DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
If One Should Dive Deep
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Once more on the beach with the shifting clouds o'er me
(Like the friends of a day),
And the sea all unchanged, like a true friend before me,
How the years flow away,
How the summers go by.
The shifting clouds o'er me, the shifting sands under;
Why need it seem strange,
Why need I feel bitter, and why should I wonder
That hearts, too, should change
As the summers go by.
Down here is the path where we wandered together,
'Neath the midsummer moon.
Her love was sweet as the sweet summer weather,
And left us as soon,
And the summers go by.
The bathers laugh loud in the surf over yonder.
If one should dive deep,
And rise not -no more need he suffer or ponder
O'er losses, or weep,
But sink low and sleep
While the summers go by.
Samuel J. Tilden
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Greystone, Aug. 4, 1886.
Once more, O all-adjusting Death!
The nation's Pantheon opens wide;
Once more a common sorrow saith
A strong, wise man has died.
Faults doubtless had he. Had we not
Our own, to question and asperse
The worth we doubted or forgot
Until beside his hearse?
Ambitious, cautious, yet the man
To strike down fraud with resolute hand;
A patriot, if a partisan,
He loved his native land.
So let the mourning bells be rung,
The banner droop its folds half way,
And while the public pen and tongue
Their fitting tribute pay,
Shall we not vow above his bier
To set our feet on party lies,
And wound no more a living ear
With words that Death denies
Love's Chastening
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air,
Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair;
So unto Grief he spake, "What right hast thou
To part or parcel of this heart?" Grief's brow
Was darkened with the storm of inward strife;
Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare,
And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life.
Christmas Chimes.
by Alfred Castner King

Once more the merry Christmas bells,
Are ringing far and wide;
Their chime in rhythmic chorus swells,
While every brazen throat foretells,
A joyous Christmastide.
What is the burden of your chime,
Ye bells of Christmastide?
What tidings in your clangorous rhyme,
What message would your tongues sublime
To human hearts confide?
Our chime is of salvation's plan,
And every Christmastide
Since Christmas bells to chime, began
We've caroled Heaven's gift to man,
A Saviour crucified.
The Valley Of Unrest
by Edgar Allan Poe

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay,
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless, 
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Unceasingly, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye, 
Over the lilies that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:, from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:, from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
Prologue, To Public Readings At A Young Gentlemen's Academy.
by Thomas Gent

Once more we venture here, to prove our worth,
And ask indulgence kind, to tempt us forth:
Seek not perfection from our essays green,
That, in man's noblest works, has never been,
Nor is, nor e'er will be; a work exempt
From fault to form, as well might man attempt
T'explore the vast infinity of space,
Or fix mechanic boundaries to grace.
Hard is the finish'd Speaker's task; what then
Must be our danger, to pursue the pen
Of the 'rapt Bard, through all his varied turns,
Where joy extatic smiles, or sorrow mourns?
Where Richard's soul, red in the murtherous lave,
Shrinks from the night-yawn'd tenants of the grave,
While coward conscience still affrights his eye,
Still groans the dagger'd sound, "despair and die."
And hapless Juliet's unextinguish'd flame,
Gives to the tomb she mock'd, her beauteous frame;
Yet diff'rent far, where Claudio sees return'd
To life, and love, the maid too rashly spurn'd;
Or Falstaff, in his sympathetic scroll,
Forth to the Wives of Windsor pours his soul.
Again, forsaking mirth's fantastic rites,
The Muse to follow, through her nobler flights,
Where Milton paints angelic hosts in arms,
And Heaven's wide champaign rings with dire alarms,
Till 'vengeful justice wings its dreadful way,
And hurls the apostate from the face of day.
Immortal Bards! high o'er oblivion's shroud
Their names shall live, pre-eminent and proud,
Who snatch'd the keys of mystery from time,
This world too little for their Muse sublime!
With Thomson, now, o'er sylvan scenes we stray,
Or seek the lone church-yard, with pensive Gray:
On Pope's refin'd, or Dryden's lofty strains,
Dwell, while their fire the lightest heart enchains.
Through these and all our Bards to whom belong
The pow'rs transcendent of immortal song,
How difficult to steer t'avoid the cant
Of polish'd phrase, and nerve-alarming rant;
Each period with true elegance to round,
And give the Poet's meaning in the sound.
But, wherefore should the Muse employ her verse,
The peril of our labors to rehearse?
Oft has your kind, your generous applause,
E're now, convinc'd us, you approve our cause:
Conscious it will again our task attend,
The Critic stern, we ask not to commend,
Who like inclement Winter's hostile frown
Would beat th'infantine shrubs of Genius down.
By your kind sanction, spur'd to nobler aims,
Our country, now, the Muses' tribute claims:
When o'er fair Albion war destructive lours,
Oh! be those Patriot feelings ever ours,
Which from the public mind spontaneous burst
On that infuriate foe, by crimes accurst,
Who'd o'er our envied isle his vassals send,
And all the land with dire convulsions rend.
Well! let their armies come, their locusts pour,
Each British heart shall welcome them on shore,
Each British hand is arm'd in Britain's cause,
To guard their birth-right, liberty, and laws,
Rise! Britons, rise! attend fair freedom's cry,
The wretch who meanly fears deserves to die.
His kind protection 'gainst each latent foe,
Still may that Pow'r Omnipotent bestow,
Which first Britannia's sov'reign flag unfurl'd
So high, it flames a beacon to the World!
The Daddy Long-Legs And The Fly.
by Edward Lear

