DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Lout
by John Clare

For Sunday's play he never makes excuse,
But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.
Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak,
Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek;
For none can pass him but his witless grace
Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face.
As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon
He calls his cows or drives his horses on;
He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side
And often tries to mount her back and ride,
And takes her tail at night in idle play,
And makes her drag him homeward all the way.
He knows of nothing but the football match,
And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.
A Meditation In Time Of War
by William Butler Yeats

For one throb of the artery,
While on that old grey stone I Sat
Under the old wind-broken tree,
I knew that One is animate,
Mankind inanimate fantasy'.
Let Us Give Thanks
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

For the courage which comes when we call,
While troubles like hailstones fall;
For the help that is somehow nigh,
In the deepest night when we cry;
For the path that is certainly shown
When we pray in the dark alone,
Let us give thanks.
For the knowledge we gain if we wait
And bear all the buffets of fate;
For the vision that beautifies sight
If we look under wrong for the right;
For the gleam of the ultimate goal
That shines on each reverent soul:
Let us give thanks.
For the consciousness stirring in creeds
That love is the thing the world needs;
For the cry of the travailing earth
That is giving a new faith birth;
For the God we are learning to find
In the heart and the soul and the mind:
Let us give thanks.
For the growth of the spirit through pain,
Like a plant in the soil and the rain;
For the dropping of needless things
Which the sword of a sorrow brings;
For the meaning and purpose of life
Which dawns on us out of the strife:
Let us give thanks.
For the solace that comes to our grief
In knowing earth's season is brief;
For the certitude given by faith
Of the continents out beyond death;
For the glorious thought that each day
Is speeding us the reward away:
Let us give thanks.
Hidden Sorrows.
by Alfred Castner King

For some the river of life would seem
Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar,
As they gently glide down the silvery stream
With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;
But under the surface, calm and fair,
Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care;
The waters are deepest where still, and clear,
And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
For others, the pathway of life is strewn
With many a thorn, for each rose or bud;
And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune,
Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood;
But deeper still lies the hidden smart
Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart,
And rankles under a surface clear;
For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
But, when the journey's end we see,
At the bar of the Judge of quick and dead,
The cross, which the one bore silently
May outweigh his of the bloodstained tread.
The cross unseen, and the cross of light,
May balance in that Judge's sight;
O'er the heart that is breaking a smile may appear,
For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.
Constantinople - Dhji-Han-Ghir. For H.N.
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

For years it had been neglected,
This wilderness garden of ours,
And its ruin had shone reflected
In its pools through abandoned hours.
For none had cared for its beauty
Till we came, the strangers, the Giaours,
And none had thought of a duty
Towards its squandering flowers.
Of broken wells and fountains
There were half a dozen or more,
And, beyond the sea, the mountains
Of that far Bithynian shore
Were blue in the purple distance
And white was the cap they wore,
And never in our existence
Had life seemed brighter before!
And the fruit-trees grew in profusion,
Quince and pomegranate and wine,
And the roses in rich confusion
With the lilac intertwine,
And the Banksia rose, the creeper,
Which is golden like yellow wine,
Is surely more gorgeous and deeper
In this garden of mine and thine.
And the little bright flowers in the grasses,
Cyclamen, daffodil,
Are crushed by the foot that passes,
But seem to grow thicker still;
In the cool grey fig-tree's shadows
They grow at their own free will,
In the grass as in English meadows,
On the slope of an English hill.
Is it best, when the lone flute-player
Wanders by with his strange little tune
And the muezzin sings out for prayer
Thrice daily his Arabic rune:
Once, when the sunset has faded,
Once in the brilliant noon,
Or once in the daybreak, rose-shaded.
A farewell to the dying moon?
Protest Against The Ballot
by William Wordsworth

Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-conceit,
A Power misnamed the spirit of reform,
And through the astonished Island swept in storm,
Threatening to lay all orders at her feet
That crossed her way. Now stoops she to entreat
License to hide at intervals her head
Where she may work, safe, undisquieted,
In a close Box, covert for Justice meet.
St, George of England! keep a watchful eye
Fixed on the Suitor; frustrate her request
Stifle her hope; for, if the State comply,
From such Pandorian gift may come a Pest
Worse than the Dragon that bowed low his crest,
Pierced by thy spear in glorious victory.
The Sword of Robert Lee
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright,
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light,
Led us to Victory!
Out of its scabbard, where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee!
Forth from its scabbard, high in air
Beneath Virginia's sky --
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow -- and to die!
Out of its scabbard!    Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Forth from its scabbard!    How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee!
Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully!
Euthanatos
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

