DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Storm; Minerva's Petition
by Jonathan Swift

Pallas, a goddess chaste and wise
Descending lately from the skies,
To Neptune went, and begg'd in form
He'd give his orders for a storm;
A storm, to drown that rascal Hort,[1]
And she would kindly thank him for't:
A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her,
Had lately honour'd with a mitre.
The god, who favour'd her request,
Assured her he would do his best:
But Venus had been there before,
Pleaded the bishop loved a whore,
And had enlarged her empire wide;
He own'd no deity beside.
At sea or land, if e'er you found him
Without a mistress, hang or drown him.
Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench,
Till Hort arrived, ne'er kept a wench;
If Hort must sink, she grieves to tell it,
She'll not have left one single prelate:
For, to say truth, she did intend him,
Elect of Cyprus in commendam.
And, since her birth the ocean gave her,
She could not doubt her uncle's favour.
Then Proteus urged the same request,
But half in earnest, half in jest;
Said he - "Great sovereign of the main,
To drown him all attempts are vain.
Hort can assume more forms than I,
A rake, a bully, pimp, or spy;
Can creep, or run, or fly, or swim;
All motions are alike to him:
Turn him adrift, and you shall find
He knows to sail with every wind;
Or, throw him overboard, he'll ride
As well against as with the tide.
But, Pallas, you've applied too late;
For, 'tis decreed by Jove and Fate,
That Ireland must be soon destroy'd,
And who but Hort can be employ'd?
You need not then have been so pert,
In sending Bolton[2] to Clonfert.
I found you did it, by your grinning;
Your business is to mind your spinning.
But how you came to interpose
In making bishops, no one knows;
Or who regarded your report;
For never were you seen at court.
And if you must have your petition,
There's Berkeley[3] in the same condition;
Look, there he stands, and 'tis but just,
If one must drown, the other must;
But, if you'll leave us Bishop Judas,
We'll give you Berkeley for Bermudas.[4]
Now, if 'twill gratify your spight,
To put him in a plaguy fright,
Although 'tis hardly worth the cost,
You soon shall see him soundly tost.
You'll find him swear, blaspheme, and damn
(And every moment take a dram)
His ghastly visage with an air
Of reprobation and despair;
Or else some hiding-hole he seeks,
For fear the rest should say he squeaks;
Or, as Fitzpatrick[5] did before,
Resolve to perish with his whore;
Or else he raves, and roars, and swears,
And, but for shame, would say his prayers.
Or, would you see his spirits sink?
Relaxing downwards in a stink?
If such a sight as this can please ye,
Good madam Pallas, pray be easy.
To Neptune speak, and he'll consent;
But he'll come back the knave he went."
The goddess, who conceived a hope
That Hort was destined to a rope,
Believed it best to condescend
To spare a foe, to save a friend;
But, fearing Berkeley might be scared,
She left him virtue for a guard.
The Weather Prophet
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Ow can it rain.' the old man said, 'with things the way they are?
You've got to learn off ant and bee, and jackaroo and galah;
And no man never saw it rain, for fifty years at least,
Not when the blessed parakeets are flyinn' to the east!'
The weeks went by, the squatter wrote to tell his bank the news.
'It's still as dry as dust,' he said, 'I'm feeding all the ewes;
The overdraft would sink a ship, but make your mind at rest,
It's all right now, the parakeets are flyin' to the west!'
The Hoodoo.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Owned a pair o' skates onc't. - Traded
Fer 'em, - stropped 'em on and waded
Up and down the crick, a-waitin'
Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'.
Mildest winter I remember - 
More like Spring- than Winter-weather! - 
Did n't frost tel bout December-
Git up airly ketch a' feather
Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder - 
Sunshine swinge it like a cinder!
Well - I waited - and kep' waitin'!
Couldn't see my money's w'oth in
Them-air skates and was no skatin',
Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'!
So, one day - along in airly
Spring - I swopped 'em off - and barely
Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather
Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet,
And crick - tail-race - all together,
Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it!
The Mystery Of Pain.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
The Horse And The Ass
by Walter Crane

