DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
In The Wood
by Madison Julius Cawein

The waterfall, deep in the wood,
Talked drowsily with solitude,
A soft, insistent sound of foam,
That filled with sleep the forest's dome,
Where, like some dream of dusk, she stood
Accentuating solitude.
The crickets' tinkling chips of sound
Strewed all the twilight-twinkling ground;
A whip-poor-will began to cry,
And, staggering through the sober sky,
A bat went on its drunken round,
Its shadow following on the ground.
Then from a bush, an elder-copse,
That spiced the dark with musky tops,
What seemed, at first, a shadow came
And took her hand and called her name,
And kissed her where, in starry drops,
The dew orbed on the elder-tops.
The glaucous glow of fireflies
Flickered the dusk; and fox-like eyes
Peered from the shadows; and the hush
Murmured a word of wind and rush
Of fluttering waters, fragrant sighs,
And dreams unseen of mortal eyes.
The beetle flung its burr of sound
Against the hush and clung there, wound
In night's deep mane: then, in a tree,
A grig began deliberately
To file the stillness: all around
A wire of shrillness seem unwound.
I looked for those two lovers there:
His ardent eyes, her passionate hair.
The moon looked down, slow-climbing wan
Heaven's slope of azure: they were gone:
But where they'd passed I heard the air
Sigh, faint with sweetness of her hair.
Water
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
The Curlew Song
by Henry Kendall

The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees,
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world,
And the shadows sleep around,
Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon
In her hazy glory crowned;
While dingoes howl, and wake the growl
Of the watchdog brave and true;
Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Whose loud, rough bark
Shoots up in the dark,
With the song of the lone Curlew!
Near herby banks the dark green ranks
Of the rushes stoop to drink;
And the ripples chime, in a measured time,
On the smooth and mossy brink;
As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die,
To start from the swamps anew,
And join again o'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
And join again
O'er ridge and plain
With the wails of the sad Curlew!
The clouds are thrown around the cone
Of the mountain bare and high,
(Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek
To the face of the sombre sky)
When down beneath the foggy wreath,
Full many a gully through,
They rend the air, like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
They rend the air,
Like cries of despair,
The screams of the wild Curlew!
The viewless blast flies moaning past,
Away to the forest trees;
Where giant pines and leafless vines
Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
From ferny streams, unearthly screams
Are heard in the midnight blue;
As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
As afar they roam
To the shepherd's home,
The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
Astronomy
by Alfred Edward Housman

The Wain upon the northern steep
Descends and lifts away.
Oh I will sit me down and weep
For bones in Africa.
For pay and medals, name and rank,
Things that he has not found,
He hove the Cross to heaven and sank
The pole-star underground.
And now he does not even see
Signs of the nadir roll
At night over the ground where he
Is buried with the pole.
Over The Eyes Of Gladness
by James Whitcomb Riley

"The voice of One hath spoken,
And the bended reed is bruised -
The golden bowl is broken,
And the silver cord is loosed."
Over the eyes of gladness
The lids of sorrow fall,
And the light of mirth is darkened
Under the funeral pall.
The hearts that throbbed with rapture
In dreams of the future years,
Are wakened from their slumbers,
And their visions drowned in tears.
.     .     .     .     .     .     .
Two buds on the bough in the morning -
Twin buds in the smiling sun,
But the frost of death has fallen
And blighted the bloom of one.
One leaf of life still folded
Has fallen from the stem,
Leaving the symbol teaching
There still are two of them, -
For though - through Time's gradations,
The LIVING bud may burst, -
The WITHERED one is gathered,
And blooms in Heaven first.
The Dance Of Death.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
And women and men stepping forth are descried,
In cerements snow-white and trailing.
In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,
And whirl round in dances so gay;
The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,
But the cerements stand in their way;
And as modesty cannot avail them aught here,
They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear
Scatter'd over the tombs in confusion.
Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,
As the troop with strange gestures advance,
And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,
As of one beating time to the dance.
The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer,
When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:
"Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!"
Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled
Behind the church-door with all speed;
The moon still continues her clear light to shed
On the dance that they fearfully lead.
But the dancers at length disappear one by one,
And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,
And under the turf all is quiet.
But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,
And gropes at the graves in despair;
Yet 'tis by no comrade he's treated so ill
The shroud he soon scents in the air.
So he rattles the door for the warder 'tis well
That 'tis bless'd, and so able the foe to repel,
All cover'd with crosses in metal.
The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,
There remains for reflection no time;
On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,
And from point on to point hastes to climb.
Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!
Like a long-legged spider, with ne'er-changing speed,
Advances the dreaded pursuer.
The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,
The shroud to restore fain had sought;
When the end, now can nothing to save him avail, 
In a tooth formed of iron is caught.
With vanishing lustre the moon's race is run,
When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,
And the skeleton fails, crush'd to atoms.
The Vulture
by Hilaire Belloc