In Memory of Mrs. Thellusson.
Forth of our ways and woes,
Forth of the winds and snows,
A white soul soaring goes,
Winged like a dove:
So sweet, so pure, so clear,
So heavenly tempered here,
Love need not hope or fear her changed above:
Ere dawned her day to die,
So heavenly, that on high
Change could not glorify
Nor death refine her:
Pure gold of perfect love,
On earth like heaven's own dove,
She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.
Her voice in heaven's own quire
Can sound no heavenlier lyre
Than here no purer fire
Her soul can soar:
No sweeter stars her eyes
In unimagined skies
Beyond our sight can rise than here before,
Hardly long years had shed
Their shadows on her head:
Hardly we think her dead,
Who hardly thought her
Old: hardly can believe
The grief our hearts receive
And wonder while they grieve, as wrong were wrought her.
But though strong grief be strong
No word or thought of wrong
May stain the trembling song,
Wring the bruised heart,
That sounds or sighs its faint
Low note of love, nor taint
Grief for so sweet a saint, when such depart.
A saint whose perfect soul,
With perfect love for goal,
Faith hardly might control,
Creeds might not harden:
A flower more splendid far
Than the most radiant star
Seen here of all that are in God's own garden.
Surely the stars we see
Rise and relapse as we,
And change and set, may be
But shadows too:
But spirits that man's lot
Could neither mar nor spot
Like these false lights are not, being heavenly true.
Not like these dying lights
Of worlds whose glory smites
The passage of the nights
Through heaven's blind prison:
Not like their souls who see,
If thought fly far and free,
No heavenlier heaven to be for souls rerisen.
A soul wherein love shone
Even like the sun, alone,
With fervour of its own
And splendour fed,
Made by no creeds less kind
Toward souls by none confined,
Could Death's self quench or blind, Love's self were dead.
Found
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Found - as I rushed through the great world's mart,
In a race for gold and a pleasure quest,
A passionate, throbbing human heart
Suddenly found in my breast.
I had always laughed at the foolish word;
I had said aloud in my boasting glee,
That never a heart in my bosom stirred,
That my brain governed me.
I was proud with the sense of my might and power
'It is will, not heart that wins,' I said.
But I suddenly found one sad, strange hour
That the strength of my will had fled.
For up in my breast there rose supreme
A strong man's heart, and all on fire:
Drunk with the wine of a wild, sweet dream,
And tortured with desire.
It is tossed with hope, and fear, and doubt,
It is mad with the fever of love's unrest,
I wish to God I could pluck it out -
This heart I found in my breast.
Forget Not The Field.
by Thomas Moore

Forget not the field where they perished,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone--and the bright hope we cherished
Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recover
Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high heaven to fight over
That combat for freedom once more;--
Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which Tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!
But 'tis past--and, tho' blazoned in story
The name of our Victor may be,
Accurst is the march of that glory
Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.
Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all, who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - VI. - Plea For The Historian
by William Wordsworth

Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise,
Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth,
Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth
Has spared of sound and grave realities,
Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries,
Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth,
That might have drawn down Clio from the skies
To vindicate the majesty of truth.
Such was her office while she walked with men,
A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire
All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might be
Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne,
And taught her faithful servants how the lyre
Should animate, but not mislead, the pen.
Meditations. (Translations From The Hebrew Poets Of Medaeval Spain.)
by Emma Lazarus

Forget thine anguish,
Vexed heart, again.
Why shouldst thou languish,
With earthly pain?
The husk shall slumber,
Bedded in clay
Silent and sombre,
Oblivion's prey!
But, Spirit immortal,
Thou at Death's portal,
Tremblest with fear.
If he caress thee,
Curse thee or bless thee,
Thou must draw near,
From him the worth of thy works to hear.
Why full of terror,
Compassed with error,
Trouble thy heart,
For thy mortal part?
The soul flies home -
The corpse is dumb.
Of all thou didst have,
Follows naught to the grave.
Thou fliest thy nest,
Swift as a bird to thy place of rest.
What avail grief and fasting,
Where nothing is lasting?
Pomp, domination,
Become tribulation.
In a health-giving draught,
A death-dealing shaft.
Wealth - an illusion,
Power - a lie,
Over all, dissolution
Creeps silent and sly.
Unto others remain
The goods thou didst gain
With infinite pain.
Life is a vine-branch;
A vintager, Death.
He threatens and lowers
More near with each breath.
Then hasten, arise!
Seek God, O my soul!
For time quickly flies,
Still far is the goal.
Vain heart praying dumbly,
Learn to prize humbly,
The meanest of fare.
Forget all thy sorrow,
Behold, Death is there!
Dove-like lamenting,
Be full of repenting,
Lift vision supernal
To raptures eternal.
On ev'ry occasion
Seek lasting salvation.
Pour thy heart out in weeping,
While others are sleeping.
Pray to Him when all's still,
Performing his will.
And so shall the angel of peace be thy warden,
And guide thee at last to the heavenly garden.
Solomon Ben Judah Gabirol (Died Between 1070-80.)
The Voice Of Things
by Thomas Hardy

