DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Song To Diana
by Ben Jonson

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
Paradisum Amissam, Lib. II
by John Milton

Quales aerii montis de vertice nubes
Cum surgunt, et jam Boreae tumida ora quierunt,
Caelum hilares abdit spissa caligine vultus,
Nimbosumque nives aut imbres cogitat aether:
Tum si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,
Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,
Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros,
Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.
Nursery Rhyme. DLIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Pussy sits behind the fire,
How can she be fair?
In comes the little dog,
Pussy, are you there?
So, so, Mistress Pussy,
Pray how do you do?
Thank you, thank you, little dog,
I'm very well just now.
Quicksand Years
by Walt Whitman

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me,
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, eludes not,
One's-self must never give way, that is the final substance, that out of all is sure,
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?
When shows break up what but One's-Self is sure?
Verses On The Revival Of The Order Of The Bath,[1]
by Jonathan Swift

DURING WALPOLE'S ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725
Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few
Of St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue.
I must find out another of colour more gay,
That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey.
Though the exchequer be drain'd by prodigal donors,
Yet the king ne'er exhausted his fountain of honours.
Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit,
And this will fit men of more money than wit.
Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands,
Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes
And he who'll leap over a stick for the king,
Is qualified best for a dog in a string.
Soeur Monique - A Rondeau By Couperin
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Quiet form of silent nun,
What has given you to my inward eyes?
What has marked you, unknown one,
In the throngs of centuries
That mine ears do listen through?
This old master's melody
That expresses you,
This admired simplicity,
Tender, with a serious wit,
And two words, the name of it,
'Soeur Monique.'
And if sad the music is,
It is sad with mysteries
Of a small immortal thing
That the passing ages sing,-
Simple music making mirth
Of the dying and the birth
Of the people of the earth.
No, not sad; we are beguiled,
Sad with living as we are;
Ours the sorrow, outpouring
Sad self on a selfless thing,
As our eyes and hearts are mild
With our sympathy for Spring,
With a pity sweet and wild
For the innocent and far,
With our sadness in a star,
Or our sadness in a child.
But two words, and this sweet air.
Soeur Monique,
Had he more, who set you there?
Was his music-dream of you
Of some perfect nun he knew,
Or of some ideal, as true?
And I see you where you stand
With your life held in your hand
As a rosary of days.
And your thoughts in calm arrays,
And your innocent prayers are told
On your rosary of days.
And the young days and the old
With their quiet prayers did meet
When the chaplet was complete.
Did it vex you, the surmise
Of this wind of words, this storm of cries,
Though you kept the silence so
In the storms of long ago,
And you keep it, like a star?
-Of the evils triumphing,
Strong, for all your perfect conquering,
Silenced conqueror that you are?
And I wonder at your peace, I wonder.
Would it trouble you to know,
Tender soul, the world and sin
By your calm feet trodden under
Long ago,
Living now, mighty to win?
And your feet are vanished like the snow.
Vanished; but the poet, he
In whose dream your face appears,
He who ranges unknown years
With your music in his heart,
Speaks to you familiarly
Where you keep apart,
And invents you as you were.
And your picture, O my nun!
Is a strangely easy one,
For the holy weed you wear,
For your hidden eyes and hidden hair,
And in picturing you I may
Scarcely go astray.
O the vague reality!
The mysterious certainty!
O strange truth of these my guesses
In the wide thought-wildernesses!
-Truth of one divined of many flowers;
Of one raindrop in the showers
Of the long-ago swift rain;
Of one tear of many tears
In some world-renowned pain;
Of one daisy 'mid the centuries of sun;
Of a little living nun
In the garden of the years.
Yes, I am not far astray;
But I guess you as might one
Pausing when young March is grey,
In a violet-peopled day;
All his thoughts go out to places that he knew,
To his child-home in the sun,
To the fields of his regret,
To one place i' the innocent March air,
By one olive, and invent
The familiar form and scent
Safely; a white violet
Certainly is there.
Soeur Monique, remember me.
'Tis not in the past alone
I am picturing you to be;
But my little friend, my own,
In my moment, pray for me.
For another dream is mine,
And another dream is true,
Sweeter even,
Of the little ones that shine
Lost within the light divine,-
Of some meekest flower, or you,
In the fields of Heaven.
Song
by John Wilmot

Quoth the Duchess of Cleveland to counselor Knight,
"I'd fain have a prick, knew I how to come by't.
I desire you'll be secret and give your advice:
Though c*nt be not coy, reputation is nice."
"To some cellar in Sodom Your Grace must retire
Where porters with black-pots sit round a coal fire;
There open your case, and Your Grace cannot fail
Of a dozen of pricks for a dozen of ale."
"Is't so?" quoth the Duchess. "Aye, by God!" quoth the whore.
"Then give me the key that unlocks the back door,
For I'd rather be f*cked by porters and carmen
Than thus be abused by Churchill and Jermyn."
The Raid
by Madison Julius Cawein

