DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Race Of Veterans
by Walt Whitman

Race of veterans! Race of victors!
Race of the soil, ready for conflict! race of the conquering march!
(No more credulity's race, abiding-temper'd race;)
Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself;
Race of passion and the storm.
The Tin-Pot Mill
by Edward Dyson

Quite a proud and happy man is Finn the Packer
Since he built his crazy mill upon the rise,
And he stands there in the gully, chewing 'backer,'
With a sleepy sort of comfort in his eyes,
Gazin' up to where the antiquated jigger
Is a-wheezing and a-hopping on the hill,
For up here my lord the Gov'nor isn't bigger
Than the owner of the Federation Mill.
She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, cutter-clatter, smash,
And she rattles on for half a shift, and lets up with a crash;
And then silence reigns a little while, and all the land is still
While they're tinkering awkward patches on the tin-pot mill.
It's a five-head plant, and mostly built of lumber,
'Twas erected by a man that didn't know,
And we've never had a decent spell of slumber
Since that battery of Finn's was got to go;
For she raises just the most infernal clatter,
And we guessed the Day of Judgment had come down
When the tin-pot mill began to bang and batter
Like an earthquake in a boiler-metal town.
All the heads are different sizes, and the horses
Are so crazy that the whole caboodle rocks,
And each time a stamper thunders down it forces
Little spirtings through the crannies in the box.
Then the feed pipe's mostly plugged and aggravating,
And the pump it suffers badly from a cough;
Every hour or so they burst a blooming grating,
And the shoes are nearly always coming off.
Mickey drives her with a portable, a ruin
That they used for donkeying cargo in the Ark.
When she's got a little way on, and is doing,
You should hear that spavined coffee-grinder bark.
She is loose in all her joints, and, through corrosion,
Half her plates are not a sixteenth in the thick.
We're expecting a sensational explosion,
And a subsequent excursion after Mick.
From the feed'which chokes'to quite the smallest ripple,
From the bed-logs to the guides, she's mighty queer,
And she joggles like an agitated cripple
With St. Vitus dance intensified by beer.
She stops short; and starts with most unearthly rumbles,
And, distracted by the silence and the din,
Through the sleepless night the weary miner grumbles,
And heaps curses on the family of Finn.
But the owner's much too cute a man to wrangle.
He is crushing for the public, understand,
And each ton of stuff that's hammered through the mangle
Adds its tribute to the value of his land.
For she leaks the raw amalgam, and he's able
To see daylight 'twixt the ripples an' the plates,
And below the box and 'neath the shaking table
There are nest-eggs 'cumulating while he waits.
She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, clitter-clatter, smash,
And she rattles on for half a shift, and lets with a crash;
Then silence reigns a little while, and the land is still
While they're tinkering awkward patches on the tin-pot mill.
Sonnet XLIV.
by Anna Seward

Rapt CONTEMPLATION, bring thy waking dreams
To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,
While full of thee seems every bending flower,
Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams!
Give thou HONORA's image, when her beams,
Youth, beauty, kindness, shone; - what time she wore
That smile, of gentle, yet resistless power
To sooth each painful Passion's wild extremes.
Here shall no empty, vain Intruder chase,
With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,
That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,
The dear, persuasive, visionary Form.
Can real Life a rival blessing boast
When thou canst thus restore HONORA early lost?
At Bay
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

WIFE
Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast.
Tell me there are no memories of your past
That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
HUSBAND
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred.
Does not the deed speak louder than the word?
(Dear God, that old dream woke again and stirred.)
WIFE
As you love me, you never loved before?
Though oft you say it, say it yet once more.
My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
HUSBAND
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,
My life is yours by memory undefiled.
(It stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
WIFE
You never knew a happier hour than this?
We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,
Nor other kisses, sweet as my own kiss?
HUSBAND
I was a thirsty field, long parched with drouth;
You were the warm rain, blowing from the south.
(But, ah, the crimson madness of HER mouth!)
WIFE
You would not, if you could, go down life's track
For just one little moment and bring back
Some vanished rapture that you miss or lack?
HUSBAND
I am content.    You are my life, my all.
(One burning hour, but one, could I recall;
God, how men lie when driven to the wall!)
Commonplaces
by Rudyard Kipling

