DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lines To My Mother, On Her Attaining Her 70Th Year.
by John Carr (Sir)

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace
Each line of that long-lov'd, accustom'd, face,
Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest
With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,
Tho' sev'nty varied years have roll'd away,
Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,
Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,
In all the grace of age, without its gloom.
So on some sacred temple's mossy walls,
With feath'ry force, the snow of winter falls!
Yes, venerable parent! may I long
Thus happy hail thee with an annual song.
Till, having clos'd thine eyes in such soft rest
As infants feel when to the bosom prest,
Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away
To realms of pure delight and endless day!
Song Of The Rail
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, an ugly thing is an iron rail,
Black, with its face to the dust.
But it carries a message where winged things fail;
It crosses the mountains, and catches the trail,
While the winds and the sea make sport of a sail;
Oh, a rail is a friend to trust.
The iron rail, with its face to the sod,
Is only a bar of ore;
Yet it speeds where never a foot has trod;
And the narrow path where it leads, grows broad;
And it speaks to the world in the voice of God,
That echoes from shore to shore.
Though the iron rail, on the earth down flung,
Seems kin to the loam and the soil,
Wherever its high shrill note is sung,
Out of the jungle fair homes have sprung,
And the voices of babel find one tongue,
In the common language of toil.
Of priest, and warrior, and conquering king,
Of Knights of the Holy Grail,
Of wonders of winter, and glories of spring,
Always and ever the poets sing;
But the great God-Force, in a lowly thing,
I sing, in my song of the rail.
Prelude: By Still Waters
by George William Russell

Oh, be not led away,
Lured by the colour of the sun-rich day.
The gay romance of song
Unto the spirit life doth not belong:
Though far-between the hours
In which the Master of Angelic powers
Lightens the dusk within
The holy of holies, be it thine to win
Rare vistas of white light,
Half parted lips through which the Infinite
Murmurs her ancient story,
Harkening to whom the wandering planets hoary
Waken primeval fires,
With deeper rapture in celestial choirs
Breathe, and with fleeter motion
Wheel in their orbits through the surgeless ocean.
So hearken thou like these,
Intent on her, mounting by slow degrees,
Until thy song's elation
Echoes her multitudinous meditation.
Elaine
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

OH, come again to Astolat!
I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
And I will stay behind.
I will not say how dear you are,
Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
The way I did last year.
So still the orchard, Lancelot,
So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess--though you should guess--
What is become of me.
So wide shall be the garden-walk,
The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think--if you should think--
The lily maid had died.
Save that, a little way away,
I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
And smile,--if you should smile.
A Bit Of Color
by Arthur Macy

[PARIS, 1896]
Oh, damsel fair at the Porte Maillot,
With the soft blue eyes that haunt me so,
Pray what should I do
When a girl like you
Bestows her smile, her glance, and her sigh
On the first fond fool that is passing by,
Who listens and longs as the sweet words flow
From her pretty red lips at the Porte Maillot?
There were lips as red ere you were born,
Now wreathed in smiles, now curled in scorn,
And other bright eyes
With their truth and lies,
That broke the heart and turned the brain
Of many a tender, lovelorn swain;
But never, I ween, brought half the woe
That comes from the lips at the Porte Maillot.
A charming picture, there you stand,
A perfect work from a master's hand!
With your face so fair
And your wondrous hair,
Your glorious color, your light and shade,
And your classic head that the gods have made,
Your cheeks with crimson all aglow,
As you wait for a lover at the Porte Maillot.
There are gorgeous tints in the jeweled crown,
There are brilliant shades when the sun goes down;
But your lips vie
With the western sky,
And give to the world so rare a hue
That the painter must learn his art anew,
And the sunset borrow a brighter glow
From the lips of the girl at the Porte Maillot.
Come, tell me truly, fair-haired youth,
Do her eyes flash love, her lips speak truth?
