DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Vindication
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for gossips and chaste people:
There lived a woman once, a straight-laced lady,
Whose only love was slander. Nothing shady
Escaped her vulture eye. Like some prim steeple
Her course of life pointed to Heaven ever;
And woe unto the sinner, girl or woman,
Whom love undid. She was their fiercest foeman.
No circumstance excused. Misfortune, never....
As she had lived she died. The mourners gathered:
Parson and preacher, this one and another,
And many gossips of most proper carriage.
Her will was read. And then... a child was fathered.
Fat Lechery had his day.... She'd been a mother.
A man was heir.... There'd never been a marriage.
The Pessimist
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for uncles and old aunties:
There was a man once who denied the Devil,
Yet in the world saw nothing else but evil;
A pessimist, with face as sour as Dante's.
Still people praised him; men he loathed and hated,
And cursed beneath his breath for wretched sinners,
While still he drank with them and ate their dinners,
And listened to their talk and tolerated.
At last he wrote a book, full of invective
And vile abuse of earth and all its nations,
Denying God and Devil, Heaven and Hades.
Fame followed this. "His was the right perspective!"
"A great philosopher!" He lost all patience.
But still went out to dine with Lords and Ladies.
The Human World.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Here is one picture of the human world:
An unreaped field and Death, the harvester,
Taking his rest beside a gathered sheaf
Of poppy and white lilies. At his side
Passion, with pilfered hour-glass in her hand
Jarring the sluggish sands to haste their flow.
Capriccio
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Here is the way I shall die:
It's dark.    And it has rained.
But you can no longer detect the imprint of the clouds
Which up there cover the sky in soft silk.
All streets are flowing, black mirrors,
Over the piled up houses, where streetlights,
Strings of pearls, hang shining.
And high above thousands of stars are flying,
Silver insects, around the world - 
I am among them.    Somewhere.
And sunken, I watch very seriously, somewhat pale,
But rather thoughtful about the refined, heavenly blue legs of a
lady,
While an auto cuts me to pieces, so that my head rolls like a red
marble
At her feet...
She is surprised.    And swears like a lady.    And kicks it
Haughtily with the dainty heel
Of her little shoe
Into the gutter.
Walking Up A Hill At Dawn
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Here is the wind in the morning;
The kind red face of God
Is looking over the hill
We are climbing.
To-morrow we are going to marry
And work and play together,
And laugh together at things
Which would not amuse our neighbours.
Song of Kafiristan.
An Allegory - An Old Lesson In A New Dress.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

"Here is a lantern, my little boy,"
Said a father to his child,
"And yonder's a wood, a lonely wood,
Tangled, and rough, and wild;
And now, this night, - this very hour,
Though gloomy and dark it be,
By the single light of this lamp alone,
You must cross the wild to me!
"I'll be on the farther side, my son,
So follow the path you see,
And at the end of this narrow way,
Awaiting you, I will be!"
Thus bidden, the child set out, but soon,
With the gloomy waste ahead,
Oppressed with terror and doubt he stopped,
Shaking with fear and dread.
"Father! - father! - I cannot see! - 
The forest is thick and black,
I'm sure there is danger ahead of me,
Please, father, call me back!"
But the father's voice through the gloomy wild,
In answering accents said, - 
"Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And don't look too far ahead!"
Thus cheered, the child pressed trustingly on,
Though trembling much with fear,
For around, beyond, and overhead,
The forest was dark and drear,
And ever, to keep his courage up,
To himself he softly said, - 
"He told me to keep in the light of my lamp,
And not look too far ahead!"
At length the other side was gained,
And lo, the father was there!
To welcome his child from the dreary wild,
Where darkness and danger were;
And, "why did you fear, my son?" he said,
"You had plenty of light, you see,
Though it lit but a step at a time, enough
To guide you safely to me!
"And besides, I was just ahead in the dark - 
Though you did not see me at all - 
To be sure that no evil or accident
Should my darling child befall;
Then remember, my son, in life's darkest ways
The simple words that I said, - 
'Just keep in the light of your lamp, my child,
And not look too far ahead?'"
The Picture
by Walter De La Mare

