DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song Of Diego Valdez
by Rudyard Kipling

The God of Fair Beginnings
Hath prospered here my hand,
The cargoes of my lading,
And the keels of my command.
For out of many ventures
That sailed with hope as high,
My own have made the better trade,
And Admiral am I.
To me my King's much honour,
To me my people's love,
To me the pride of Princes
And power all pride above;
To me the shouting cities,
To me the mob's refrain:,
"Who knows not noble Valdez
"Hath never heard of Spain."
But I remember comrades,
Old playmates on new seas,
Whenas we traded orpiment
Among the savages,
A thousand leagues to south'ard
And thirty years removed,
They knew nor noble Valdez,
But me they knew and loved.
Then they that found good liquor,
They drank it not alone,
And they that found fair plunder,
They told us every one,
About our chosen islands
Or secret shoals between,
When, weary from far voyage,
We gathered to careen.
There burned our breaming-fagots
All pale along the shore:
There rose our worn pavilions,
A sail above an oar:
As flashed each yeaming anchor
Through mellow seas afire,
So swift our careless captains
Rowed each to his desire.
Where lay our loosened harness?
Where turned our naked feet?
Whose tavern 'mid the palm-trees?
What quenchings of what heat?
Oh, fountain in the desert!
Oh, cistern in the waste!
Oh, bread we ate in secret!
Oh, cup we spilled in haste!
The youth new-taught of longing,
The widow curbed and wan,
The goodwife proud at season,
And the maid aware of man,
All souls unslaked, consuming,
Defrauded in delays,
Desire not more their quittance
Than I those forfeit days!
I dreamed to wait my pleasure
Unchanged my spring would bide:
Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,
I put my spring aside
Till, first in face of Fortune,
And last in mazed disdain,
I made Diego Valdez
High Admiral of Spain.
Then walked no wind 'neath Heaven
Nor surge that did not aid,
I dared extreme occasion,
Nor ever one betrayed.
They wrought a deeper treason,
(Led seas that served my needs!)
They sold Diego Valdez
To bondage of great deeds.
The tempest flung me seaward,
And pinned and bade me hold
The course I might not alter,
And men esteemed me bold!
The calms embayed my quarry,
The fog-wreath sealed his eyes;
The dawn-wind brought my topsails,
And men esteemed me wise!
Yet, 'spite my tyrant triumphs,
Bewildered, dispossessed,
My dream held I beore me
My vision of my rest;
But, crowned by Fleet and People,
And bound by King and Pope,
Stands here Diego Valdez
To rob me of my hope.
No prayer of mine shall move him.
No word of his set free
The Lord of Sixty Pennants
And the Steward of the Sea.
His will can loose ten thousand
To seek their loves again,
But not Diego Valdez,
High Admiral of Spain.
There walks no wind 'neath Heaven
Nor wave that shall restore
The old careening riot
And the clamorous, crowded shore,
The fountain in the desert,
The cistern in the waste,
The bread we ate in secret,
The cup we spilled in haste.
Now call I to my Captains,
For council fly the sign,
Now leap their zealous galleys,
Twelve-oared, across the brine.
To me the straiter prison,
To me the heavier chain,
To me Diego Valdez,
High Admiral of Spain!
Songs From The 'Shepherd's Garland'
by Michael Drayton

The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle,
Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.
Fortunes fay'rst mistresse, vertues surest guide,
Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.
Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence,
Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.
Conceipts sole Riches, thoughts only treasure,
Desires true hope, Ioyes sweetest pleasure.
Mercies due merite, valeurs iust reward,
Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde.
Yea she alone, next that eternall he,
The expresse Image of eternitie.
The Wanderer
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

The gleam of household sunshine ends,
And here no longer can I rest;
Farewell! - You will not speak, my friends,
Unfriendly of your parted guest.
O well for him that finds a friend,
Or makes a friend where'er he come,
And loves the world from end to end,
And wanders on from home to home!
O happy he, and fit to live,
On whom a happy home has power
To make him trust his life, and give
His fealty to the halcyon hour!
I count you kind, I hold you true;
But what may follow who can tell?
Give me a hand-and you-and you-
And deem me grateful, and farewell!
In Vita. CIX.
by Emma Lazarus