Overladen the Ass was. The Horse
Wouldn't help; but had time for remorse
When the Ass lay dead there;
For he then had to bear
Both the load of the Ass & his corse.
Grudge Not Help!
Epigram On Two Sisters Who Are Always Quarrelling
by Thomas Oldham

Pale is Amelia's face,
And red Lavinia's nose is;
The sisters ever jar:
'Tis like the civil war
Between the rival roses.
*        *        *        *        *
On that dark theme, man's genealogy,
How strangely people's notions disagree!
Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace
Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:
My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find
Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:
Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses
Into their minds, to prompt opinion passes.
Would-be philosophers have tried to scan
The pedigree of that odd creature, man.
'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.
Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;
(I, for my part, the compliment decline)
But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine?
'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!'
Is't possible? Yet, when I look on you,
I, verily, begin to think so too.
*        *        *        *        *
'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache so bad!
I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.'
"I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had,
You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."
To The Small Celandine
by William Wordsworth

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little Flower! I'll make a stir,
Like a sage astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, Thou art come!
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane; there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
Unrequited
by Madison Julius Cawein

Passion? not hers, within whose virgin eyes
All Eden lay. And I remember how
I drank the Heaven of her gaze with sighs
She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.
So have I seen a clear October pool,
Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sear
Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,
Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.
Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music sweet;
Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.
Sweetheart I called her. When did she repeat
Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair?
So have I seen a rose set round with thorn,
Sung to and sung to by a bird of spring,
And when, breast-pierced, the bird lay all forlorn,
The rose bloomed on, fair and unnoticing.
Passion And The Skull
by Charles Baudelaire

An Old Colophon
Passion sits on the skull
Of Humanity,
And this infidel enthroned
Laughs shamelessly,
And gaily blows round bubbles
That will fly,
As if to join with worlds
Deep in the sky.
Rising on high, the frail
Luminous globe,
Shatters and bursts its slim soul
Like a dream of gold.
I hear at each bubble, the skull
Moan and contend:
'This vicious, ridiculous game,
When will it end?
What you are blowing away
Again and again,
You murderous fiend, is my body
My blood and my brain!'
Wife To Husband
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Pardon the faults in me,
For the love of years ago:
Good-bye.
I must drift across the sea,
I must sink into the snow,
I must die.
You can bask in this sun,
You can drink wine, and eat:
Good-bye.
I must gird myself and run,
Though with unready feet:
I must die.
Blank sea to sail upon,
Cold bed to sleep in:
Good-bye.
While you clasp, I must be gone
For all your weeping:
I must die.
A kiss for one friend,
And a word for two,--
Good-bye:--
A lock that you must send,
A kindness you must do:
I must die.
Not a word for you,
Not a lock or kiss,
Good-bye.
We, one, must part in two;
Verily death is this:
I must die.
Unrequited
by Madison Julius Cawein

Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:
One hand among the deep curls of her brow,
I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:
She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.
So have I seen a clear October pool,
Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere
Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,
Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.
Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;
Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.
Sweetheart I called her. - When did she repeat
Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!
So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head
Sung to and sung to by a longing bird;
And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,
No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.
Pan With Us
by Robert Lee Frost

Pan came out of the woods one day, 
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they, 
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And raveled a flower and looked away 
Play? Play? What should he play?
Two Hymns Written for the Asylum of Female Orphans.
by William Hayley