Here is a sea-legged sailor,
Come to this tottering Inn,
Just when the bronze on its signboard is fading,
And the black shades of evening begin.
With his head on thick paws sleeps a sheep-dog,
There stoops the Shepherd, and see,
All follow-my-leader the ducks waddle homeward,
Under the sycamore tree.
Very brown is the face of the Sailor,
His bundle is crimson, and green
Are the thick leafy boughs that hang dense o'er the Tavern,
And blue the far meadows between.
But the Crust, Ale and Cheese of the Sailor,
His Mug and his platter of Delf,
And the crescent to light home the Shepherd and Sheep-dog
The painter has kept to himself.
The Bagpipe
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for poets and for players:
There was a bagpipe once, that wheezed and whistled,
And droned vile discords, notes that fairly bristled,
Nasal and harsh, outbraying all the brayers.
And then the thing assumed another bearing:
Boasted itself an organ of God's making,
A world-enduring instrument, Earth-shaking,
Greater than any organ, more sky-daring.
To prove which, lo, upon an elevation
It pranced and blew to its own satisfaction,
Until 'twas heard from Key West far as Fundy.
But while it piped, some schoolboy took occasion
There was a blow; a sudden sharp impaction;
The wind-bag burst... Sic transit gloria mundi.
The Torrent
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for workmen and their masters:
There was a torrent once that down a mountain
Flashed its resistless way; a foaming fountain,
Basaltic-built, 'twixt cataract-hewn pilasters.
Down from its eagle eyrie nearer, nearer,
Its savage beauty born mid rocks and cedars,
Swept free as tempest, wild as mountain leaders,
Of stars and storms the swiftly moving mirror.
Men found it out; and set to work to tame it;
Put it to pounding rock and rafting lumber;
Made it a carrier of the filth of cities:
Harnessed its joy to engines; tried to shame it;
Saying, " Be civilized!" and piled their cumber
Upon it; bound it. God of all the Pities!
The Ass
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for artists and for writers:
There was an ass, in other words, a critic,
Who brayed and balked and kicked most analytic,
And waved long ears above his brother smiters.
He could not tell a rose-tree from a thistle,
But oft mistook the one thing for the other;
Then wagged his ears most wisely at some brother,
Sent him his he-haw for the Penny Whistle.
A poet sent his volume to him' kindly
Asking for criticism. You might know it:
He made one mouthful of it, weed and flower.
There rose a cry that he had done it blindly.
'Twas poetry! What! would he kill a poet!
Not he! The ass had brayed him into power.
Church And State
by William Butler Yeats

Here is fresh matter, poet,
Matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
Their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
Mind's bread grow sweet.
That were a cowardly song,
Wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
Are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.
Here Is The Glen.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Banks of Cree."
I.
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour - 
O what can stay my lovely maid?
II.
'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
III.
It is Maria's voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer,
At once 'tis music - and 'tis love.
IV.
And art thou come? and art thou true?
O welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.
The Cricket
by Madison Julius Cawein

Here is a tale for those who sing with reason:
There was a cricket, troubadouring fellow,
Who chirped his lay, or zoomed it like a 'cello,
Day in, day out, no matter what the season.
Great was his love for his own violining;
He never wearied saying, "What performing!"
And oft, when through, would ask, "Was not that charming?"
Then play it over, right from the beginning.
A talent, such as his, should be rewarded,
So thought he, all unconscious of intention
Of any one among the violin sects,
Until by some one, lo, he was regarded;
Lifted, examined; given special mention;
And placed within a case with other insects.
Epitaph On Edward Purdon
by Oliver Goldsmith

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world, 
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
Fragment Of A Character.
by Thomas Moore

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe past
In which Ned hadn't some small share.
Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.
With Nap, if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar--
(Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)
If France was beat at Waterloo--
As all but Frenchmen think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.
Then for his news--no envoy's bag
E'er past so many secrets thro' it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, shefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland, owskis by the dozen.
When George, alarmed for England's creed,
Turned out the last Whig ministry,
And men asked--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confest 'twas he.
For tho', by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,
He sent such hints thro' Viscount This,
To Marquis That, as clenched the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed--
Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.
Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there infused some soul in't--
Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.
'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In that Ned--trust him--had his finger.
The Black Stones Of Iona
by William Wordsworth

Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black,
Black in the people's minds and words, yet they
Were at that time, as now, in colour grey.
But what is colour, if upon the rack
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack
Concord with oaths? What differ night and day
Then, when before the Perjured on his way
Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack
Above his head uplifted in vain prayer
To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom
He had insulted Peasant, King, or Thane?
Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom;
And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare,
Come links for social order's awful chain.
The Robe Of Grass
by John Le Gay Brereton