The Vulture eats between his meals,
And that's the reason why
He very, very, rarely feels
As well as you and I.
His eye is dull, his head is bald,
His neck is growing thinner.
Oh! what a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!
Observation.
by Robert Herrick

The Virgin Mother stood at distance, there,
From her Son's cross, not shedding once a tear,
Because the law forbad to sit and cry
For those who did as malefactors die.
So she, to keep her mighty woes in awe,
Tortured her love not to transgress the law.
Observe we may, how Mary Joses then,
And th' other Mary, Mary Magdalen,
Sat by the grave; and sadly sitting there,
Shed for their Master many a bitter tear;
But 'twas not till their dearest Lord was dead
And then to weep they both were licensed.
Trout Lake Hotel
by Paul Cameron Brown

The walls don't lack sincerity, here,
or be accused of "ordinary,"
what with the bleached remains
of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head
of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs
positioned like the Bear Head
gasping for the night air
one wall over or
the old pool table
that's seen as many games
as ghosts fly by or drinks downed
in the penumbra Shooters
flaming elixir stars,
a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions - 
crimson Garter, Pink Panties,
the men in this lounge live up to that
with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles,
one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys
in the North Backwoods with no 'gators
or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intentions,
nonetheless.
Lines On The North-West Rebellion.
by Thomas Frederick Young

The war is o'er, and vict'ry crowns
Our youthful soldiers brave,
And back their homeward steps have turn'd,
Save those who found their grave;
Save those whom rebel bullets fell'd,
Whose martial souls have gone,
Whose bodies rest beneath the plains
Of wide Saskatchewan.
Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor bugle sound,
Nor beat of martial drum
Shall make you spring to arms again,
And to your comrades come.
Sleep on, brave hearts! Nor western storm,
Nor rebel balls you'll feel;
You fought the last campaign of life,
And fought it well, with Riel.
And others wounded in the strife,
Their valor still will burn,
And to the bloody field again,
Their spirits brave return;
Tho' maim'd, and bruis'd, and battle worn,
Their names are honor'd here,
Next to the names of those who fought,
And found a bloody bier.
Oh, British troops are brave,
To charge the foreign guns,
And British spirit shows itself
In our young country's sons.
Long, long may truth and valor strong,
Inspire Canadian hearts,
To meet with steady bravery,
All rebel balls and darts;
To meet all foreign foes, or quell
The sinful rebel's pride,
And teach that right must yet prevail,
That justice must preside;
That law must ne'er be set at naught,
By selfish cliques or elans,
That right must ne'er give way to might,
That liberty is man's.
The Two Dogs And The Dead Ass.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
The Virtues should be sisters, hand in hand,
Since banded brothers all the Vices stand:
When one of these our hearts attacks,
All come in file; there only lacks,
From out the cluster, here and there,
A mate of some antagonizing pair,
That can't agree the common roof to share.
But all the Virtues, as a sisterhood,
Have scarcely ever in one subject stood.
We find one brave, but passionate;
Another prudent, but ingrate.
Of beasts, the dog may claim to be
The pattern of fidelity;
But, for our teaching little wiser,
He's both a fool and gormandiser.
For proof, I cite two mastiffs, that espied
A dead ass floating on a water wide.
The distance growing more and more,
Because the wind the carcass bore, - 
'My friend,' said one, 'your eyes are best;
Pray let them on the water rest:
What thing is that I seem to see?
An ox, or horse? what can it be?'
'Hey!' cried his mate; 'what matter which,
Provided we could get a flitch?
It doubtless is our lawful prey:
The puzzle is to find some way
To get the prize; for wide the space
To swim, with wind against your face.[2]
Let's drink the flood; our thirsty throats
Will gain the end as well as boats.
The water swallow'd, by and bye
We'll have the carcass, high and dry - 
Enough to last a week, at least.'
Both drank as some do at a feast;
Their breath was quench'd before their thirst,
And presently the creatures burst!
And such is man. Whatever he
May set his soul to do or be,
To him is possibility?
How many vows he makes!
How many steps he takes!
How does he strive, and pant, and strain,
Fortune's or Glory's prize to gain!
If round my farm off well I must,
Or fill my coffers with the dust,
Or master Hebrew, science, history, - 
I make my task to drink the sea.
One spirit's projects to fulfil,
Four bodies would require; and still
The work would stop half done;
The lives of four Methuselahs,
Placed end to end for use, alas!
Would not suffice the wants of one.
The Warrigal
by Henry Kendall

