DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Four Wishes.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

"Father!" a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow
"On the world wide I must go forth - then bless me, bless me, now!
And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won - 
What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?"
Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high,
The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye:
"My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name,
Then, let thy guiding star through life - thy chief pursuit - be fame!"
"'Tis well! thou'st chosen, father, well - it is a glorious part!"
And the youth's glance told the wish chimed well with that brave ardent heart.
"Now, brother, thou'lt have none to share thy sports till I return, - 
Say, what shall be the glitt'ring prize that I afar must earn?"
"The world," said the laughing boy, "on heroes poor looks cold,
If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold."
"Perchance thou'rt right!" and now he turned to his sister young and fair,
Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.
"'Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart's wish to me,
If I've the power, 'twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee."
The maiden blushed and whispring low, "I prize not wealth or pride,
But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride."
The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt'ring voice,
He asked of her, the best beloved, "Mother, what is thy choice?"
"My son! my son!" she softly said, "hear my wish ere we part - 
Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!"
The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more
The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore;
The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair
Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.
His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father's feet,
And sadly said, "'Tis all I have - is it an off'ring meet?
In battle's front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped,
Want, weariness and pain I've borne, and yet no fame I've reaped.
"Brother, thou told'st me to return with treasures like a king;
This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I bring.
Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair, - 
I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!
"Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine
If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain but thine?
Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we met - 
Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, 'tis true and stainless yet!
"No aim has ever ruled it that thou might'st not calmly see - 
Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I'd shrink to bare to thee!"
"Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art thou now
Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined thy brow!
"And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho' dimmed its brightness be,
Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!"
With all a mother's yearning love, she strained him to her heart,
And in that fond embrace he felt her's was "the better part."
The Frost On The Window
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Feathery frost on the window-pane,
Who placed you there? "I cannot explain,"
Each little feather at once replied;
"But this I know, I'm the children's pride,
As they think I fell from an angel's wing,
And coming to earth must rich blessings bring.
"I once formed part of a lovely bay;
The sun shone out, and I turned to spray,
And rose aloft on the ambient air,
To the regions high where all is rare;
Then I mingled with my old friends again,
Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men.
"On the blustering wind, I rode along,
Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong,
And then at rest, as when in the bay,
Though much enlarged, the wise savants say;
Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep,
With a chill I woke and began to weep.
"And my ample form much smaller grew,
By the cold compressed to a drop of dew;
Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer,
And knew no more till I fell right here;
But how I became so like a feather
Is problem I can unravel never.
"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn!
I think I must to the clouds return.
Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret;
We meet again, as we now have met,
If not as a feather, perhaps a tree,
Or whatever the Wise One may make of me."
Calais, August 15, 1802
by William Wordsworth

Festivals have I seen that were not names:
This is young Buonaparte's natal day,
And his is henceforth an established sway,
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
Calais is not: and I have bent my way
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames
His business as he likes. Far other show
My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time;
The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of Man, and live in hope.
Upon A Cheap Laundress. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Feacie, some say, doth wash her clothes i' th' lie
That sharply trickles from her either eye.
The laundresses, they envy her good-luck,
Who can with so small charges drive the buck.
What needs she fire and ashes to consume,
Who can scour linens with her own salt rheum?
At The Beating Of A Drum
by Henry Lawson