Rain on the face of the sea,
Rain on the sodden land,
And the window-pane is blurred with rain
As I watch it, pen in hand.
Mist on the face of the sea,
Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails,
And blotting the desolate sand.
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling to one another:
"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,
Thou dearer than ever brother?"
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling and passing away;
But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,
And ... this is the end of my lay.
Husband And Wife
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast,
Tell me you have no memories of your past
That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred - 
Does not the deed speak louder than the word?
(Dear Christ! that old dream woke again and stirred.)
As you love me, you never loved before?
Though oft you say it - say it yet once more;
My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child,
My life is yours, by memory undefiled.
(It stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
You never knew such happy hours as this,
We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss,
Nor other kisses sweet as my own kiss?
I was the thirsty field, long parched with drouth,
You were the warm rain blowing from the South.
(But oh! the crimson madness of her mouth.)
You would not, if you could, go down life's track
For just one little moment, and bring back
Some vanished raptures that you miss or lack?
I am content.    You are my life, my all.
(One burning hour, but one, could I recall.
God! how men lie, when driven to the wall!)
Amour 1
by Michael Drayton

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,
The drery abstracts of my endles cares,
With my liues sorow enterlyned so;
Smok'd with my sighes, and blotted with my teares:
The sad memorials of my miseries,
Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost;
My liues complaint in doleful Elegies,
With so pure loue as tyme could neuer boast.
Receaue the incense which I offer heere,
By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,
My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,
My soules oblation to thy sacred name:
Which name my Muse to highest heauen shal raise
By chast desire, true loue, and vertues praise.
Every Man's Hand
by Paul Cameron Brown

raised against them
hussars, cossacks, zouaves
the renegade janizaries and corsairs
in for an indeterminale stretch
assorted soldiers of furtune,
never-do-wells
or just low brows duelling crusts of bread
scarce precious little else
when for pennies more,
(Wellington's phrase)
the scum of the earth
enlists for drink.
Too harsh, I think, of
imagining the Foreign Legion,
kepis of scarlet
the near requisite haggard looks
moving in waves across the desert
pitting date palms with bayonets.
the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.
Then dunes where water should be    - 
storms granulating blown particles
twice the perimeter of a camel train
from whence decent men become driven
(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves
with poor material,
loose flintlocks and cartridge belts
rotting to the touch,
The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)
stars big as pebbles in potato white
Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and
ragged tents flapping like tongues
of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)
on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,
their torpid hooves sound against rock
matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting
sand.
Noon and blood purring
like a two minute egg
over and over
the spitting, curses
mandatory flies and sweat
trickling on sandbags
from manured lives
little to eat - 
C rations a century away,
the good populace begrudging meals
to vagabonds and trash anyway.
See the last desperation
in classic terms
betrayed by finite trength
brisk elements raise the odds
a measly temperature climb,
a few more driving winds to stir the pot
animal suffering dancing
like stretched canvas on thin frames.
The leading roustabout unflinching,
waves a stony mutineer's salute.
And somehow it always manages dawn
and the heat of the day wicked,
oblong in an empty stretch
forever, it seems, before bullets
open graveyards
mow the brigand down,
take the corpse for its own
mummifying with precious hands
about the contours of her desert body,
and firm cleavage
oscillating between curvatures of
desiccation, blanket heat.
The Reproof.
by Robert Burns

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?
To The Water-nymphs Drinking At The Fountain
by Robert Herrick

Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.
A Midsummer Holiday:- V. A Sea-Mark
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Rains have left the sea-banks ill to climb:
Waveward sinks the loosening seaboard's floor:
Half the sliding cliffs are mire and slime.
Earth, a fruit rain-rotted to the core,
Drops dissolving down in flakes, that pour
Dense as gouts from eaves grown foul with grime.
One sole rock which years that scathe not score
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.
Time were even as even the rainiest clime,
Life were even as even this lapsing shore,
Might not aught outlive their trustless prime:
Vainly fear would wail or hope implore,
Vainly grief revile or love adore
Seasons clothed in sunshine, rain, or rime
Now for me one comfort held in store
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.
Once, by fate's default or chance's crime,
Each apart, our burdens each we bore;
Heard, in monotones like bells that chime,
Chime the sounds of sorrows, float and soar
Joy's full carols, near or far before;
Heard not yet across the alternate rhyme
Time's tongue tell what sign set fast of yore
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.
Friend, the sign we knew not heretofore
Towers in sight here present and sublime.
Faith in faith established evermore
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.
Upon Mistress Susanna Southwell, Her Cheeks.
by Robert Herrick

Rare are thy cheeks, Susanna, which do show
Ripe cherries smiling, while that others blow.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XXI. - At Florence--From Michael Angelo
by William Wordsworth

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through his grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide
Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,
My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
Sonnet: Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis
by John Keats

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!
I look into the chasms, and a shroud
Vapourous doth hide them, just so much I wist
Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead,
And there is sullen mist, even so much
Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread
Before the earth, beneath me, even such,
Even so vague is man's sight of himself!
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,
I tread on them, that all my eye doth meet
Is mist and crag, not only on this height,
But in the world of thought and mental might!
Nursery Rhyme. DCXIX. Relics.
by Unknown

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day;
Little Arthur wants to play.
Upon Ralph.
by Robert Herrick