I.
Once Mr. Daddy Long-legs,
Dressed in brown and gray,
Walked about upon the sands
Upon a summer's day:
And there among the pebbles,
When the wind was rather cold,
He met with Mr. Floppy Fly,
All dressed in blue and gold;
And, as it was too soon to dine,
They drank some periwinkle-wine,
And played an hour or two, or more,
At battlecock and shuttledore.
II.
Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs
To Mr. Floppy Fly,
"Why do you never come to court?
I wish you 'd tell me why.
All gold and shine, in dress so fine,
You'd quite delight the court.
Why do you never go at all?
I really think you _ought_.
And, if you went, you'd see such sights!
Such rugs and jugs and candle-lights!
And, more than all, the king and queen, - 
One in red, and one in green."
III.
"O Mr. Daddy Long-legs!"
Said Mr. Floppy Fly,
"It's true I never go to court;
And I will tell you why.
If I had six long legs like yours,
At once I'd go to court;
But, oh! I can't, because _my_ legs
Are so extremely short.
And I'm afraid the king and queen
(One in red, and one in green)
Would say aloud, 'You are not fit,
You Fly, to come to court a bit!'"
IV.
"Oh, Mr. Daddy Long-legs!"
Said Mr. Floppy Fly,
"I wish you 'd sing one little song,
One mumbian melody.
You used to sing so awful well
In former days gone by;
But now you never sing at all:
I wish you'd tell me why:
For, if you would, the silvery sound
Would please the shrimps and cockles round,
And all the crabs would gladly come
To hear you sing, 'Ah, Hum di Hum!'"
V.
Said Mr. Daddy Long-legs,
"I can never sing again;
And, if you wish, I'll tell you why,
Although it gives me pain.
For years I cannot hum a bit,
Or sing the smallest song;
And this the dreadful reason is, - 
My legs are grown too long!
My six long legs, all here and there,
Oppress my bosom with despair;
And, if I stand or lie or sit,
I cannot sing one single bit!"
VI.
So Mr. Daddy Long-legs
And Mr. Floppy Fly
Sat down in silence by the sea,
And gazed upon the sky.
They said, "This is a dreadful thing!
The world has all gone wrong,
Since one has legs too short by half,
The other much too long.
One never more can go to court,
Because his legs have grown too short;
The other cannot sing a song,
Because his legs have grown too long!"
VII.
Then Mr. Daddy Long-legs
And Mr. Floppy Fly
Rushed downward to the foamy sea
With one sponge-taneous cry:
And there they found a little boat,
Whose sails were pink and gray;
And off they sailed among the waves,
Far and far away:
They sailed across the silent main,
And reached the great Gromboolian Plain;
And there they play forevermore
At battlecock and shuttledore.
Contentment
by Eugene Field