The God of Love and I in wonder stared,
(Ne'er having gazed on miracles ere now,)
Upon my lady's smiling lips and brow,
Who only with herself may be compared.
Neath the calm beauty of her forehead bared,
Those twin stars of my love did burn and flow,
No lesser lamps again the path might show
To the proud lover who by these had fared.
Oh miracle, when on the grass at rest,
Herself a flower, she would clasp and hold
A leafy branch against her snow-white breast.
What joy to see her, in the autumn cold,
Wander alone, with maiden thoughts possess'd,
Weaving a garland of dry, crispy gold!
St. Valentine.
by Jean Blewett

The girl's a slender thing and fair,
With dimpled cheek and eyes ashine;
The youth is tall, with bashful air.
Heigho! a fond and foolish pair - 
The day is yours, St. Valentine.
He says: "My heart will constant prove,
Since every beat of it is thine;
The sweetest joy of life is love."
The birds are mating in the grove - 
The day is yours, St. Valentine.
What matter that the wind blows chill
Through leafless tree and naked vine,
That snowdrifts linger on the hill,
When warm love makes the pulses thrill?
The day is yours, St. Valentine.
Beauty And Art
by Madison Julius Cawein

The gods are dead; but still for me
Lives on in wildwood brook and tree
Each myth, each old divinity.
For me still laughs among the rocks
The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks
Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.
The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;
And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,
The Oread haunts her mountain home.
To him, whose mind is fain to dwell
With loveliness no time can quell,
All things are real, imperishable.
To him - whatever facts may say - 
Who sees the soul beneath the clay,
Is proof of a diviner day.
The very stars and flowers preach
A gospel old as God, and teach
Philosophy a child may reach;
That cannot die; that shall not cease;
That lives through idealities
Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.
That lifts the soul above the clod,
And, working out some period
Of art, is part and proof of God.
The Gipsy's Song
by John Clare

The gipsy's life is a merry life,
And ranting boys we be;
We pay to none or rent or tax,
And live untith'd and free.
None care for us, for none care we,
And where we list we roam,
And merry boys we gipsies be,
Though the wild woods are our home.
And come what will brings no dismay;
Our minds are ne'er perplext;
For if to-day is a swaly day,
We meet with luck the next.
And thus we sing and kiss our mates,
While our chorus still shall be,--
Bad luck to tyrant magistrates,
And the gipsies' camp still free.
To mend old pans and bottom chairs
Around the towns we tramp,
Then a day or two our purse repairs,
And plenty fills our camp;
And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound
Their catgut harmony,
While echo fills the woods around
With gipsy liberty.
The green grass is our softest bed,
The sun our clock we call,
The nightly sky hangs over head,
Our curtains, house, and all.
Tho' houseless while the wild winds blow,
Our joys are uncontroll'd;
We barefoot dance through Winter's snow,
When others die with cold.
Our maidens they are fond and free,
And lasting are their charms;
Brown as the berry on the tree,
No sun their beauty harms:
Their beauties are no garden blooms,
That fade before they flower;
Unshelter'd where the tempest comes,
They smile in sun and shower.
And they are wild as the woodland hare,
That feeds on the evening lea;
And what care we for ladies fair,
Since ours are fond and free?
False hearts hide in a lily skin,
But ours are coarse and fond;
No parson's fetters link us in,--
Our love's a stronger bond.
Tho' wild woods are our house and home,
'T is a home of liberty;
Free as the Summer clouds we roam,
And merry boys we be.
We dance and sing the year along,
And loud our fiddles play;
And no day goes without its song,
While every month is May.
The hare that haunts the fallow ground,
And round the common feeds;
The fox that tracks the woodland bounds,
And in the thicket breeds;
These are the neighbours where we dwell,
And all the guests we see,
That share and love the quiet well
Of gipsy liberty.
The elements are grown our friends,
And leave our huts alone;
The thunder-bolt, that shakes and rends
The cotter's house of stone,
Flies harmless by the blanket roof,
Where the winds may burst and blow,
For our camps, tho' thin, are tempest proof,
We reck not rain and snow.
May the lot we've met our lives befall,
And nothing worse attend;
So here's success to gipsies all,
And every gipsy's friend.
And while the ass that bears our camp
Can find a common free,
Around old England's heaths we'll tramp
In gipsy liberty.
The Girt Woak Tree That's In The Dell
by William Barnes