Ralph pares his nails, his warts, his corns, and Ralph
In sev'rall tills and boxes, keeps 'em safe;
Instead of hartshorn, if he speaks the troth,
To make a lusty-jelly for his broth.
Vox Clamantis
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

(THE PLEA OF THE MUNITION-WORKER)
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"--
And it's long and long the day is.
From earliest morn to late at night,
And all night long, the selfsame song,---
"Rattle and clank and whirr."
Day in, day out, all day, all night,--
"Rattle and clank and whirr;"
With faces tight, with all our might,--
"Rattle and clank and whirr;"
We may not stop and we dare not err;
Our men are risking their lives out there,
And we at home must do our share;--
But it's long and long the day is.
We'll break if we must, but we cannot spare
A thought for ourselves, or the kids, or care,
For it's "Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr;"
Our men are giving their lives out there
And we'll give ours, we will do our share,--
"Rattle and clank and whirr."
Are our faces grave, and our eyes intent?
Is every ounce that is in us bent
On the uttermost pitch of accomplishment?
Though it's long and long the day is!
Ah--we know what it means if we fool or slack;
--A rifle jammed,--and one comes not back;
And we never forget,--it's for us they gave;
And so we will slave, and slave, and slave,
Lest the men at the front should rue it.
Their all they gave, and their lives we'll save,
If the hardest of work can do it;--
But it's long and long the day is.
Eight hours', ten hours', twelve hours' shift;--
Oh, it's long and long the day is!
Up before light, and home in the night,
That is our share in the desperate fight;--
And it's long and long the day is!
Backs and arms and heads that ache,
Eyes over-tired and legs that shake,
And hearts full nigh to burst and break;--
Oh, it's long and long the day is!
Week in, week out, not a second to spare,
But though it should kill us we'll do our share,
For the sake of the lads, who have gone out there
For the sake of us others, to do and dare;--
But it's long and long the day is!
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"
And thousands of wheels a-spinning,--
Spinning Death for the men of wrath,
Spinning Death for the broken troth,
--And Life, and a New Beginning.
Was there ever, since ever the world was made,
Such a horrible trade for a peace-loving maid,
And such wonderful, terrible spinning?
Oh, it's dreary work and it's weary work,
But none of us all will fall or shirk.
To God In Time Of Plundering.
by Robert Herrick

Rapine has yet took nought from me;
But if it please my God I be
Brought at the last to th' utmost bit,
God make me thankful still for it.
I have been grateful for my store:
Let me say grace when there's no more.
The Voice And Viol
by Robert Herrick

Rare is the voice itself: but when we sing
To th' lute or viol, then 'tis ravishing.
The Legend Of The Foreign Office
by Rudyard Kipling

Rajah of Kolazai,
Drinketh the "simpkin" and brandy peg,
Maketh the money to fly,
Vexeth a Government, tender and kind,
Also, but this is a detail, blind.
Rustum Beg of Kolazai, slightly backward Native State,
Lusted for a C.S.I., so began to sanitate.
Built a Gaol and Hospital, nearly built a City drain,
Till his faithful subjects all thought their ruler was insane.
Strange departures made he then, yea, Departments stranger still:
Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will,
Talked of noble aims and high, hinted of a future fine
For the State of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line.
Fajah Rustum held his peace; lowered octroi dues a half;
Organised a State Police; purified the Civil Staff;
Settled cess and tax aftresh in a very liberal way;
Cut temptations of the flesh, also cut the Bukhshi's pay;
Roused his Secretariat to a fine Mahratta fury,
By an Order hinting at supervision of dasturi;
Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down;
When the end of May was night waited his achievement's crown.
Then the Birthday Honours came. Sad to state and sad to see,
Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C.I.E.!. . .
Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai,
Even now the people speak of that time regretfully.
How he disendowed the Gaol, stopped at once the City drain;
Turned to beauty fair and frail, got his senses back again;
Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana;
Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana;
Heaped upon the Bukshi Sahib wealth and honours manifold;
Glad himself in Eastern garb, squeezed his people as of old.
Happy, happy Kolazai! Never more will Rustum Beg
Play to catch his Viceroy's eye. He prefers the "simpkin" peg.
The Division
by Thomas Hardy

Rain on the windows, creaking doors,
With blasts that besom the green,
And I am here, and you are there,
And a hundred miles between!
O were it but the weather, Dear,
O were it but the miles
That summed up all our severance,
There might be room for smiles.
But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,
Which nothing cleaves or clears,
Is more than distance, Dear, or rain,
And longer than the years!
1893.
The Unfinished Dream
by Walter De La Mare