Here lies the woven garb he wore
Of grass he gathered by the shore
Whereon the phantom waves still fret and foam
And sigh along the visionary sand.
'Where is he now?' you cry. 'What desolate land
Gleams round him in dull mockery of home?'
You knew him by the robe he cast
About him, grey and worn at last.
'It fades,' you murmur, 'changes, lives and dies.
Why has he vanished? Whither is he fled?
And is there any light among the dead?
Can any dream come singing where he lies?'
Ah peace! lift up your clouded eyes,
Nor where this curious relic lies
Grope in the blown dust for the print of feet.
Dim, twittering, ghastly sounds are these; but he
Laughs now as ever, still aloof and free,
Eager and wild and passionate and fleet.
Because he has dropped the part he played,
Shall love be baffled and dismayed?
Let the frail earth and all its visions melt,
And let the heart that loves, the eye that sees,
Seek him amid immortal mysteries,
For lo, he dwells where he has ever dwelt.
Zudora
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Here on the pale beach, in the darkness;
With the full moon just to rise;
They sit alone, and look over the sea,
Or into each other's eyes. . .
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand,
Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon,
Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there,
Fizzing across the sea!'
She pays no heed, nor even turns her head:
He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together,
Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway?
They suit you awfully well.'
She will not turn to him, will not resist.
Impassive, she submits to being kissed.
'My husband wrote all four of them.
You know, my husband drowned.
He was always sickly, soon depressed. . .'
But still she hears the sound
Of a stateroom door shut hard, and footsteps going
Swiftly and steadily, and the dark sea flowing.
She hears the dark sea flowing, and sees his eyes
Hollow with disenchantment, sick surprise,
And hate of her whom he had loved too well. . .
She lowers her eyes, demurely prods a shell.
'Yes. We might do an act together.
That would be very nice.'
He kisses her passionately, and thinks
She's carnal, but cold as ice.
Epitaph VI. On Mrs Corbet, Who Died Of A Cancer In Her Breast.
by Alexander Pope

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,
Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:
No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,
Convinced that virtue only is our own.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.
Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise
by William Wordsworth

Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount 'duty' that Heaven lays,
For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.
Never may from our souls one truth depart,
That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor touched with due abhorrence of 'their' guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity,
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
On A Schoolmaster.
by Robert Burns

Here lie Willie Michie's banes;
O, Satan! when ye tak' him,
Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans,
For clever de'ils he'll mak' them.
Islington
by Paul Bewsher

Here slow decay with creeping finger peels
The yellow plaster from the grimy walls,
Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls,
And, day by day, more rotting stone reveals!
Here are old mournful squares through which there steals
No cheerful music, or the heedless calls
Of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls
Across the sky, the heavy silence seals!
Lean, blackened trees stretch up their withered boughs
Behind the rusty railings, prison-bound,
In vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold
In which their long-dead fathers used to drowse:
For pallid terraces lie far around,
In gloomy sadness ever growing old.
Ochey-les-Bains, 1917.
On A Celebrated Ruling Elder.
by Robert Burns

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;
To h--ll, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither.
Kings And Rulers
by Unknown

Here lies our sovereign lord, the king,
Whose word no man relies on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.
Said by a courtier of Charles, II. To which the King replied, "That is very true, for my words are my own. My actions are my minister's."
An Epitaph
by Walter De La Mare

Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare - rare it be;
And when I crumble, who will remember
This lady of the West Country?
Perryville.
by George W. Doneghy