The Warrigal's lair is pent in bare,
Black rocks at the gorge's mouth;
It is set in ways where Summer strays
With the sprites of flame and drouth;
But when the heights are touched with lights
Of hoar-frost, sleet, and shine,
His bed is made of the dead grass-blade
And the leaves of the windy pine.
Through forest boles the storm-wind rolls,
Vext of the sea-driv'n rain;
And, up in the clift, through many a rift,
The voices of torrents complain.
The sad marsh-fowl and the lonely owl
Are heard in the fog-wreaths grey,
When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takes
To the woods that shelter the prey.
In the gully-deeps the blind creek sleeps,
And the silver, showery moon
Glides over the hills, and floats, and fills,
And dreams in the dark lagoon;
While halting hard by the station yard,
Aghast at the hut-flame nigh,
The warrigal yells and flats and fells
Are loud with his dismal cry.
On the topmost peak of mountains bleak
The south wind sobs, and strays
Through moaning pine and turpentine,
And the rippling runnel ways;
And strong streams flow, and great mists go,
Where the warrigal starts to hear
The watch-dog's bark break sharp in the dark,
And flees like a phantom of fear.
The swift rains beat, and the thunders fleet
On the wings of the fiery gale,
And down in the glen of pool and fen,
The wild gums whistle and wail,
As over the plains and past the chains
Of waterholes glimmering deep,
The warrigal flies from the shepherd's cries,
And the clamour of dogs and sheep.
He roves through the lands of sultry sands,
He hunts in the iron range,
Untamed as surge of the far sea verge,
And fierce and fickle and strange.
The white man's track and the haunts of the black
He shuns, and shudders to see;
For his joy he tastes in lonely wastes
Where his mates are torrent and tree.
The Voice That Sings
by Robert Fuller Murray

The voice that sings across the night
Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
The voice that sings?
It is as when a curfew rings
Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.
And faded eyes that once were bright
Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
The voice that sings.
A Hero.
by Eric Mackay