Once on a time an old red hen
Went strutting 'round with pompous clucks,
For she had little babies ten,
A part of which were tiny ducks.
"'T is very rare that hens," said she,
"Have baby ducks as well as chicks--
But I possess, as you can see,
Of chickens four and ducklings six!"
A season later, this old hen
Appeared, still cackling of her luck,
For, though she boasted babies ten,
Not one among them was a duck!
"'T is well," she murmured, brooding o'er
The little chicks of fleecy down--
"My babies now will stay ashore,
And, consequently, cannot drown!"
The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as of yore--
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens, as before!
"'T is better," said the old red hen,
As she surveyed her waddling brood;
"A little water now and then
Will surely do my darlings good!"
But oh! alas, how very sad!
When gentle spring rolled round again
The eggs eventuated bad,
And childless was the old red hen!
Yet patiently she bore her woe,
And still she wore a cheerful air,
And said: "'T is best these things are so,
For babies are a dreadful care!"
I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women, too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen
With foliage of vermilion hue;
She ne'er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence--
She was contented--that was all!
Hymn At The Funeral Services Of Charles Sumner, April 29, 1874
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Once more, ye sacred towers,
Your solemn dirges sound;
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,
Once more to deck his mound.
A nation mourns its dead,
Its sorrowing voices one,
As Israel's monarch bowed his head
And cried, "My son! My son!"
Why mourn for him? - For him
The welcome angel came
Ere yet his eye with age was dim
Or bent his stately frame;
His weapon still was bright,
His shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right, - 
What happier hour to die?
Thou orderest all things well;
Thy servant's work was done;
He lived to hear Oppression's knell,
The shouts for Freedom won.
Hark!! from the opening skies
The anthem's echoing swell, - 
"O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes!
God reigneth. All is well!"
Duck And Oyster.
by James McIntyre

Once on a time there lived a duck,
And by its fishing it did thrive;
So one day it longed to suck
An oyster and for one did dive.
The oyster near shore lay open,
The duck, its gizzard for to fill,
Resolved that he would pop in
Between the shells his sharp bill.
And then he would have glorious treat,
But oyster closed on it its shell,
And duck it got no oyster meat,
But worse than that the duck befell.
This oyster was so very large,
It held the duck's head under water,
And towed small oysters like a barge,
Each one clung to it like squatter.
Duck it died of too much moisture,
And it floated towards the beach,
And to its bill clung big oyster,
Sticking to it like a horse leach.
On the shore there stood a shyster,
Watching fat duck floating to him,
And the wondrous big oyster,
How fine it would be to stew them.
Alas the duck lost its dinner,
And at the same time lost its life,
But on it dined a hungry sinner,
Who did reap all the spoils of strife.
For when the duck to land did float,
It towed small oysters not a few,
For it sailed like to a boat,
With fat duck pie and oyster stew.
None can the poor duck's fate bewail,
For it reckoned without its host,
It strove for conquest and did fail,
Fighting for spoil it battle lost.
You see the wild duck did not know,
When it attacked the big oyster,
It had to fight a numerous foe,
Of these shell fish a whole cluster.
Borne feathers on briny billow,
They were full of springy down,
And they made a glorious pillow,
Where fellow he could rest his crown.
This chap he did not plow nor sow,
But from sea and land he did reap
The wealth that others caused to grow,
And thus he treasures up did heap.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XLII - The Merry Guide
by Alfred Edward Housman

Once in the wind of morning
I ranged the thymy wold;
The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.
There through the dews beside me
Behold a youth that trod,
With feathered cap on forehead,
And poised a golden rod.
With mien to match the morning
And gay delightful guise
And friendly brows and laughter
He looked me in the eyes.
Oh whence, I asked, and whither?
He smiled and would not say,
And looked at me and beckoned
And laughed and led the way.
And with kind looks and laughter
And nought to say beside
We two went on together,
I and my happy guide.
Across the glittering pastures
And empty upland still
And solitude of shepherds
High in the folded hill,
By hanging woods and hamlets
That gaze through orchards down
On many a windmill turning
And far-discovered town,
With gay regards of promise
And sure unslackened stride
And smiles and nothing spoken
Led on my merry guide.
By blowing realms of woodland
With sunstruck vanes afield
And cloud-led shadows sailing
About the windy weald,
By valley-guarded granges
And silver waters wide,
Content at heart I followed
With my delightful guide.
And like the cloudy shadows
Across the country blown
We two face on for ever,
But not we two alone.
With the great gale we journey
That breathes from gardens thinned,
Borne in the drift of blossoms
Whose petals throng the wind;
Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper
Of dancing leaflets whirled
From all the woods that autumn
Bereaves in all the world.
And midst the fluttering legion
Of all that ever died
I follow, and before us
Goes the delightful guide,
With lips that brim with laughter
But never once respond,
And feet that fly on feathers,
And serpent-circled wand.
A Prayer For My Daughter
by William Butler Yeats