Or does she beguile
With her glance and smile,
And burn you, spurn you all day long
With a Circe's art and a Siren's song?
Ah! would that your foolish heart might know
The lie in the heart at the Porte Maillot!
Proem.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, for a soul that fulfills
music like that of a bird!
thrilling with rapture the hills,
heedless if any one heard.
Or, like the flower that blooms
lone in the midst of the trees,
filling the woods with perfumes,
careless if any one sees.
Or, like the wandering wind,
over the meadows that swings,
bringing wild sweets to mankind,
knowing not that which it brings.
Oh, for a way to impart!.
beauty, no matter how hard!
like unto nature, whose art
never once dreams of reward.
The Deserted Plantation
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, de grubbin'-hoe 's a-rustin' in de co'nah,
An' de plow 's a-tumblin' down in de fiel',
While de whippo'will 's a-wailin' lak a mou'nah
When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to yiel'.
In de furrers whah de co'n was allus wavin',
Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall;
An' de swallers roun' de whole place is a-bravin'
Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all.
An' de big house stan's all quiet lak an' solemn,
Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er lawn;
Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef' to haul 'em,
Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone.
An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters,
D' ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de air;
But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters
Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness dere.
Whah 's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a-dancin'
Evry night befo' de ole cabin do'?
Whah 's de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin'
Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo'?
Whah 's ole Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron?
Whah 's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an' all de res'?
Whah 's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how 's he farin'?
Whah 's de gals dat used to sing an' dance de bes'?
Gone! not one o' dem is lef' to tell de story;
Dey have lef' de deah ole place to fall away.
Could n't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory
Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?
Dey have lef' de ole plantation to de swallers,
But it hol's in me a lover till de las';
Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers
All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'.
So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it
Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it,
An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.
A Plea For Our Northern Winters.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye
That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye,
Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet,
And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our feet?"
"What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white?
Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright?
Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour,
You'll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer flower."
"But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old,
The waving of their foliage, casting shadows o'er the wold,
The golden sunbeams peering 'mid the green leaves here and there,
And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare."
"But oft they're clothed in ermine to the sight and touch more fair
Than the costly robing monarchs for regal garments wear,
Whilst at times the glitt'ring branches with jewels are ablaze,
The Frost King's pearls and diamonds flashing back the light's clear rays."
"Well, I grieve to see thy rivers, thy lakes and mountain streams,
That in summer rippled gaily beneath the suns' glad beams,
As light barks glided swiftly o'er their azure waves at will,
Held now in icy barriers that guard them cold and still."
"But, see their glassy bosom, what scene could be more bright?
How gaily o'er the surface darts the skater, strong and light;
And happy, cheerful voices ring out from shore to shore,
And forms are clearly mirrored on that dazzling crystal floor."
"Ah, Earth, I cannot listen to thy soft, persuasive voice,
Though the pleasures thou can'st offer may make other hearts rejoice,
For with love and fond regret I recall each cloudless day,
Spent with friends in sunny rambles - when the whole world seemed at play."
"Why, the time for pleasant converse is the winter's stormy night,
Its long and quiet evenings, with fire and tapers bright,
The soothing strains of music, laughter, jest and happy song, - 
Yes! the dearest of all pleasures to the winter-time belong."
"I yield! Oh, Earth, thou hast thy charms, I grant it freely now,
In winter's sterner hours, as when the spring-buds deck thy brow,
So, a truce to idle grieving o'er summer beauties fled,
Our northern winters we'll accept with grateful hearts instead."
The "Happy Isles" Of Horace
by Eugene Field

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the golden haze off yonder,
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles,
And the ocean loves to wander.
Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,
Proudly the fig rejoices;
Merrily dance the virgin rills,
Blending their myriad voices.
Our herds shall fear no evil there,
But peacefully feed and rest them;
Neither shall serpent nor prowling bear
Ever come there to molest them.
Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,
Nor feverish drouth distress us,
But he that compasseth heat and cold
Shall temper them both to bless us.