The girt woak tree that's in the dell!
There's noo tree I do love so well;
Vor times an' times when I wer young,
I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung,
An' picked the eacorns green, a-shed
In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head.
An' down below's the cloty brook
Where I did vish with line an' hook,
An' beat, in playsome dips and zwims,
The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's.
An' there my mother nimbly shot
Her knitten-needles, as she zot
At evenen down below the wide
Woak's head, wi' father at her zide.
An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy,
That's now a man an' gone awoy;
Zoo I do like noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
An' there, in leater years, I roved
Wi' thik poor maid I fondly loved, 
The maid too feair to die so soon, 
When evenen twilight, or the moon,
Cast light enough 'ithin the pleace
To show the smiles upon her feace,
Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,
An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool.
There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm,
Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm,
Below the wide-boughed tree we passed
The happy hours that went too vast;
An' though she'll never be my wife,
She's still my leaden star o' life.
She's gone: an' she've a-left to me
Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree;
Zoo I do love noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
An' oh! mid never ax nor hook
Be brought to spweil his steately look;
Nor ever roun' his ribby zides
Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides;
Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep
His lwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep;
An' let en grow, an' let en spread,
An' let en live when I be dead.
But oh! if men should come an' vell
The girt woak tree that's in the dell,
An' build his planks 'ithin the zide
O' zome girt ship to plough the tide,
Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,
A sailen wi' the girt woak tree:
An' I upon his planks would stand,
An' die a-fighten vor the land, 
The land so dear, the land so free, 
The land that bore the girt woak tree;
Vor I do love noo tree so well
'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
Prologue to Old Fortunatus
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

The golden bells of fairyland, that ring
Perpetual chime for childhood's flower-sweet spring,
Sang soft memorial music in his ear
Whose answering music shines about us here.
Soft laughter as of light that stirs the sea
With darkling sense of dawn ere dawn may be,
Kind sorrow, pity touched with gentler scorn,
Keen wit whose shafts were sunshafts of the morn,
Love winged with fancy, fancy thrilled with love,
An eagle's aim and ardour in a dove,
A man's delight and passion in a child,
Inform it as when first they wept and smiled.
Life, soiled and rent and ringed about with pain
Whose touch lent action less of spur than chain,
Left half the happiness his birth designed,
And half the power, unquenched in heart and mind.
Comrade and comforter, sublime in shame,
A poor man bound in prison whence he came
Poor, and took up the burden of his life
Smiling, and strong to strive with sorrow and strife,
He spake in England's ear the poor man's word,
Manful and mournful, deathless and unheard.
His kind great heart was fire, and love's own fire,
Compassion, strong as flesh may feel desire,
To enkindle pity and mercy toward a soul
Sunk down in shame too deep for shame's control.
His kind keen eye was light to lighten hope
Where no man else might see life's darkness ope
And pity's touch bring forth from evil good,
Sweet as forgiveness, strong as fatherhood.
Names higher than his outshine it and outsoar,
But none save one should memory cherish more:
Praise and thanksgiving crown the names above,
But him we give the gift he gave us, love.
The Gods Are Dead?
by William Ernest Henley

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:-
'The Gods are Dead!'
In Memoriam.
by Jean Blewett