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-legged smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of plenty is undone.
In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wisc.
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.
My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.
An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of plenty's horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?
Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy Still.
And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Parable Of Wise Men And The World.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Gli astrologi antevista.
Once on a time the astronomers foresaw
The coming of a star to madden men:
Thus warned they fled the land, thinking that when
The folk were crazed, they'd hold the reins of law
When they returned the realm to overawe,
They prayed those maniacs to quit cave and den,
And use their old good customs once again;
But these made answer with fist, tooth, and claw:
So that the wise men were obliged to rule
Themselves like lunatics to shun grim death,
Seeing the biggest maniac now was king.
Stifling their sense, they lived, aping the fool,
In public praising act and word and thing
Just as the whims of madmen swayed their breath.
The Mariner
by Emily Pauline Johnson

"Wreck and stray and castaway." - SWINBURNE.
Once more adrift.
O'er dappling sea and broad lagoon,
O'er frowning cliff and yellow dune,
The long, warm lights of afternoon
Like jewel dustings sift.
Once more awake.
I dreamed an hour of port and quay,
Of anchorage not meant for me;
The sea, the sea, the hungry sea
Came rolling up the break.
Once more afloat.
The billows on my moorings press't,
They drove me from my moment's rest,
And now a portless sea I breast,
And shelterless my boat.
Once more away.
The harbour lights are growing dim,
The shore is but a purple rim,
The sea outstretches grey and grim.
Away, away, away!
Once more at sea,
The old, old sea I used to sail,
The battling tide, the blowing gale,
The waves with ceaseless under-wail
The life that used to be.
Pegasus In Pound
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Once into a quiet village,
Without haste and without heed,
In the golden prime of morning,
Strayed the poet's winged steed.
It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
Loud the clamorous bell was ringing
From its belfry gaunt and grim;
'T was the daily call to labor,
Not a triumph meant for him.
Not the less he saw the landscape,
In its gleaming vapor veiled;
Not the less he breathed the odors
That the dying leaves exhaled.
Thus, upon the village common,
By the school-boys he was found;
And the wise men, in their wisdom,
Put him straightway into pound.
Then the sombre village crier,
Ringing loud his brazen bell,
Wandered down the street proclaiming
There was an estray to sell.
And the curious country people,
Rich and poor, and young and old,
Came in haste to see this wondrous
Winged steed, with mane of gold.
Thus the day passed, and the evening
Fell, with vapors cold and dim;
But it brought no food nor shelter,
Brought no straw nor stall, for him.
Patiently, and still expectant,
Looked he through the wooden bars,
Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,
Saw the tranquil, patient stars;
Till at length the bell at midnight
Sounded from its dark abode,
And, from out a neighboring farm-yard
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain,
And unfolding far his pinions,
To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.
But they found, upon the greensward
Where his straggling hoofs had trod,
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod.
From that hour, the fount unfailing
Gladdens the whole region round,
Strengthening all who drink its waters,
While it soothes them with its sound.
The Broken Oar
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar; and carved thereon he read,
"Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee";
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.
New Year's Eve.
by Archibald Lampman

Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might
Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian,
Balancing all 'twixt wonder and derision,
Methought my body and all this world took flight,
And vanished from me, as a dream, outright;
Leaning out thus in sudden strange decision,
I saw as it were in the flashing of a vision,
Far down between the tall towers of the night,
Borne by great winds in awful unison,
The teeming masses of mankind sweep by,
Even as a glittering river with deep sound
And innumerable banners, rolling on
Over the starry border glooms that bound
The last gray space in dim eternity.
And all that strange unearthly multitude
Seemed twisted in vast seething companies,
That evermore with hoarse and terrible cries
And desperate encounter at mad feud
Plunged onward, each in its implacable mood
Borne down over the trampled blazonries
Of other faiths and other phantasies,
Each following furiously, and each pursued;
So sped they on with tumult vast and grim,
But ever meseemed beyond them I could see
White-haloed groups that sought perpetually
The figure of one crowned and sacrificed;
And faint, far forward, floating tall and dim,
The banner of our Lord and Master, Christ.
Young Love IV - Once
by Richard Le Gallienne

Once we met, and then there came
Like a Pentecostal flame,
A word;
And I said not,
Only thought,
She heard!
All I never say but sing,
Worshipping;
Wrapt in the hidden tongue
Of an ambiguous song.
How we met what need to say?
When or where,
Years ago or yesterday,
Here or there.
All the song is - once we met,
She and I;
Once, but never to forget,
Till we die.
All the song is that we meet
Never now -
'Hast thou yet forgotten, sweet?'
'Love, hast thou?'