There no vandal foot has trod,
And the pirate hosts that wander
Shall never profane the sacred sod
Of those beautiful Isles out yonder.
Never a spell shall blight our vines,
Nor Sirius blaze above us,
But you and I shall drink our wines
And sing to the loved that love us.
So come with me where Fortune smiles
And the gods invite devotion,--
Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the haze of that far-off ocean!
Keep A Song Up On De Way
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, de clouds is mighty heavy
An' de rain is mighty thick;
Keep a song up on de way.
An' de waters is a rumblin'
On de boulders in de crick,
Keep a song up on de way.
Fu' a bird ercross de road
Is a-singin' lak he knowed
Dat we people did n't daih
Fu' to try de rainy aih
Wid a song up on de way.
What's de use o' gittin' mopy,
Case de weather ain' de bes'!
Keep a song up on de way.
W'en de rain is fallin' ha'des',
Dey 's de longes' times to res'
Keep a song up on de way.
Dough de plough 's a-stan'in' still
Dey 'll be watah fu' de mill,
Rain mus' come ez well ez sun
'Fo' de weathah's wo'k is done,
Keep a song up on de way.
W'y hit's nice to hyeah de showahs
Fallin' down ermong de trees:
Keep a song up on de way.
Ef de birds don' bothah 'bout it,
But go singin' lak dey please,
Keep a song up on de way.
You don' s'pose I's gwine to see
Dem ah fowls do mo' dan me?
No, suh, I 'll des chase dis frown,
An' aldough de rain fall down,
Keep a song up on de way.
Lines To Fortune
by John Carr (Sir)

Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.
Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed
A plenteous show'r of treasure down
On many a weak and worthless head,
On those who but deserv'd thy frown.
And I have heard, in lonely shade,
Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;
And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid,
To give some pamper'd fav'rite more.
But tho' so cold, or strangely wild,
It seems that worth can sometimes move;
Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd,
And thou hast smil'd where all approve: - 
For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart
With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd;
And wit and taste, and grace and art,
United to illume her mind.
So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r,
That merits all their fost'ring care,
As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r,
Grateful 'twould wider scent the air.
The Rover's Apology.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;
Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
Of nature the laws I obey,
For nature is constantly changing.
The moon in her phases is found,
The time and the wind and the weather,
The months in succession come round,
And you don't find two Mondays together.
Consider the moral, I pray,
Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
Who loves this young lady to-day,
And loves that young lady to-morrow.
You cannot eat breakfast all day,
Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away
To turn your attention to dinner;
And it's not in the range of belief,
That you could hold him as a glutton,
Who, when he is tired of beef,
Determines to tackle the mutton.
But this I am ready to say,
If it will diminish their sorrow,
I'll marry this lady to-day,
And I'll marry that lady to-morrow!
Oh, For A Home Of Rest!
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh, for a home of rest!
Time lags alone so slow, so wearily;
Couldst thou but smile on me, I should be blest.
Alas, alas! that never more may be.
Oh, for the sky-lark's wing to soar to thee!
This earth I would forsake
For starry realms whose sky's forever fair;
There, tears are shed not, hearts will cease to ache,
And sorrow's plaintive voice shall never break
The heavenly stillness that is reigning there.
Life's every charm has fled,
The world is all a wilderness to me;
"For thou art numbered with the silent dead."
Oh, how my heart o'er this dark thought has bled!
How I have longed for wings to follow thee!
In visions of the night
With angel smile thou beckon'st me away,
Pointing to worlds where hope is free from blight;
And then a cloud comes o'er that brow of light,
Seeming to chide me for my long delay.
A Palinode. I-16 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother,
Whatever punishment you may desire
Give my offending verses; in the fire
Throw them, please you, or in the Adriatic.