(A Tribute to Mrs. George A. Cox.)
The Golden Rule - the blessed creed
That shelters frail humanity,
The tender thought for those in need,
The charity of word and deed,
Without which all is vanity - 
This, friend, you made your very own,
And yours the satisfying part
To pluck the rose of love full blown,
To reap the gladness you had sown
With open hand and kindly heart.
Simplicity, the jewel rare,
Whose gleam is ever true and warm - 
That thing of worth beyond compare
Which none but truly great may wear - 
Adorned your life with power and charm.
Yours the sincerity that grips
Fast hold of natures strong and wise;
It thrilled you to your finger-tips,
It set its seal on brow and lips,
And shone within your dark, true eyes.
The throng knew not how rich the store
Of sympathy and trust you had;
Knew not you were, till life was o'er,
God's almoner among His poor,
God's comforter to sick and sad.
Too soon you went - we miss the cheer,
The kindliness vouchsafed to all;
The world seems strangely lone and drear
When one whom many hearts hold dear
Fares heavenward ere the shadows fall.
Too soon you went, and yet, maybe,
Your work well done, your task complete,
The soul of you turned longingly
Toward gates of pearl and jasper sea
And fields of Eden rarely sweet.
The Good-natured Grey Gull
by Edward Lear

The Good-natured Grey Gull,
who carried the Old Owl, and his Crimson Carpet-bag,
across the river, because he could not swim.
The Grasshopper
by Madison Julius Cawein

The grasshopper, that sang its sleepy song
All summer long,
The orchard lands and harvest fields among,
Taking no heed of aught save its own joy,
Without alloy,
Cheering the ear with its "Ahoy! ahoy!"
A merry note of summer's self a part,
Like my old heart,
Is silent now and cold; its singing done.
The grasshopper's a-cold and summer's gone,
And I'm alone.
Lines Rhymed In A Letter From Oxford
by John Keats

I.
The Gothic looks solemn,
The plain Doric column
Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;
The mouldering arch,
Shaded o'er by a larch
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.
II.
Vice that is, by turns,
O'er pale faces mourns
The black tassell'd trencher and common hat;
The Chantry boy sings,
The Steeple-bell rings,
And as for the Chancellor dominat.
III.
There are plenty of trees,
And plenty of ease,
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;
And when it is venison,
Short is the benison,
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.
The Rose And The Grave.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("La tombe dit ' la rose.")
[XXXI., June 3, 1837]
The Grave said to the rose
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?"
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said: "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to the Rose.
A. LANG.
Her Thought And His
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky,
A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye.
The gleam on the waves and the light on the land,
A thrill in my heart,--and--my sweetheart's hand.
She turned from the sea with a woman's grace,
And the light fell soft on her upturned face,
And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss
That would flow to my heart from a single kiss.
But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask
For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask.
But into her face there came a flame:--
I wonder could she have been thinking the same?
May
by Madison Julius Cawein

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance - 
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,
The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May's own utterance.
The azure stars of the bluet bloom,
That sprinkle the woodland's trance - 
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May's own glance.
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes
Like a little maid to town.
In Memoriam - Rev. J. J. Lyons.
by Emma Lazarus

The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn
Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.
Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land;
Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn,
With the stored sweetness of all summer hours,
The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers,
And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day,
With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil,
Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil,
To Him who gives and Him who takes away.
Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord,
And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune,
And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.
Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord,
Who killeth and who quickeneth again,
Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain,
Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace.
Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West,
Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest.
With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease.
For there is mourning now in Israel,
The crown, the garland of the branching tree
Is plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he.
The priest, the good old man who wrought so well
Upon his chosen globe. For he was one
Who at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun.
Morn found him not as one who slumbereth,
Noon saw him faithful, and the restful night
Stole o'er him at his labors to requite
The just man's service with the just man's death.
What shall be said when such as he do pass?
Go to the hill-side, neath the cypress-trees,
Fall midst that peopled silence on your knees,
And weep that man must wither as the grass.
But mourn him not, whose blameless life complete
Rounded its perfect orb, whose sleep is sweet,
Whom we must follow, but may not recall.
Salute with solemn trumpets the New Year,
And offer honeyed fruits as were he here,
Though ye be sick with wormwood and with gall.
The Common Men
by Edward Dyson