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, -
How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die.
Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry;
His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
When he survives to serve his Land aright
And make his fame the watchword of the sky.
In all our hopes his love is with us still;
He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.
His acts are just; his word we must believe,
And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. -
Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!
The Voices Of The City
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The voices of the city - merged and swelled
Into a mighty dissonance of sound,
And from the medley rose these broken strains
In changing time and ever-changing keys.
I
Pleasure seekers, silken clad,
Led by cherub Day,
Ours the duty to be glad,
Ours the toil of play.
Sleep has bound the commonplace,
Pleasure rules the dawn.
Small hours set the merry pace
And we follow on.
We must use the joys of earth,
All its cares we'll keep;
Night was made for youth and mirth,
Day was made for sleep.
Time has cut his beard, and lo!
He is but a boy,
Singing, on with him we go,
Ah! but life is joy.
II
We are the vendors of beauty,
We the purveyors for hell;
The carnal bliss of a purchased kiss
And the pleasures that blight, we sell.
God pity us; God pity the world.
We are the sad race-victims
Of the misused force in man,
Of the great white flame burned black with shame
And lost to the primal plan.
God pity us; God pity the world.
We are the Purpose of Being
Gone wrong in the thought of the world.
The torch for its hand made a danger brand
And into the darkness hurled.
God pity us; God pity the world.
III
We are the toilers in the realm of night
(Long, long the hours of night),
We are the human lever, wheel, and bolt,
That keeps the civic vehicle from jolt,
And jar upon the shining track of day
(The unremembered day).
We sleep away the sunlit hours of life
(Unsatisfied, sad life),
We wake in shadow and we rise in gloom.
False as a wanton's artificial bloom
Is that made light we labour in till dawn
(The lonely, laggard dawn).
Like visions half remembered in a dream
(A strange and broken dream)
Our children's faces, seen but while they sleep,
Within our hearts these weary hours we keep.
We are the toilers in the realm of night
(Long, long the hours of night).
CHORUS
We are hope and faith and sorrow,
We are peace and pain and passion,
We are ardent lovers kissing,
We are happy mothers crooning,
We are rosy children dreaming,
We are honest labour sleeping,
We are wholesome pleasure laughing,
We are wakeful riches feasting,
We are lifted spirits praying,
We the voices of the city.
Out of the medley rose these broken strains,
In changing time and ever-changing keys.
The Dead Day
by Madison Julius Cawein

The west builds high a sepulcher
Of cloudy granite and of gold,
Where twilight's priestly hours inter
The Day like some great king of old.
A censer, rimmed with silver fire,
The new moon swings above his tomb;
While, organ-stops of God's own choir,
Star after star throbs in the gloom.
And Night draws near, the sadly sweet - 
A nun whose face is calm and fair - 
And kneeling at the dead Day's feet
Her soul goes up in mists like prayer.
In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam
And flowery fragrance, and - above
All earth - the ecstasy and dream
That haunt the mystic heart of love.
The Way Her Silky Garments Undulate
by Charles Baudelaire

The way her silky garments undulate
It seems she's dancing as she walks along,
Like serpents that the sacred charmers make
To move in rhythms of their waving wands.
Like desert sands and skies she is as well,
As unconcerned with human misery,
Like the long networks of the ocean's swells
Unfolding with insensibility.
Her polished eyes are made of charming stones,
And in her essence, where the natures mix
Of holy angel and the ancient sphinx,
Where all is lit with gold, steel, diamonds,
A useless star, it shines eternally,
The sterile woman's frigid majesty.
Reverse
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

The wave that breaks against a forward stroke
Beats not the swimmer back, but thrills him through
With joyous trust to win his way anew
Through stronger seas than first upon him broke
And triumphed. England's iron-tempered oak
Shrank not when Europe's might against her grew
Full, and her sun drank up her foes like dew,
And lion-like from sleep her strength awoke.
As bold in fight as bold in breach of trust
We find our foes, and wonder not to find,
Nor grudge them praise whom honour may not bind;
But loathing more intense than speaks disgust
Heaves England's heart, when scorn is bound to greet
Hunters and hounds whose tongues would lick their feet.
The Lost Licht (A Perthshire Legend)
by Violet Jacob