Fear ye not the stormy future, for the Battle Hymn is strong,
And the armies of Australia shall not march without a song;
The glorious words and music of Australia's song shall come
When her true hearts rush together at the beating of a drum.
We may not be there to hear it, 'twill be written in the night,
And Australia's foes shall fear it in the hour before the fight.
The glorious words and music from a lonely heart shall come
When our sons shall rush to danger at the beating of the drum.
He shall be unknown who writes it; he shall soon forgotten be,
But the song shall ring through ages as a song of liberty.
And I say the words and music of our battle hymn shall come,
When Australia wakes in anger at the beating of a drum.
Father, I Bring Thee Not Myself,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Father, I bring thee not myself, --
That were the little load;
I bring thee the imperial heart
I had not strength to hold.
The heart I cherished in my own
Till mine too heavy grew,
Yet strangest, heavier since it went,
Is it too large for you?
The Familist's Hymn
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Father! to Thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with Thy own love restore
Comfort to the broken heart!
Oh, the failing ones confirm
With a holier strength of zeal!
Give Thou not the feeble worm
Helpless to the spoiler's heel!
Father! for Thy holy sake
We are spoiled and hunted thus;
Joyful, for Thy truth we take
Bonds and burthens unto us
Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,
Weary with our daily task,
That Thy truth may never fall
Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.
Round our fired and wasted homes
Flits the forest-bird unscared,
And at noon the wild beast comes
Where our frugal meal was shared;
For the song of praises there
Shrieks the crow the livelong day;
For the sound of evening prayer
Howls the evil beast of prey!
Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath Thy holy sky;
Words and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye;
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee,
Blameless youth and hoary hair,
Bowed, O God, alone to Thee.
As Thine early children, Lord,
Shared their wealth and daily bread,
Even so, with one accord,
We, in love, each other fed.
Not with us the miser's hoard,
Not with us his grasping hand;
Equal round a common board,
Drew our meek and brother band!
Safe our quiet Eden lay
When the war-whoop stirred the land
And the Indian turned away
From our home his bloody hand.
Well that forest-ranger saw,
That the burthen and the curse
Of the white man's cruel law
Rested also upon us.
Torn apart, and driven forth
To our toiling hard and long,
Father! from the dust of earth
Lift we still our grateful song!
Grateful, that in bonds we share
In Thy love which maketh free;
Joyful, that the wrongs we bear,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!
Grateful! that where'er we toil,
By Wachuset's wooded side,
On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,
Or by wild Neponset's tide,
Still, in spirit, we are near,
And our evening hymns, which rise
Separate and discordant here,
Meet and mingle in the skies!
Let the scoffer scorn and mock,
Let the proud and evil priest
Rob the needy of his flock,
For his wine-cup and his feast,
Redden not Thy bolts in store
Through the blackness of Thy skies?
For the sighing of the poor
Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?
Worn and wasted, oh! how long
Shall thy trodden poor complain?
In Thy name they bear the wrong,
In Thy cause the bonds of pain!
Melt oppression's heart of steel,
Let the haughty priesthood see,
And their blinded followers feel,
That in us they mock at Thee!
In Thy time, O Lord of hosts,
Stretch abroad that hand to save
Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,
Smote apart the Red Sea's wave
Lead us from this evil land,
From the spoiler set us free,
And once more our gathered band,
Heart to heart, shall worship Thee
Few Get Enough
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Few get enough, -- enough is one;
To that ethereal throng
Have not each one of us the right
To stealthily belong?
Ambergris City
by Paul Cameron Brown

Felt no pain against the water,
the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrath
illuminating ambergris city in spot checks below.
The sperm whale population was in decline.
Little or nothing remained of former commitments.
A bitter legacy consumed itself in half-truths
against the sound of upturned lies.
Winding alleys come as the conscience of well plaid cities.
are open zippers revealing the indecent poor.
The fire hydrant lives of cellar inhabitants strain these urinals
for wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.
Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls finding their way
through the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazas with the
stately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cans
against indentured snow.
Night Voices
by Arthur Conan Doyle

Father, father, who is that a-whispering?
Who is it who whispers in the wood?
You say it is the breeze
As it sighs among the trees,
But there's some one who whispers in the wood.
Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?
Who is it who murmurs in the night?
You say it is the roar
Of the wave upon the shore,
But there's some one who murmurs in the night.
Father, father, who is that who laughs at us?
Who is it who chuckles in the glen?
Oh, father, let us go,
For the light is burning low,
And there's somebody laughing in the glen.
Father, father, tell me what you're waiting for,
Tell me why your eyes are on the door.
It is dark and it is late,
But you sit so still and straight,
Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.
The Impulses.
by Friedrich Schiller

Fear with his iron staff may urge the slave onward forever;
Rapture, do thou lead me on ever in roseate chains!
Aboriginal Death-Song
by Henry Kendall