Rain and black night. Beneath the covered bridge
The rushing Fork that roars among its rocks.
Nothing is out. Nothing? What's that which blocks
The long grey road upon the rain-swept ridge?
A horseman! No! A mask! As hewn from jet
With ready gun he waits and sentinels
The open way. Far off he hears wild bells;
And now a signal shrills through wind and wet.
Was that the thunder, or the rushing stream?
The tunnel of the bridge throbs with mad hoofs;
Now its black throat pours out a midnight cloud
Riders! behind whom steadily a gleam
Grows to a glare that silhouettes dark roofs,
Whence armed Pursuit gathers and gallops loud.
What's My Thought Like?
by Thomas Moore

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?
Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!
The Dog And Thief.
by Jonathan Swift

Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door
And I'll give you these delicate bits.
Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you're,
And besides must be out of my wits.
Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
But my master each day gives me bread;
You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal,
And I must be hang'd in your stead.
The stockjobber thus from 'Change Alley goes down,
And tips you the freeman a wink;
Let me have but your vote to serve for the town,
And here is a guinea to drink.
Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent!
Your offers of bribery cease:
I'll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
Or else I may forfeit my lease.
From London they come, silly people to chouse,
Their lands and their faces unknown:
Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
That would turn a man out of his own?
In An Underground Dressing-Station
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Quietly they set their burden down: he tried
To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side.
*        *        *        *        *
He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed,
"O put my leg down, doctor, do!" (He'd got
A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot
Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,
"You must keep still, my lad." But he was dying.
Early Spring
by Fay Inchfawn

Quick through the gates of Fairyland
The South Wind forced his way.
'Twas his to make the Earth forget
Her grief of yesterday.
"'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!"
And on his lightsome feet
In haste he slung the snowdrop bells,
Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,
And out with laughter sweet.
Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on
The shining way he went.
He whispered to the trees strange tales
Of wondrous sweet intent,
When, suddenly, his witching voice
With timbre rich and rare,
Rang through the woodlands till it cleft
Earth's silent solitudes, and left
A Dream of Roses there!
Artist
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Quit the hut, frequent the palace,
Reck not what the people say;
For still, where'er the trees grow biggest,
Huntsmen find the easiest way.
The Played-Out Humorist
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Quixotic is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is,
Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said.
The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,
And every joke that's possible has long ago been made.
I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness,
But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse;
For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the business
No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.
And if anybody choose
He may circulate the news
That no reasonable offer I'm likely to refuse.
Oh happy was that humorist - the first that made a pun at all -
Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,
Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all -
How popular at dinners must that humorist have been!
Oh the days when some stepfather for the query held a handle out,
The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?
And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron blew the candle out,
And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar!
But your modern hearers are
In their tastes particular,
And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a-jar!
In search of quip and quiddity, I've sat all day, alone, apart -
And all that I could hit on as a problem was - to find
Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,
Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind:
For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity -
It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout -
And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity
In present Anno Domini, is worked completely out!
Though the notion you may scout,
I can prove beyond a doubt
That my mine of jocularity is utterly worked out.
To Mary.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Rack'd by the flames of jealous rage,
By all her torments deeply curst,
Of hell-born passions far the worst,
What hope my pangs can now assuage?
2.
I tore me from thy circling arms,
To madness fir'd by doubts and fears,
Heedless of thy suspicious tears,
Nor feeling for thy feign'd alarms.
3.
Resigning every thought of bliss,
Forever, from your love I go,
Reckless of all the tears that flow,
Disdaining thy polluted kiss.
4.
No more that bosom heaves for me,
On it another seeks repose,
Another riot's on its snows,
Our bonds are broken, both are free.
5.
No more with mutual love we burn,
No more the genial couch we bless,
Dissolving in the fond caress;
Our love o'erthrown will ne'er return.
6.
Though love than ours could ne'er be truer,
Yet flames too fierce themselves destroy,
Embraces oft repeated cloy,
Ours came too frequent, to endure.
7.
You quickly sought a second lover,
And I too proud to share a heart,
Where once I held the whole, not part,
Another mistress must discover.
8.
Though not the first one, who hast blest me,
Yet I will own, you was the dearest,
The one, unto my bosom nearest;
So I conceiv'd, when I possest thee.
9.
Even now I cannot well forget thee,
And though no more in folds of pleasure,
Kiss follows kiss in countless measure,
I hope you sometimes will regret me.
10.
And smile to think how oft were done,
What prudes declare a sin to act is,
And never but in darkness practice,
Fearing to trust the tell-tale sun.
11.
And wisely therefore night prefer,
Whose dusky mantle veils their fears,
Of this, and that, of eyes and ears,
Affording shades to those that err.
12.
Now, by my foul, 'tis most delight
To view each other panting, dying.
In love's extatic posture lying,
Grateful to feeling, as to sight.
13.
And had the glaring God of Day,
(As formerly of Mars and Venus)
Divulg'd the joys which pass'd between us,
Regardless of his peeping ray.
14.
Of love admiring such a sample,
The Gods and Goddesses descending,
Had never fancied us offending,
But wisely followed our example.
*             *             *             *             *
When to their airy hall, my father's voice,
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice,
When pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot, where earth to earth returns.
No lengthen'd scroll of virtue, and renown,
My epitaph, shall be my name alone;
If that with honour fails to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay;
That, only that, shall single out the shot,
By that remember'd, or fore'er forgot. -
Abel And Cain
by Charles Baudelaire