Forty Augusts - aye, and several more - ago,
When I paced the headlands loosed from dull employ,
The waves huzza'd like a multitude below
In the sway of an all-including joy
Without cloy.
Blankly I walked there a double decade after,
When thwarts had flung their toils in front of me,
And I heard the waters wagging in a long ironic laughter
At the lot of men, and all the vapoury
Things that be.
Wheeling change has set me again standing where
Once I heard the waves huzza at Lammas-tide;
But they supplicate now - like a congregation there
Who murmur the Confession - I outside,
Prayer denied.
Forth From A Jutting Ridge, Around Whose Base
by William Wordsworth

Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base
Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks ascend
In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair
Rising to no ambitious height; yet both,
O'er lake and stream, mountain and flowery mead,
Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes
Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help,
To one or other brow of those twin Peaks
Were two adventurous Sisters wont to climb,
And took no note of the hour while thence they gazed,
The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side by side,
In speechless admiration. I, a witness
And frequent sharer of their calm delight
With thankful heart, to either Eminence
Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore.
Now are they parted, far as Death's cold hand
Hath power to part the Spirits of those who love
As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacles,
That, while the generations of mankind
Follow each other to their hiding-place
In time's abyss, are privileged to endure
Beautiful in yourselves, and richly graced
With like command of beauty, grant your aid
For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent claim,
That their pure joy in nature may survive
From age to age in blended memory.
The Unseen Model
by George MacDonald

Forth to his study the sculptor goes
In a mood of lofty mirth:
"Now shall the tongues of my carping foes
Confess what my art is worth!
In my brain last night the vision arose,
To-morrow shall see its birth!"
He stood like a god; with creating hand
He struck the formless clay:
"Psyche, arise," he said, "and stand;
In beauty confront the day.
I have sought nor found thee in any land;
I call thee: arise; obey!"
The sun was low in the eastern skies
When spoke the confident youth;
Sweet Psyche, all day, his hands and eyes
Wiled from the clay uncouth,
Nor ceased when the shadows came up like spies
That dog the steps of Truth.
He said, "I will do my will in spite
Of the rising dark; for, see,
She grows to my hand! The mar-work night
Shall hurry and hide and flee
From the glow of my lamp and the making might
That passeth out of me!"
In the flickering lamplight the figure swayed,
In the shadows did melt and swim:
With tool and thumb he modelled and made,
Nor knew that feature and limb
Half-obeying, half-disobeyed,
And mocking eluded him.
At the dawning Psyche of his brain
Joyous he wrought all night:
The oil went low, and he trimmed in vain,
The lamp would not burn bright;
But he still wrought on: through the high roof-pane
He saw the first faint light!
The dark retreated; the morning spread;
His creatures their shapes resume;
The plaster stares dumb-white and dead;
A faint blue liquid bloom
Lies on each marble bosom and head;
To his Psyche clings the gloom.
Backward he stept to see the clay:
His visage grew white and sear;
No beauty ideal confronted the day,
No Psyche from upper sphere,
But a once loved shape that in darkness lay,
Buried a lonesome year!
From maidenhood's wilderness fair and wild
A girl to his charm had hied:
He had blown out the lamp of the trusting child,
And in the darkness she died;
Now from the clay she sadly smiled,
And the sculptor stood staring-eyed.
He had summoned Psyche--and Psyche crept
From a half-forgotten tomb;
She brought her sad smile, that still she kept,
Her eyes she left in the gloom!
High grace had found him, for now he wept,
And love was his endless doom!
Night-long he pined, all day did rue;
He haunted her form with sighs:
As oft as his clay to a lady grew
The carvers, with dim surmise,
Would whisper, "The same shape come to woo,
With its blindly beseeching eyes!"
The Burial Of The Linnet.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Found in the garden--dead in his beauty.
Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly--up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him nobly--next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about:
Bury him deeply--think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly--white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers,--the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing;
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.
How Much Fortunatus Could Do With A Cap
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