I.
Parent to those, whose infant days
No human parent know;
To thee, O Charity! the praise
Of filial love shall flow.
Base want, and vice, a foe to all!
Round us their snares had thrown.
Had not thy arm, at pity's call,
Embrac'd us for thine own.
O blest the land! where all to Thee
A tender homage pay!
Where indigence and wealth agree
To venerate thy sway!
That land the wrath of Heaven may spare.
When ruthless nations groan;
Her guarded orphan's grateful prayer
May rise to mercy's throne.
Parent to those, whose infant days
No human parent know;
To Thee, O Charity, the praise
Of filial love shall flow.
II.
We have no parent but our God;
Yet will we not in grief despair;
For He this vale of sorrow trod,
To make the desolate his care.
The voice of innocence and youth,
To Thee, meek Saviour! may ascend;
Thou God of Tenderness, and Truth,
Of Infancy Thou art the Friend.
Thro! tears, that fill the orphan's eye,
With humble confidence we see
Calamity, an holy tie!
That binds our helpless tribe to Thee.
For charity, angelic power!
Thy fav'rite delegate below!
Makes industry, our peaceful dower!
A guard from indigence and woe.
We have no parent, but our God;
In Him we trust, who reigns above:
Children He blest, when here He trod,
And we are children of his love.
To Romance.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
2.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.
3.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades [1] in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air 
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for - themselves?
4.
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
5.
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
6.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
7.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears 
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
8.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Pardon mine ears, both I and they do pray,
So may your tongue still flauntingly proceed
To them that do such entertainment need,
So may you still haue somewhat new to say.
On silly me do not the burthen lay
Of all the graue conceits your braine doth breed,
But find some Hercules to beare, insteed
Of Atlas tyrd, your wisedoms heau'nly sway.
For me, while you discourse of courtly tides,
Of cunningest fishers in most troubled streames,
Of straying waies, when valiant Errour guides,
Meanewhile my heart confers with Stellas beames,
And is e'en woe that so sweet comedie
By such vnsuted speech should hindred be.
Separation.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Parted cruelly from thee,
What, Oh! what is life to me?
'Tis the morn without the lark;
It is wine without its spark.
Christmas time without its glee;
Music without harmony.
New Year's eve devoid of mirth;
Winter night without the hearth.
'Tis a day without the light;
'Tis a moonless, starless night.
Thorn-bush, barren of its leaf;
Weeping, without its relief.
'Tis a fire, but unconsuming;
Poisonous plant, but never blooming.
Ship becalmed, without its peace;
Death, without its sweet release.
Paradise
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Paradise, my darling, know that paradise,
The Prophet-given paradise after death,
Is far and very mysterious and most high;
My habits would be upset in such a place.
Without impiety, I should be mortally weary
If I went there alone, without my wife;
An ugly crowding of inferior females,
What should I do with the houris?
What should I do with those tall loaded fruit-trees,
Seeing I could not give the fruit to you?
What by the freshness of those blue streams,
Seeing my face reflected there alone?
And it might be worse if you came with me,
For all of Allah's Chosen would desire you.
And if Mahomet threw his handkerchief
And took you up and loved you for himself?
Eyes of my eyes, how could I then defend you?
I could not be at ease and watch him love you;
And if I mutinied against the Prophet,
He, being zealous to love you in his peace,
Would rise and send me hurrying
Back by the sword-blade thinness of the bridge
From paradise to earth, and in the middle
Flick me down sideways to the fires of hell.
My skin would cook and be renewed for ever
Where murderers were burning and renewing;
And evil souls, my only crime being love,
Would burn me and annoy me and destroy me.
If I were there and you in paradise,
I could not even make my prayer to Allah
That in his justice he should give me back
My paradise.
Let us love, therefore, on the earth together;
Our love is our garden, let us take great care,
Whisper and call pet names and kiss each other
To live our paradise as long as may be.
Love Ballad of Kurdistan.
In Imitation Of Dr. Swift : The Happy Life Of A Country Parson
by Alexander Pope

Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the Bishop's blessing.
A Wife that makes conserves; a Steed
That carries double when there's need:
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe-Pig, and mortuary Guinea:
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy Patron's weekly thank'd;
A large Concordance, bound long since:
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince;
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in.
The Polygot ' three parts, ' my text,
Howbeit, ' likewise ' now to my next.
Lo here the Septuagint, ' and Paul,
To sum the whole, ' the close of all.
He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the 'Squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays ' if he will;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the News,
Talk with Church-Wardens about Pews,
Pray heartily for some new Gift,
And shake his head at Doctor S't.
To A Stranger
by Walt Whitman

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you, your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
Ace Of Spades
by Paul Cameron Brown