The weary, weary days gang by,
The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna rest, I canna lie
Since my ain bairn's awa'.
The soughing o' the springtide breeze
Abune her heid blaws sweet,
There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
And gowans at her feet.
She gae'd awa' when winds were hie,
When the deein' year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me
A waur ane nor the auld.
And, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an' day,
Yest're'en, I couldna bide
For thinkin', thinkin' as I lay
O' the wean that lies outside.
O, mickle licht to me was gie'n
To reach my bairn's abode,
But heaven micht blast a mither's een
And her feet wad find the road.
The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
Was choked wi' brier and whin,
A' i' the dark the stanes were grey
As wraiths when I gae'd in.
The wind cried frae the western airt
Like warlock tongues at strife,
But the hand o' fear hauds aff the he'rt
That's lost its care for life.
I sat me lang upon the green,
A stanethraw frae the kirk,
And syne a licht shone dim between
The shaws o' yew and birk.
'Twas na the wildfire's flame that played
Alang the kirkyaird land,
It was a band o' bairns that gae'd
Wi' lichts in till their hand.
O white they cam', yon babie thrang,
A' silent o'er the sod;
Ye couldna hear their feet amang
The graves, sae saft they trod.
And aye the can'les flickered pale
Below the darkened sky,
But the licht was like a broken trail
When the third wee bairn gae'd by.
For whaur the can'le-flame should be
Was naither blink nor shine - 
The bairnie turned its face to me
An' I kent that it was mine.
An' O! my broken he'rt was sair,
I cried, "My ain! my doo'!
For a' thae weans the licht burns fair,
But it winna' burn for you!"
She smiled to me, my little Jean,
Said she, "The dule and pain,
O mither! frae your waefu' een
They strike on me again:
"For ither babes the flame leaps bricht
And fair and braw appears,
But I canna keep my bonnie licht,
For it's droukit wi' your tears!"
There blew across my outstreeked hand
The white mist o' her sark,
But I couldna reach yon babie band
For it faded i' the dark.
My ain, my dear, your licht shall burn
Although my een grow blind,
Although they twa to saut should turn
Wi' the tears that lie behind.
O Jeanie, on my bended knee
I'll pray I may forget,
My grief is a' that's left to me,
But there's something dearer yet!
At The Unitarian Festival
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The waves unbuild the wasting shore;
Where mountains towered the billows sweep,
Yet still their borrowed spoils restore,
And build new empires from the deep.
So while the floods of thought lay waste
The proud domain of priestly creeds,
Its heaven-appointed tides will haste
To plant new homes for human needs.
Be ours to mark with hearts unchilled
The change an outworn church deplores;
The legend sinks, but Faith shall build
A fairer throne on new-found shores.
Ah! Would I Could Forget.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

The whispering water rocks the reeds,
And, murmuring softly, laps the weeds;
And nurses there the falsest bloom
That ever wrought a lover's doom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
We wander'd by the river's brim,
The day grew dusk, the pathway dim;
Her eyes like stars dispell'd the gloom,
Her gleaming fingers pluck'd the bloom.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
The pale moon lit her paler face,
And coldly watch'd our last embrace,
And chill'd her tresses' sunny hue,
And stole that flower's turquoise blue.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
The fateful flower droop'd to death,
The fair, false maid forswore her faith;
But I obey a broken vow,
And keep those wither'd blossoms now!
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
Sweet lips that pray'd--"Forget me not!"
Sweet eyes that will not be forgot!
Recall your prayer, forego your power,
Which binds me by the fatal flower.
Forget me not! Forget me not!
Ah! would I could forget!
But, crying still, "Forget me not,"
Her image haunts me yet.
In My Books
by Paul Cameron Brown

The way I figure it, a number of people are
out of control at any given time ...
gin rummy & hockey notwithstanding.
Mickey bottles and varicose veins
are sure signs of indulgence
as are, proof-positive, speed-traps &
roll your own Black Cat.
Sure 'nuff, even Sunday driving stands
at the motor edge of frenzy while
Mom's apple pie is little more than just peaches & cream
home baked greed.
Take stock car racing or the trots, Little Orphan Annie
Comics or Budweiser. Vice, like charity, starts at home.
Each curtails a larger problem and self worship
begins the moment your zipper opens.