I.
Race of Abel, sleep and eat;
God smiles on you complacently.
Race of Cain, in mud and filth
You crawl and die in misery.
Abel's race, your sacrifice
Smells sweet to all the Seraphim!
Race of Cain, your punishment,
Will it be ever at an end?
Race of Abel, see your seed,
Your flocks, your cattle come to good;
Race of Cain, like some old dog
Your empty entrails howl for food.
Race of Abel, warm your belly
By the hearth of countrymen;
Race of Cain, you tremble, freezing,
Lonely jackal, in your den!
Race of Abel, multiply
Even your gold proliferates;
Race of Cain, a burning heart,
Take guard against your appetites.
Race of Abel, chew and swell
Like insects swarming through the woods!
Race of Cain, in deep distress
Your people lag on stony roads.
II.
Race of Abel, see your shame:
The plough is conquered by the pike!
Cain, your modem progeny
Have just begun to do your work;
Race of Abel, carrion,
Manure to feed the steaming sod!
Race of Cain, assault the skies
And drag him earthward - bring down God!
Rachel
by Walter De La Mare

Rachel sings sweet - 
Oh yes, at night,
Her pale face bent
In the candle-light,
Her slim hands touch
The answering keys,
And she sings of hope
And of memories:
Sings to the little
Boy that stands
Watching those slim,
Light, heedful hands.
He looks in her face;
Her dark eyes seem
Dark with a beautiful
Distant dream;
And still she plays,
Sings tenderly
To him of hope,
And of memory.
A Meeting.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet;
A song I sang, full many a year ago,
Smiled up at me, as in a busy street
One meets an old-time friend he used to know.
So full it was, that simple little song,
Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth,
Which to the impetuous morn of life belong,
That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.
So full it was of that sweet, fancied pain
We woo and cherish ere we meet with woe,
I felt as one who hears a plaintive strain
His mother sang him in the long ago.
Up from the grave the years that lay between
That song's birthday and my stern present came
Like phantom forms and swept across the scene,
Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.
Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knew
In that old time, with their ideal grace,
Shone for a moment, then were lost to view
Behind the dull clouds of the commonplace.
With trembling hands I put the sheet away;
Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truth
Struck like an arrow when we met that day!
My life has missed the promise of its youth.
Quiet Dead!
by George MacDonald

Quiet, quiet dead,
Have ye aught to say
From your hidden bed
In the earthy clay?
Fathers, children, mothers,
Ye are very quiet;
Can ye shout, my brothers?
I would know you by it!
Have ye any words
That are like to ours?
Have ye any birds?
Have ye any flowers?
Could ye rise a minute
When the sun is warm?
I would know you in it,
I would take no harm.
I am half afraid
In the ghostly night;
If ye all obeyed
I should fear you quite.
But when day is breaking
In the purple east
I would meet you waking--
One of you at least--
When the sun is tipping
Every stony block,
And the sun is slipping
Down the weathercock.
Quiet, quiet dead,
I will not perplex you;
What my tongue hath said
Haply it may vex you!
Yet I hear you speaking
With a quiet speech,
As if ye were seeking
Better things to teach:
"Wait a little longer,
Suffer and endure
Till your heart is stronger
And your eyes are pure--
A little longer, brother,
With your fellow-men:
We will meet each other
Otherwhere again."
Cargoes
by John Masefield

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, 
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, 
With a cargo of ivory, 
And apes and peacocks, 
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. 
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, 
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, 
With a cargo of diamonds, 
Emeralds, amythysts, 
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. 
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, 
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, 
With a cargo of Tyne coal, 
Road-rails, pig-lead, 
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Another on "On the Gunpowder Plot."
by John Milton