Parable as metaphor - 
profile in hard glint of light,
buckskin garb
merging from shadow &
buckboards - 
sandwiching of memory
being elbowed
thru a Deadwood City
saloon door.
Noneother.
Dead Man's Hand.
Cards strewn,
last tumbler ...
chamber on empty.
Yancy Derringer modelling the
latest revolver of his namesake,
in pit & the palm
bullet in the back
for Wild Bill, just for a keepsake.
Treasure-trove for the funeral parlour:
"they done him up well". Peccadillo as provocation.
Paris Day By Day: A Familiar Epistle - (To Mrs. Henry Harland[1])
by Richard Le Gallienne

Paris, half Angel, half Grisette,
I would that I were with thee yet,
Where the long boulevard at even
Stretches its starry lamps to heaven,
And whispers from a thousand trees
Vague hints of the Hesperides.
Once more, once more, my heart, to sit
With Aline's smile and Harry's wit,
To sit and sip the cloudy green,
With dreamy hints of speech between;
Or, may be, flashing all intent
At call of some stern argument,
When the New Woman fain would be,
Like the Old Male, her husband, free.
The prose-man takes his mighty lyre
And talks like music set on fire!
The while the merry crowd slips by
Glittering and glancing to the eye,
All happy lovers on their way
To make a golden end of day - 
Ah! Caf' truly called La Paix!
Or at the pension I would be
With Transatlantic maidens three,
The same, I vow, who once of old
Guarded with song the trees of gold.
O Lady, lady, Vis-'-Vis,
When shall I cease to think of thee,
On whose fair head the Golden Fleece
Too soon, too soon, returns to Greece - 
Oh, why to Athens e'er depart?
Come back, come back, and bring my heart!
And she whose gentle silver grace,
So wise of speech and kind of face,
Whose every wise and witty word
Fell shy, half blushing to be heard.
Last, but ah! surely not least dear,
That blithe and buxom buccaneer,
Th' avenging goddess of her sex,
Born the base soul of man to vex,
And wring from him those tears and sighs
Tortured from woman's heart and eyes.
Ah! fury, fascinating, fair - 
When shall I cease to think of her!
Paris, half Angel, half Grisette,
I would that I were with thee yet,
But London waits me, like a wife, - 
London, the love of my whole life.
Tell her not, Paris, mercy me!
How I have flirted, dear, with thee.
Intellectual Limitations
by James Whitcomb Riley

Parunts knows lots more than us,
But they don't know all things, - 
'Cause we ketch 'em, lots o' times,
Even on little small things.
One time Winnie ask' her Ma,
At the winder, sewin',
What's the wind a-doin' when
It's a-not a-blowin'?
Yes, an' 'Del', that very day,
When we're nearly froze out,
He ask' Uncle where it goes
When the fire goes out?
Nen I run to ask my Pa,
That way, somepin' funny;
But I can't say ist but "Say,"
When he turn to me an' say,
"Well, what is it, Honey?"
A Place Of Burial In The South Of Scotland
by William Wordsworth

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies;
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights,
By humble choice of plain old times, are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green:
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites
The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring
With 'jubilate' from the choirs of spring!
From The Same (Pictures From Theocritus - From Idyl I.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Pan, Pan, oh mighty hunter! whether now,
Thou roamest o'er Lyceus' shaggy brow,
Or Moenalaus, outstretched in amplest shade,
Thy solitary footsteps have delayed;
Leave Helice's romantic rock a while,
And haste, oh haste, to the Sicilian isle;
Leave the dread monument, approached with fear,
That Lycaonian tomb the gods revere.
Here cease, Sicilian Muse, the Doric lay;
Come, Forest King, and bear this pipe away;
Daphnis, subdued by love, and bowed with woe,
Sinks, sinks for ever to the shades below.
Paradise.
by Robert Herrick

Paradise is, as from the learn'd I gather,
A choir of bless'd souls circling in the Father.
To Silvia
by Robert Herrick

Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I confess
My kiss out-went the bounds of shamefacedness:
None is discreet at all times; no, not Jove
Himself, at one time, can be wise and love.