Fought October 8th, 1862.
Here on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy breath,
Has mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death,
We view in memory once again the awful scenes where met
In serried ranks the Blue and Gray--and tears the lashes wet;
For those who fell that dreadful day are mingled with the dust,
And often here the plow upturns a bayonet red with rust:
A sad memento of the time when passion held full sway--
Reminder to the rustic swain of fratricidal fray.
From yonder hill the shotted guns in dreadful chorus rang--
And on this plain was heard that day the glittering sabre's clang,
And in that vale, where wound the brook, with waters murmuring,
We stood and heard the Minie balls their deadly message sing,
And saw the life blood, gushing red, from stricken comrade near,
Whose gentle voice his loved ones then no more should ever hear--
His blue eyes close--his bosom heave--his pulse forever still,
A sacrifice to cause held dear, on the field of Perryville!
And the swiftly circling years can ne'er erase
From Memory's tablets or from Nature's face
One spot of all the rest we're standing near--
By fiercely battling hosts the prize held dear;
The old spring's waters still are gurgling from the rock
Where famished soldiers knelt--grim Death himself to mock;
Here on that day in ghastly heaps they lay--
Commingling with the Blue the men that wore the Gray!
And now the virgin snow has covered o'er the sod
Where once in fierce array contending armies trod;
The wintry wind makes mournful music through the trees
Where then the clash of arms was floating on the breeze,
And deep-toned guns belched forth the screaming shell
Like fiendish messengers of Death let loose from hell;
Now Nature's peaceful emblem spread o'er glade and hill
Enwraps beneath its folds the bloody field of Perryville.
December 26, 1895.
To The Lady Dursley
by Matthew Prior

Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd,
Our common loss unjustly you complain,
So small that part of it which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destined for the race;
Kind Nature forming them, the pattern took
From heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent's power control;
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul;
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
Which gains does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd;
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
Epitaph On Dr. Johnson.
by William Cowper

Here Johnson lies'a sage by all allow'd,
Whom to have bred may well make England proud,
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim'grave, masculine, and strong'
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth'by glory in the skies!
The Volunteer
by Herbert Asquith

Here lies the clerk who half his life had spent
Toiling at ledgers in a city grey,
Thinking that so his days would drift away
With no lance broken in life's tournament:
Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes
The gleaming eagles of the legions came,
And horsemen, charging under phantom skies,
Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme.
And now those waiting dreams are satisfied;
From twilight to the halls of dawn he went;
His lance is broken; but he lies content
With that high hour, in which he lived and died.
And falling thus, he wants no recompense,
Who found his battle in the last resort;
Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence,
Who goes to join the men of Agincourt.
Upon A Child That Died
by Robert Herrick

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth, that lightly covers her.
Epigram By Mr. Bowyer Intended To Be Placed Under The Head Of Gulliver. 1733
by Jonathan Swift

"Here learn from moral truth and wit refined,
How vice and folly have debased mankind;
Strong sense and humour arm in virtue's cause;
Thus her great votary vindicates her laws:
While bold and free the glowing colours strike;
Blame not the picture, if the picture's like."
Cassidy's Epitaph
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Here lies a bloke who's just gone West,
A Number One Australian;
He took his gun and did his best
To mitigate the alien.
So long as he could get to work
He needed no sagacity;
A German, Austrian, or Turk,
Were all the same to Cassidy.
Wherever he could raise "the stuff"
A liquor deleterious,
The question when he'd have enough
Was apt to be mysterious.
'Twould worry prudent folks a lot
Through mental incapacity;
If he could keep it down or not,
Was all the same to Cassidy.
And when the boys would start a dance,
In honour of Terpsichore,
'Twas just an even-money chance
You'd find him rather shickery.
But once he struck his proper stride,
And heard the band's vivacity,
The jazz, the tango, or the slide
Was all the same to Cassidy.
And now he's gone to face the Light,
With all it may reveal to him,
A life without a drink or fight
Perhaps may not appeal to him;
But when St Peter calls the roll
Of men of proved tenacity,
You'll find the front-rank right-hand man
Will answer; "Here . . . Cassidy."
Epitaphs
by Anne Bradstreet

Her Mother's Epitaph
Here lies
A worthy matron of unspotted life,
A loving mother and obedient wife,
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor,
Whom oft she fed, and clothed with her store;
To servants wisely aweful, but yet kind,
And as they did, so they reward did find:
A true instructor of her family,
The which she ordered with dexterity,
The public meetings ever did frequent,
And in her closest constant hours she spent;
Religious in all her words and ways,
Preparing still for death, till end of days:
Of all her children, children lived to see,
Then dying, left a blessed memory.
Her Father's Epitaph
Within this tomb a patriot lies
That was both pious, just and wise,
To truth a shield, to right a wall,
To sectaries a whip and maul,
A magazine of history,
A prizer of good company
In manners pleasant and severe
The good him loved, the bad did fear,
And when his time with years was spent
In some rejoiced, more did lament.
1653, age 77
Here Sleeps The Bard. (Highland Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well
All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;
Whether its music rolled like torrents near.
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.
Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;--
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!