Quem modo Roma suis devoverat impia diris,
Et Styge damnarat Taenarioque sinu,
Hunc vice mutata jam tollere gestit ad astra,
Et cupit ad superos evehere usque Deos.
We To Sigh Instead of Sing
by James Whitcomb Riley

"Rain and rain! And rain and rain!"
Yesterday we muttered
Grimly as the grim refrain
That the thunders uttered:
All the heavens under cloud -
All the sunshine sleeping;
All the grasses limply bowed
With their weight of weeping.
Sigh and sigh! And sigh and sigh!
Never end of sighing;
Rain and rain for our reply -
Hopes half drowned and dying;
Peering through the window-pane,
Naught but endless raining -
Endless sighing, and as vain,
Endlessly complaining,
Shine and shine! And shine and shine!
Ah! To-day the splendor!
All this glory yours and mine -
God! But God is tender!
We to sigh instead of sing,
Yesterday, in sorrow,
While the Lord was fashioning
This for our To-morrow!
The Recollect Church.*
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

* In process of demolition when this poem was written. The Recollect Friars purchased the ground on which the church in question was built in 1692, and on it they constructed a temporary chapel. The actual edifice, however, was not erected till about the year 1706. The order is now extinct. After the conquest their property was confiscated by the Government, and subsequently exchanged for St. Helen's Island, then belonging to Baron Grant. For a time the Recollect Church served as a place of worship for both Protestants and Catholics, and for many years was exclusively devoted to the use of the Irish Catholics.
Quickly are crumbling the old gray walls,
Soon the last stone will be gone,
The olden church of the Recollects,
We shall look no more upon;
And though, perchance, some stately pile
May rise its place to fill,
With carven piers and lofty towers,
Old Church, we shall miss thee still!
Though not like Europe's ancient fanes,
Moss-grown and ivied o'er
Bearing long centuries' darkened stains
On belfry and turrets hoar - 
A hundred years and more hast thou
Thy shadow o'er us cast;
And we claim thee in our country's youth
As a land-mark of the past.
Thou'st seen the glittering Fleur-de-lys
Fling out its folds on high
From old Dalhousie's* fortress hill,
Against the morning sky;
And, later, the gleam of an English flag
From its cannon-crowned brow, - 
That flag which, despite the changing years,
Floateth proudly o'er us now.
Thou'st seen the dark-browed Indians, too,
Thronging each narrow street,
In their garb so strangely picturesque,
Their gaily moccassined feet;
And beside them gentle helpmates stood,
Dark-hued, with soft black eyes,
In blanket robes, with necklets bright - 
Large beads of brilliant dyes.
Thou'st seen our city far outgrow
The bounds of its ancient walls,
In beauty growing and in wealth,
And free from early thralls,
Till round Mount Royal's queenly heights,
That stretch toward the sky,
In pomp and splendor, beauteous homes
Of luxury closely lie.
Within this time-worn portal prayed
The sons of differing creeds,
And unto God, in various ways,
Made known their various needs.
Better dwell thus in brotherly love,
All seeking one common weal,
Than stir the stormy waters of strife
Through hasty and misjudged zeal.
And for many years the exiles lone,
Who landed upon our shore
From Erin's green and sunny isle,
Did here their God adore;
And laid their aching sad hearts bare
To His kind, pitying gaze,
And prayed to Him in this new strange land
For better and brighter days.
And humble Recollect Friars here
Their matins recited o'er,
And glided with noiseless, sandalled feet
O'er the chapel's sacred floor;
Again, at the close of day they met,
Amid clouds of incense dim
And the softened, rays of tapers' blaze,
To sing their evening hymn.
They and their order have passed away
From among their fellow-men.
Little recked they for earth's joys or gains,
On heaven bent their ken.
The lowly church that has borne their name
So faithfully to the last,
Linked with our city's young days, like them,
Will henceforth be of the past.
On A Friend Who Died Suddenly Upon The Seashore
by J. D. C. Fellow

Quiet he lived, and quietly died;
Nor, like the unwilling tide,
Did once complain or strive
To stay one brief hour more alive.
But as a summer wave
Serenely for a while
Will lift a crest to the sun,
Then sink again, so he
Back to the bright heavens gave
An answering smile;
Then quietly, having run
His course, bowed down his head,
And sank unmurmuringly,
Sank back into the sea,
The silent, the unfathomable sea
Of all the happy dead.
Toronto
by Paul Cameron Brown

Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse with Diamond Eyes.
A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persian
lions carved in wood.
Salads Nicoise.
Dinners at Pr' Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent.
A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest.
I drank a cocktail with the girl of the white polo coat.
Or as the cynic said, my pipe is the tent, the tobacco
the days of my life.