Fortunatus, a fisherman Dane,
Set out on a sudden for Spain,
Because, runs the story,
He'd met with a hoary
Mysterious sorcerer chap,
Who, trouble to save him,
Most thoughtfully gave him
A magical traveling cap.
I barely believe that the story is true,
But here's what that cap was reported to do.
Suppose you were sitting at home,
And you wished to see Paris or Rome,
You'd pick up that bonnet,
You'd carefully don it,
The name of the city you'd call,
And the very next minute
By Jove, you were in it,
Without having started at all!
One moment you sauntered on upper Broadway,
And the next on the Corso or rue de la Paix!
Why, it beat every journey of Cook's,
Knocked spots out of Baedeker's books!
He stepped from his doorway
Direct into Norway,
He hopped in a trice to Ceylon,
He saw Madagascar,
Went round by Alaska,
And called on a girl in Luzon:
If they said she'd be down in a moment or two,
He took, while he waited, a peek at Peru!
He could wake up at eight in Siam,
Take his tub, if he wanted, in Guam.
Eat breakfast in Kansas,
And lunch in Matanzas,
Go out for a walk in Brazil,
Take tea in Madeira,
Dine on the Riviera,
And smoke his cigar in Seville,
Go out to the theatre in Vladivostok,
And retire in New York at eleven o'clock!
Every tongue he could readily speak:
French, German, Italian, Greek,
Norwegian, Bulgarian,
Turkish, Bavarian,
Japanese, Hindustanee,
Russian and Mexican!
He was a lexicon,
Such as you seldom will see.
His knowledge linguistic gave Ollendorff fits,
And brought a hot flush to the face of Berlitz!
He would bow in an intimate way
To Menelik and to Loubet,
He was frequently beckoned,
By William the Second,
A word of advice to receive,
He talked with bravado
About the Mikado,
King Oscar, Oom Paul, the Khedive,
King Victor Emmanuel Second, the Shah,
King Edward the Seventh, Kwang Su, and the Czar!
But what did he get from it all?
His wife used to wait in the hall!
When this wandering mortal
Set foot on the portal,
She always appeared on the scene,
And, far from ideally,
Remarked: "Well, I really
Would like to know where you have been!"
Now what is the good of a wandering life,
If you have to tell all that you do to your wife?
She'd indulge in a copious cry,
She'd remark she'd undoubtedly die,
Or, like many another,
Go back to her mother,
And what would the world think of that?
She only grew pleasant,
When offered a present
Of gloves or a gown or a hat:
And more than his talisman saved him in fare
Fortunatus expended in putting things square!
And The Moral is easily said:
Like our hero, you're certain to find,
When such a cap goes on a head,
Retribution will follow behind!
On Seeing Mrs. ** Perform In The Character Of ****
by Oliver Goldsmith

For you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this.
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove,
'Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
Germs
by Walt Whitman

Forms, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,
The ones known, and the ones unknown - the ones on the stars,
The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,
Wonders as of those countries - the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants, whatever they may be,
Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations and effects;
Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere, stand provided for in a handful of space, which I extend my arm and half enclose with my hand;
That contains the start of each and all - the virtue, the germs of all.
Forgetting Someone
by Yehuda Amichai

Forgetting someone is like forgetting to turn off the light
in the backyard so it stays lit all the next day
But then it is the light that makes you remember.
For You
by James Whitcomb Riley

For you, I could forget the gay
Delirium of merriment,
And let my laughter die away
In endless silence of content.
I could forget, for your dear sake,
The utter emptiness and ache
Of every loss I ever knew. -
What could I not forget for you?
I could forget the just deserts
Of mine own sins, and so erase
The tear that burns, the smile that hurts,
And all that mars or masks my face.
For your fair sake I could forget
The bonds of life that chafe and fret,
Nor care if death were false or true. -
What could I not forget for you?
What could I not forget? Ah me!
One thing, I know, would still abide
Forever in my memory,
Though all of love were lost beside -
I yet would feel how first the wine
Of your sweet lips made fools of mine
Until they sung, all drunken through -
"What could I not forget for you?"
Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Let me in this ae night."
I.
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love
II.
Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
III.
Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart,
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
IV.
But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XI. - From The Alban Hills, Looking Towards Rome
by William Wordsworth

Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs,
Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown
With monuments decayed or overthrown,
For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies,
Than for like scenes in moral vision shown,
Ruin perceived for keener sympathies;
Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown;
Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies.
Yet why prolong this mournful strain? Fallen Power,
Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour
When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke,
And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High,
On the third stage of thy great destiny.
Fortune
by Madison Julius Cawein

Fortune may pass us by:
Follow her flying feet.
Love, all we ask, deny:
Never admit defeat.
Take heart again and try.
Never say die.