping, with resistless might.
I've seen the rapids in their course,
Like madden'd, living things rush on,
With wild, unhesitating force,
To where thy mighty chasms yawn.
And there to take the awful leap,
And fall, with hoarse and sullen roar,
Into th' unfathomable deep,
Which rolleth on, from shore to shore.
Niagara, thou'rt mighty, grand,
Thou fill'st human souls with awe,
For thee, and for that mighty Hand,
Which maketh thee, by nature's law.
Thou'rt great, thou mighty, foaming mass
Of water, plunging, roaring down,
But so are we, yea, we surpass
Thee, and we wear a nobler crown.
Thy mighty head is crowned with foam,
And rainbows wreathe thy robes of blue;
Our earthly forms - our present home - 
Are insignificant to you.
But look, thou mighty thund'rer, thou,
Tho' puny be our forms to thine,
These forms possess, yea, even now,
A spark, a ray of life divine.
Rush on, O waters! proudly hurl
Thyself to roaring depths below,
And let the mists of ages curl,
And generations come and go.
But know, stupendous wonder, know,
Thy rocks would crumble, at the nod
Of Him, who lets thy waters flow;
Thy Maker, but our Friend and God.
Thy rocks shall crumble, fall they must;
Thy waters, then, shall plunge no more,
But we shall rise, e'en from the dust,
To live upon another shore.
Alexander VI Dines With The Cardinal Of Capua
by Stephen Vincent Benet

Next, then, the peacock, gilt
With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes
Flow in the eyes!
And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt
Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest
Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!
A strange fowl! But most fit
For feasts like this, whereby I honor one
Pure as the sun!
Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!
Some wine? Your goblet's empty? Let it foam!
It is not often that you come to Rome!
You like the Venice glass?
Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,
Neck like a girl's,
Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?
You start -- 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!
Ave Maria stella! -- ah, it broke!
'Tis said they break alone
When poison writhes within. A foolish tale!
What, you look pale?
Caraffa, fetch a silver cup!... You own
A Birth of Venus, now -- or so I've heard,
Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.
Also a Dancing Faun,
Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;
Globed pearls to please
A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn --
How happy I could be with but a tithe
Of your possessions, fortunate one! Don't writhe
But take these cushions here!
Now for the fruit! Great peaches, satin-skinned,
Rough tamarind,
Pomegranates red as lips -- oh they come dear!
But men like you we feast at any price --
A plum perhaps? They're looking rather nice!
I'll cut the thing in half.
There's yours! Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife
One might snuff life
And leave one's friend with -- "fool" for epitaph!
An old trick? Truth! But when one has the itch
For pretty things and isn't very rich....
There, eat it all or I'll
Be angry! You feel giddy? Well, it's hot!
This bergamot
Take home and smell -- it purges blood of bile!
And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,
Think of the poor Pope in his misery!
Now you may kiss my ring!
Ho there, the Cardinal's litter! -- You must dine
When the new wine
Is in, again with me -- hear Bice sing,
Even admire my frescoes -- though they're nought
Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!
Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!
And take a weak man's blessing! Help him there
To the cool air!...
Lucrezia here? You're ready for the ball?
-- He'll die within ten hours, I suppose --
MhM! Kiss your poor old father, little rose!
Venice.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Night in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
Onward she's treading,
'Till its dark line is lost,
'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the green billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,
And round her marble crown
Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow
Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the bright lagune
Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies between
To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar
Brilliantly shining,
Gleams like a fallen star
Venice reclining.