Feet of the flying, and fierce
Tops of the sharp-headed spear,
Hard by the thickets that pierce,
Lo! they are nimble and near.
Women are we, and the wives
Strong Arrawatta hath won;
Weary because of our lives,
Sick of the face of the sun.
Koola, our love and our light,
What have they done unto you?
Man of the star-reaching sight,
Dipped in the fire and the dew.
Black-headed snakes in the grass
Struck at the fleet-footed lord
Still is his voice at the pass,
Soundless his step at the ford.
Far by the forested glen,
Starkly he lies in the rain;
Kings of the council of men
Shout for their leader in vain.
Yea, and the fish-river clear
Never shall blacken below
Spear and the shadow of spear,
Bow and the shadow of bow.
Hunter and climber of trees,
Now doth his tomahawk rust,
(Dread of the cunning wild bees),
Hidden in hillocks of dust.
We, who were followed and bound,
Dashed under foot by the foe,
Sit with our eyes to the ground,
Faint from the brand and the blow.
Dumb with the sorrow that kills,
Sorrow for brother and chief,
Terror of thundering hills,
Having no hope in our grief,
Seeing the fathers are far
Seeking the spoils of the dead
Left on the path of the war,
Matted and mangled and red.
The River Saguenay.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Few poets yet in praise of thee
Have tuned a passing lay,
Yet art thou rich in beauties stern,
Thou dark browed Saguenay!
And those grand charms that surely form
For earth her rarest crown
On thee, with strangely lavish hand,
Have all been showered down.
Thine own wild flood, so deep, so dark;
That holds the gaze enthralled
As if by some weird spell, at once
Entranced yet not appalled;
Seeking in vain to pierce those depths,
Where wave and rock have met,
Those depths which, by the hand of man,
Have ne'er been fathomed yet.
And then thy shores - thy rock bound shores,
Where giant cliffs arise,
Raising their untrod, unknown heights
Defiant to the skies,
And casting from their steep, stern brows
Shadows of deepest gloom
Athwart thy wave, till it doth seem
A passage to a tomb.
Such art thou in thy solitude,
Majestic Saguenay!
As lonely and as sternly rude
As in time past away,
When the red man in his fragile bark
Sped o'er thy glassy wave,
And found amid thy forests wild
His cradle, home and grave.
All, all is changed - reigns in his stead
Another race and name,
But, in thy lonely grandeur still,
Proud River, thou'rt the same!
The Little Boy Lost
by William Blake

"Father, father, where are you going?
Oh do not walk so fast!
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost."
The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.
Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 - III - Feel For The Wrongs To Universal Ken
by William Wordsworth

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken
Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies;
And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den,
Whether conducted to the spot by sighs
And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren
Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes
In silence and the awful modesties
Of sorrow; feel for all, as brother Men!
Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw
By casual boons and formal charities;
Learn to be just, just through impartial law;
Far as ye may, erect and equalise;
And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw
Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice!
Prospice
by Robert Browning

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute 's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
Question And Answer
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

THE CHILD
Father! Within the forest's bound
No bird I found,
No sound of song the woods around.
THE FATHER
The bird that glad his song us gave,
Flies o'er the wave;
Perhaps he there will find his grave.
THE CHILD
But why does he not wait till later?
THE FATHER
He goes where light and warmth are greater
THE CHILD
Father! It selfish seems to me,
Far off to flee,
When all we others here must be.
THE FATHER
With new-born spring comes new-born song;
By instinct strong
The better new he'll bring erelong.
THE CHILD
But if in death the cold waves swallow - ?
THE FATHER
Others will come; his kin will follow.
Fieldfares
by Frederic William Moorman

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent,
Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent,
Welcoom back to t' moorlands,
Frae Norway's fells an' shorelands,
Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.
Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high:
Oft on trees you gethers,
Preenin' out your feathers,
An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.
Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors,
Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors;
Roses, lilies, pansies,
Stocks an' yallow tansies
Fade away, an' soon the leaves 'll clutter(3) doon i'    shoors.
Here i' bed I'm liggin', liggin' day by day
Hay-cart whemmled ower,(4) and underneath I lay;
I was nobbut seven,
Soon I'll be eleven;
Fower times have I seen you fieldfares coom an' flee away.
You'll be gone when t' swallow bigs his nest o' loam,
April winds 'll blaw you far ower t' saut sea foam;
You'll not wait while May-time,
Summer dews an' hay-time;
Lang afore our gerse is mawn your mates 'll call you home.
Fieldfares, liltin'(5) fieldfares, you'll noan sing to me.
Why sud you bide silent while you've crossed the sea?
Are you brokken-hearted,
Sin frae home you've parted,
Leavin' far frae Yorkshire moors your nests i' t' tall fir tree?
Storm-cock sings at new-yeer, swingin' on yon esh,
Sings his loudest song when t' winds do beat an' lesh;
Robins, throstles follow,
An' when cooms the swalloww,
All the birds 'll chirm to see our woodlands green an' nesh.
Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, I'll be gone 'fore you;
I'm sae weak an' dowly, hands are thin an' blue.
Pain is growin' stranger,
As the neets get langer.
Will you miss my face at whiles, when t' owd yeer's changed to t' new?
The Elms
by Aldous Leonard Huxley