The great men framed the fierce decrees
Embroiling State with State;
They bit their thumbs across the seas
In diplomatic hate;
They lit the pyre whose glare and heat
Make Hell itself seem cold;
The flames bloomed red above the wheat,
Their wild profusion wreathed the street,
Then in the smoke and fiery sleet
The common men took hold.
Where Babel was with Bedlam freed,
And wide the gates were flung;
To chaos, while the anarch breed
In all the world gave tongue,
The common men in close array,
By mountain, plain and sea,
Went outward girded for the fray,
On one dear quest, whate'er they pay
In blood and pain, the open way
To keep for Liberty.
The common men who never tire,
Unsightly in the mirk
Of caking blood and smoke and mire,
Push forward with their work;
A while in foulest pits entombed,
Resistless, still and slow,
Burnt, broken, stifled, seeming doomed,
Past where the flowers of Satan bloomed,
Up gutted hills with shell-breath plumed,
The stubborn armies go.
Contending in the shattered sky
In empyrean wars,
The sons of simple men out-vie
God's splendid meteors;
Where'er the mills of Vulcan roared
And blinked against the night,
Swart shapes with sweat-washed eyes have stored
The clean, lean lightnings of the Lord
To be a league-long, leaping sword
In this our holy fight.
The small men know the burden well,
The dreadful paths they know,
With fear and death and torture dwell.
And sup and sleep with, woe.
They're riven in the shrapnel gust,
But; blind and reeling, plan
Another blow, a final thrust
To subjugate the tyrant's lust.
So, bleeding, blundering in the dust,
Men fight and die for Man.
The Criticism.
by Jean Blewett

The great man came to the country place,
To preach to farmers sturdy;
He said: "I'm in my happiest vein,
I'll be eloquent and wordy."
"Not often a great man like myself
Comes here to do the teaching - 
A big event in these quiet lives - 
They'll not forget my preaching."
The great man found him a text at length
In Ezekiel's ponderous pages;
From point to point of his sermon long
He travelled at easy stages.
He soared up high in the realms of thought,
Was rich in allegory.
"I have," said he, as he sat him down,
"Covered myself with glory.
"These simple rustics are overcome
With my rhetoric and power,
They're used to a sprinkling of thought
And I've given them a shower."
The great man got a terrible shock
As, the long service over,
He walked with a farmer grave and staid
Home through the fields of clover.
"Your people - ah - were they much impressed
With my sermon?" he queried.
"Preaching with earnestness, power and force
Has left me sadly wearied."
"A worse would a done us country folks" - 
The farmer's tone a terse one - 
"That is," reflectively, "if you
Happened to have a worse one."
La servante au grand coeur dont vous 'tiez jalouse
by Charles Baudelaire

The great-hearted servant of whom you were jealous,
sleeping her sleep in the humble grass,
shouldn't we take her a few flowers?
The dead, the poor dead, have griefs like ours,
and when October sighs, clipper of trees,
round their marble tombs, with its mournful breeze,
they must find the living, ungratefully, wed,
snug in sleep, to the warmth of their bed,
while they, devoured by dark reflection,
without bedfellow, or sweet conversation,
old skeletons riddled with worms, deep frozen,
feel the winter snows trickling round them,
and the years flow by without kin or friend
to replace the wreaths at their railing's end.
If some night, when the logs whistle and flare,
seeing her sitting calm, in that chair,
if on a December night, cold and blue,
I might find her there placed in the room,
solemn, and come from her bed, eternal,
to guard the grown child with her eye, maternal,
what could I answer that pious spirit,
seeing tears under her hollow eyelid?
Sonnet XLVI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' arbor gentil che forte amai molt' anni.
IMPRECATION AGAINST THE LAUREL.
The graceful tree I loved so long and well,
Ere its fair boughs in scorn my flame declined,
Beneath its shade encouraged my poor mind
To bud and bloom, and 'mid its sorrow swell.
But now, my heart secure from such a spell,
Alas, from friendly it has grown unkind!
My thoughts entirely to one end confined,
Their painful sufferings how I still may tell.
What should he say, the sighing slave of love,
To whom my later rhymes gave hope of bliss,
Who for that laurel has lost all--but this?
May poet never pluck thee more, nor Jove
Exempt; but may the sun still hold in hate
On each green leaf till blight and blackness wait.
MACGREGOR.