Rare-sweet the air in that unimagined country - 
My spirit had wandered far
From its weary body close-enwrapt in slumber
Where its home and earth-friends are;
A milk-like air - and of light all abundance;
And there a river clear
Painting the scene like a picture on its bosom,
Green foliage drifting near.
No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,
Fish, nor beast, nor bird,
Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,
Then shrill small voices I heard.
And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folk
With faces strangely fair,
Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,
A bind of green-grasses in their hair,
Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,
In gesture, mien and speech,
Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine,
And gossiping each with each.
Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling,
Faint of almond the silks they wore,
Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeams
And foam on rock-bound shore;
Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows,
Amalillios of the day,
Hungrily gazed upon by me - a stranger,
In unknown regions astray.
Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces,
Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes,
Tears in my own confusing their small image,
Harkening their bird-like cries.
They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets;
Sadly I fared on my way;
And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation,
Close-shut, festooned and grey.
Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreath'd,
Worn the stone steps thereto,
Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward,
Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue - 
Strange to me: strange....
The Book Of Martyrs.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Read, sweet, how others strove,
Till we are stouter;
What they renounced,
Till we are less afraid;
How many times they bore
The faithful witness,
Till we are helped,
As if a kingdom cared!
Read then of faith
That shone above the fagot;
Clear strains of hymn
The river could not drown;
Brave names of men
And celestial women,
Passed out of record
Into renown!
Rain Has Fallen All The Day
by James Joyce

Rain has fallen all the day.
O come among the laden trees:
The leaves lie thick upon the way
Of memories.
Staying a little by the way
Of memories shall we depart.
Come, my beloved, where I may
Speak to your heart.
Ranney, 1856, Dairy System.
by James McIntyre

Ranney began with just two cows,
Which he in winter fed on browse,
And now he hath got mighty herds
Numerous as flock of birds,
May he long live our hearts to cheer
This great and useful pioneer.
Out Of The Depths
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery, and when they had set her in the midst, they said unto him "Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law commanded us that such be stoned; but what sayest thou?" [St. John, Chap, viii; 3, 4, 5.]
Reach thy hand to me, O Jesus;
Reach thy loving hand to me,
Or I sink, alas, and perish
In my sin and agony.
From the depths I cry, O Jesus,
Lifting up mine eyes to thee;
Save me from my sin and sorrow
With thy loving charity.
Pity, Jesus blessed Savior;
I am weak, but thou art strong;
Fill my heart with prayer and praises,
Fill my soul with holy song.
Lift me up, O sacred Jesus 
Lift my bruised heart to thee;
Teach me to be pure and holy
As the holy angels be.
Scribes and Pharisees surround me:
Thou art writing in the sand:
Must I perish, Son of Mary?
Wilt thou give the stern command?
Am I saved? for Jesus sayeth 
"Let the sinless cast a stone."
Lo the Scribes have all departed,
And the Pharisees are gone!
"Woman, where are thine accusers?"
(They have vanished one by one.)
"Hath no man condemned thee, woman?"
And she meekly answered "None."
Then he spake His blessed answer 
Balm indeed for sinners sore 
"Neither then will I condemn thee:
Go thy way and sin no more."
Reach Your Hand To Me.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Reach your hand to me, my friend,
With its heartiest caress - 
Sometime there will come an end
To its present faithfulness - 
Sometime I may ask in vain
For the touch of it again,
When between us land or sea
Holds it ever back from me.
Sometime I may need it so,
Groping somewhere in the night,
It will seem to me as though
Just a touch, however light,
Would make all the darkness day,
And along some sunny way
Lead me through an April-shower
Of my tears to this fair hour.
O the present is too sweet
To go on forever thus!
Round the corner of the street
Who can say what waits for us? - 
Meeting - greeting, night and day,
Faring each the self-same way - 
Still somewhere the path must end. - 
Reach your hand to me, my friend!
To M. Laurence Swetnaham.
by Robert Herrick

Read thou my lines, my Swetnaham; if there be
A fault, 'tis hid if it be voic'd by thee.
Thy mouth will make the sourest numbers please:
How will it drop pure honey speaking these!
She Weeps Over Rahoon
by James Joyce

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
At grey moonrise.
Love, hear thou
How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
Then as now.
Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould
And muttering rain.
Poverty.
by John Clare

Rank Poverty! dost thou my joys assail,
And with thy threat'nings fright me from my rest?
I once had thoughts, that with a Bloomfield's tale,
And leisure hours, I surely should be blest;
But now I find the sadly-alter'd scene,
From these few days I fondly thought my own,
Hoping to spend them private and alone,
But, lo! thy troop of spectres intervene:
Want shows his face, with Idleness between,
Next Shame's approaching step, that hates the throng,
Comes sneaking on, with Sloth that fetters strong.
Are these the joys my leisure hours must glean?
Then I decline:--but know where'er we meet,
Ye ne'er shall drive me from the Muses' seat.