Not Dindymene, no, nor even Apollo
So shakes the minds of priests within the shrine;
Nor so disturbing is the God of wine,
Nor Corybantes doubling their shrill cymbals,
As direful fits of anger that are frightened
Neither by Noric sword nor savage flame,
Nor by ship-wrecking seas, nor them can tame
Great Jupiter himself, with all his thunders.
To our original clay, they say Prometheus
Was forced to add a portion he had made
Of bits from every creature, and he laid
In human hearts rage from the furious lion.
With crushing ruin rage destroyed Thyestes;
And as a final cause rage may be known
Why mighty cities fell, quite overthrown,
And why upon their walls a sneering army
Its plowshare drags along. But keep your temper!
Me, too in my sweet youth a frenzied heart
Has tempted sorely, and its maddening dart
Has driven me to write impetuous verses
To change sad things for brighter I am seeking,
And since my offending verses I retract,
I beg of you in turn a friendly act,
That you again to me your heart give over.
A Banjo Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, dere 's lots o' keer an' trouble
In dis world to swaller down;
An' ol' Sorrer 's purty lively
In her way o' gittin' roun'.
Yet dere's times when I furgit em,--
Aches an' pains an' troubles all,--
An' it's when I tek at ebenin'
My ol' banjo f'om de wall.
'Bout de time dat night is fallin'
An' my daily wu'k is done,
An' above de shady hilltops
I kin see de settin' sun;
When de quiet, restful shadders
Is beginnin' jes' to fall,--
Den I take de little banjo
F'om its place upon de wall.
Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me
In de fadin' o' de light,
Ez I strike de strings to try 'em
Ef dey all is tuned er-right.
An' it seems we 're so nigh heaben
We kin hyeah de angels sing
When de music o' dat banjo
Sets my cabin all er-ring.
An' my wife an' all de othahs,--
Male an' female, small an' big,--
Even up to gray-haired granny,
Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;
'Twell I change de style o' music,
Change de movement an' de time,
An' de ringin' little banjo
Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.
An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,
An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise
Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water
Dat was flowin' to my eyes;
An' I feel dat I could sorter
Knock de socks clean off o' sin
Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny
Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.
Den we all th'ow in our voices
Fu' to he'p de chune out too,
Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry
Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.
An' our th'oahts let out de music,
Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,
'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin
Echo wif de melody.
Oh, de music o' de banjo,
Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,
Is de greates' joy an' solace
Dat a weary slave kin know!
So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',
Dough de chune be po' an' rough,
It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures
O' dis life is few enough.
Now, de blessed little angels
Up in heaben, we are told,
Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime
'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.
Now I think heaben 'd be mo' homelike
Ef we 'd hyeah some music fall
F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,
Like dat one upon de wall.
Whisperings In Wattle-Boughs
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr'd
And rustled by the scented breath of spring;
Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging!
Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering!
Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship cross'd the brine,
On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchang'd;
Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn, reckless boy,
Those petitions that in life were ne'er estranged?
Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear
Never pass'd between us; let me bear the blame,
Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I've shed
For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name.
Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend,
In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill,
Are you waking yet or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping?
Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?
Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?
There is little hope or comfort here below;
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is straight and cold,
Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
-    -    -    -    -    -
All silent, they are dumb, and the breezes go and come
With an apathy that mocks at man's distress;
Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray
For an answer that might stay my bitterness.
Oh, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd;
There's a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough:
'Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but his beloved sleep
Can never be disturb'd by such as thou!!'
In July.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool
Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun,
And the sparkling waters from a limped pool
O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run!
II.
Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad,
And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown,
And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad
The fallen trunk and the hidden stone!
III.
Where the song that wells from a feathered throat
The echoes repeat again and again,
And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float
O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main!
IV.
Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream,
And sway and nod in the passing breeze,
And a feller could tranquilly rest and dream
Of a howling blizzard and a good hard freeze!
The Happy Isles
by Eugene Field

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the golden haze off yonder,
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles
And the ocean loves to wander.
Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,
Proudly the fig rejoices,
Merrily dance the virgin rills,
Blending their myriad voices.