Fine as the dust of plumy fountains blowing
Across the lanterns of a revelling night,
The tiny leaves of April's earliest growing
Powder the trees--so vaporously light,
They seem to float, billows of emerald foam
Blown by the South on its bright airy tide,
Seeming less trees than things beatified,
Come from the world of thought which was their home.
For a while only. Rooted strong and fast,
Soon will they lift towards the summer sky
Their mountain-mass of clotted greenery.
Their immaterial season quickly past,
They grow opaque, and therefore needs must die,
Since every earth to earth returns at last.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXII.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Fill me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed;
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2]
Let not the fiery god be single,
But with the nymphs in union mingle.
For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,
Ne'er let it be the birth of madness.
No, banish from our board tonight
The revelries of rude delight;
To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
In concert let our voices breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song.
Spring
by Madison Julius Cawein

First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips;
A pursuivant who heralded a prince:
And dawn put on her livery of tints,
And dusk bound gold about her hair and hips:
And, all in silver mail, the sunlight came,
A knight, who bade the winter let him pass;
And freed imprisoned beauty, naked as
The Court of Love, in all her wildflower shame.
And so she came, in breeze-borne loveliness,
Across the hills; and heav'n bent down to bless:
Above her head the birds were as a lyre;
And at her feet, like some strong worshipper,
The shouting water p'n'd praise of her
Who, with blue eyes, set the wild world on fire.
The Last Proof
by Henry Austin Dobson

AN EPILOGUE TO ANY BOOK
"Hic Finis chartaeque viaeque."
"FINIS at last--the end, the End, the END!
No more of paragraphs to prune or mend;
No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line,
To blot the phrase 'particularly fine';
No more of 'slips,' and 'galleys,' and 'revises,'
Of words 'transmogrified,' and 'wild surmises';
No more of n's that masquerade as u's,
No nice perplexities of p's and q's;
No more mishaps of ante and of post,
That most mislead when they should help the most;
No more of 'friend' as 'fiend,' and 'warm' as 'worm';
No more negations where we would affirm;
No more of those mysterious freaks of fate
That make us bless when we should execrate;
No more of those last blunders that remain
Where we no more can set them right again;
No more apologies for doubtful data;
No more fresh facts that figure as Errata;
No more, in short, O TYPE, of wayward lore
From thy most un-Pierian fount--NO MORE!"
So spoke PAPYRIUS. Yet his hand meanwhile
Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file,
Late stored with long array of notes, but now
Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough;--
And even as he spoke, his mind began
Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan.
There is no end to Labour 'neath the sun;
There is no end of labouring--but One;
And though we "twitch (or not) our Mantle blue,"
"To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new."
On The Jubilee Of Queen Victoria
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded,
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.
II.
She beloved for a kindliness
Rare in fable or history,
Queen, and Empress of India,
Crown'd so long with a diadem
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with prosperous auguries
Comes at last to the bounteous
Crowning year of her Jubilee.
III.
Nothing of the lawless, of the despot,
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious,
All is gracious, gentle, great and queenly.
IV.
You then joyfully, all of you,
Set the mountain aflame to-night,
Shoot your stars to the firmament,
Deck your houses, illuminate
All your towns for a festival,
And in each let a multitude
Loyal, each, to the heart of it,
One full voice of allegiance,
Hail the fair Ceremonial
Of this year of her Jubilee.
V.
Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood,
Glorying in the glories of her people,
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest!
VI.
You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call your poor to regale with you,
All the lowly, the destitute,
Make their neighborhood healthfuller,
Give your gold to the hospital,
Let the weary be comforted,
Let the needy be banqueted,
Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice
At this glad Ceremonial,
And this year of her Jubilee.
VII.
Henry's fifty years are all in shadow,
Gray with distance Edward's fifty summers,
Even her Grandsire's fifty half forgotten.
VIII.
You, the Patriot Architect,
You that shape for eternity,
Raise a stately memorial,
Make it regally gorgeous,
Some Imperial Institute,
Rich in symbol, in ornament,
Which may speak to the centuries,
All the centuries after us,
Of this great Ceremonial,
And this year of her Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!
X.
You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-territorial,
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
You, the hardy, laborious,
Patient children of Albion,
You, Canadian, Indian,
Australasian, African,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your voices in unison.
Singing, 'Hail to the glorious
Golden year of her Jubilee!'
XI.
Are there thunders moaning in the distance?
Are there spectres moving in the darkness?
Trust the Hand of Light will lead her people,
Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
A Dutch Proverb
by Matthew Prior

Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's Ruin;
Says wise Professor Vander Bruin.
By Flames a House I hir'd was lost
Last Year: and I must pay the Cost.
This Spring the Rains o'erflow'd my Ground:
And my best Flanders Mare was drown'd.
A Slave I am to Clara's Eyes:
The Gipsey knows her Pow'r, and flies.
Fire, Water, Woman, are My Ruin:
And great Thy Wisdom, Vander Bruin.