Our herds shall suffer no evil there,
But peacefully feed and rest them;
Never thereto shall prowling bear
Or serpent come to molest them.
Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,
Nor feverish drought distress us,
But he that compasseth heat and cold
Shall temper them both to bless us.
There no vandal foot has trod,
And the pirate hordes that wander
Shall never profane the sacred sod
Of those beautiful isles out yonder.
Never a spell shall blight our vines,
Nor Sirius blaze above us,
But you and I shall drink our wines
And sing to the loved that love us.
So come with me where Fortune smiles
And the gods invite devotion,--
Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the haze of that far-off ocean!
Oh, Days Of Youth. (French Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain--
No, never more can this life bring me
One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.
Dim lies the way to death before me,
Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;
Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me,
Where is your warmth, your glory now?
'Tis not that then no pain could sting me;
'Tis not that now no joys remain;
Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me
One joy so sweet as that worst pain.
Euthanasia
by Arthur Macy

[To E. C.]
Oh, drop your eyelids down, my lady;
Oh, drop your eyelids down.
'Twere well to keep your bright eyes shady
For pity of the town!
But should there any glances be,
I pray you give them all to me;
For though my life be lost thereby,
It were the sweetest death to die!
Li'L' Gal
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, de weathah it is balmy an' de breeze is sighin' low.
Li'l' gal,
An' de mockin' bird is singin' in de locus' by de do',
Li'l' gal;
Dere 's a hummin' an' a bummin' in de lan' f'om eas' to wes',
I 's a-sighin' fu' you, honey, an' I nevah know no res'.
Fu' dey 's lots o' trouble brewin' an' a-stewin' in my breas',
Li'l' gal.
Whut 's de mattah wid de weathah, whut's de mattah wid de breeze,
Li'l' gal?
Whut 's de mattah wid de locus' dat 's a-singin' in de trees,
Li'l' gal?
W'y dey knows dey ladies love 'em, an' dey knows dey love 'em true,
An' dey love 'em back, I reckon, des' lak I 's a-lovin' you;
Dat 's de reason dey 's a-weavin' an' a-sighin', thoo an' thoo,
Li'l' gal.
Don't you let no da'ky fool you 'cause de clo'es he waihs is fine,
Li'l' gal.
Dey 's a hones' hea't a-beatin' unnerneaf dese rags o' mine,
Li'l' gal.
Cose dey ain' no use in mockin' whut de birds an' weathah do,
But I 's so'y I cain't 'spress it w'en I knows I loves you true,
Dat 's de reason I 's a-sighin' an' a-singin now fu' you,
Li'l' gal.
A Rallying Cry.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Oh, children of the tropics,
Amid our pain and wrong
Have you no other mission
Than music, dance, and song?
When through the weary ages
Our dripping tears still fall,
Is this a time to dally
With pleasure's silken thrall?
Go, muffle all your viols;
As heroes learn to stand,
With faith in God's great justice
Nerve every heart and hand.
Dream not of ease nor pleasure,
Nor honor, wealth, nor fame,
Till from the dust you've lifted
Our long-dishonored name;
And crowned that name with glory
By deeds of holy worth,
To shine with light emblazoned,
The noblest name on earth.
Count life a dismal failure,
Unblessing and unblest,
That seeks 'mid ease inglorious
For pleasure or for rest.
With courage, strength, and valor
Your lives and actions brace;
Shrink not from toil or hardship,
And dangers bravely face.
Engrave upon your banners,
In words of golden light,
That honor, truth, and justice
Are more than godless might.
Above earth's pain and sorrow
Christ's dying face I see;
I hear the cry of anguish:--
"Why hast thou forsaken me?"
In the pallor of that anguish
I see the only light,
To flood with peace and gladness
Earth's sorrow, pain, and night.
Arrayed in Christly armor
'Gainst error, crime, and sin,
The victory can't be doubtful,
For God is sure to win.