DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Virgin Of Bethlehem.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!
Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea!
Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,
List to the prayers that we offer to thee!
Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,
Empty and fleeting as April sunshine,
But for the grace that from holiness floweth,
Grace, purest Mother, that always was thine.
Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
Thine was the will of thy Father above,
Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded
Cold hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.
Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.
These are the gifts that thy children implore,
With hearts warmly beating, and low bended knee;
Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly adore,
To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.
Walter Von Der Vogelweid
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.
And he gave the monks his treasures,
Gave them all with this behest:
They should feed the birds at noontide
Daily on his place of rest;
Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
They have taught so well and long."
Thus the bard of love departed;
And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted
By the children of the choir.
Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
In foul weather and in fair,
Day by day, in vaster numbers,
Flocked the poets of the air.
On the tree whose heavy branches
Overshadowed all the place,
On the pavement, on the tombstone,
On the poet's sculptured face,
On the cross-bars of each window,
On the lintel of each door,
They renewed the War of Wartburg,
Which the bard had fought before.
There they sang their merry carols,
Sang their lauds on every side;
And the name their voices uttered
Was the name of Vogelweid.
Till at length the portly abbot
Murmured, "Why this waste of food?
Be it changed to loaves henceforward
For our tasting brotherhood."
Then in vain o'er tower and turret,
From the walls and woodland nests,
When the minster bells rang noontide,
Gathered the unwelcome guests.
Then in vain, with cries discordant,
Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers
For the children of the choir.
Time has long effaced the inscriptions
On the cloister's funeral stones,
And tradition only tells us
Where repose the poet's bones.
But around the vast cathedral,
By sweet echoes multiplied,
Still the birds repeat the legend,
And the name of Vogelweid.
Die Sch'ne Wittwe
by Charles G. Leland

I.
Vot de yankee chap sung.
DAT pooty liddle vidow
Vot ve dosh'nt vish to name,
Ish still leben on dat liddle shtreet,
A doin' shoost de same.
De glerks aroundt de gorners
Somedimes goes round to zee
How die tarlin' liddle vitchy ees,
Und ask 'er how she pe.
Dey lofes her ver' goot liqu'r,
Dey lofes her liddle shtore;
Dey lofes her little paby,
But dey lofes die vidow more.
To dalk mit dat shveet vidow,
Ven she hands das lager round,
Vill make der shap dat does id
Pe happy, ve'll be pound.
Dat ish if we can vell pelieve
De glerks vat drinks das beer,
Who goes in dere for noding elshe,
Put simply for to zee her.
II.
How der Breitmann cut him out.
Oh yes I know die wittwe,
Mit eyes so prite und proun!
She's de allersch'nste wittwe
Vot live in dis here down.
In her plack silk gown mine grashious!
All puttoned to de neck
Und a pooty liddle collar,
Mitout a shpot or shpeck.
Ho! clear de drack you oder fraus
You can't pegin to shine
Vhen de lofely vidder cooms along
Dis vidder ash ish mine!
Ho! clear de drack you Yankee chaps,
You Englishers und sooch,
You can't pegin to coot me out,
Mitout you dalks in Dootch.
Ich hab die sch'ne wittwe
Schon lange nit gesehn,
Ich sah sie gestern Abend
Wohl bei dem Counter Stehn.
Die Wangen rein wie Milch and Blut
Die Augen hell und klar.
Ich hab sie sechsmal auch gek'sst
Potztausend! das ist wahr.
In Vita Minerva
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Vex not the Muse with idle prayers, - 
She will not hear thy call;
She steals upon thee unawares,
Or seeks thee not at all.
Soft as the moonbeams when they sought
Endymion's fragrant bower,
She parts the whispering leaves of thought
To show her full-blown flower.
For thee her wooing hour has passed,
The singing birds have flown,
And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.
Yet, though the woods no longer thrill
As once their arches rung,
Sweet echoes hover round thee still
Of songs thy summer sung.
Live in thy past; await no more
The rush of heaven-sent wings;
Earth still has music left in store
While Memory sighs and sings.
How Primroses Came Green.
by Robert Herrick

Virgins, time-past, known were these,
Troubled with green-sicknesses:
Turn'd to flowers, still the hue,
Sickly girls, they bear of you.
A Coronal With His Songs And Her Days To His Lady And To Love
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Lament XI
by Jan Kochanowski

"Virtue is but a trifle!" Brutus said
In his defeat; nor was he cozened.
What man did his own goodness e'er advance
Or piety preserve from evil chance?
Some unknown foe confuses men's affairs;
For good and bad alike it nothing cares.
Where blows its breath, no man can flee away;
Both false and righteous it hath power to stay.
Yet still we vaunt us of our mighty mind
In idle arrogance among our kind;
And still we gaze on heaven and think we see
The Lord and his all-holy mystery.
Nay, human eyes are all too dull; light dreams
Amuse and cheat us with what only seems.
Ah, dost thou rob me, Grief, my safeguards spurning,
Of both my darling and my trust in learning?
Amour 8
by Michael Drayton

Vnto the World, to Learning, and to Heauen,
Three nines there are, to euerie one a nine;
One number of the earth, the other both diuine,
One wonder woman now makes three od numbers euen.
Nine orders, first, of Angels be in heauen;
Nine Muses doe with learning still frequent:
These with the Gods are euer resident.
Nine worthy men vnto the world were giuen.
My Worthie one to these nine Worthies addeth,
And my faire Muse one Muse vnto the nine;
And my good Angell, in my soule diuine,
With one more order these nine orders gladdeth.
My Muse, my Worthy, and my Angell, then,
Makes euery one of these three nines a ten.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Vnhappie sight, and hath shee vanisht by
So nere, in so good time, so free a place!
Dead Glasse, dost thou thy obiect so imbrace,
As what my hart still sees thou canst not spie!
I sweare by her I loue and lacke, that I
Was not in fault, who bent thy dazling race
Onely vnto the heau'n of Stellas face,
Counting but dust what in the way did lie.
But cease, mine eyes, your teares do witnesse well
That you, guiltlesse thereof, your nectar mist:
Curst be the page from whome the bad torch fell:
Curst be the night which did your strife resist:
Curst be the coachman that did driue so fast,
With no lesse curse then absence makes me tast.
King Trisanku
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Viswamitra the Magician,
By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra's realms elysian
Raised Trisanku, king of nations.
Indra and the gods offended
Hurled him downward, and descending
In the air he hung suspended,
With these equal powers contending.
Thus by aspirations lifted,
By misgivings downward driven,
Human hearts are tossed and drifted
Midway between earth and heaven.
The Word
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Voice of the Holy Spirit, making known
Man to himself, a witness swift and sure,
Warning, approving, true and wise and pure,
Counsel and guidance that misleadeth none!
By thee the mystery of life is read;
The picture-writing of the world's gray seers,
The myths and parables of the primal years,
Whose letter kills, by thee interpreted
Take healthful meanings fitted to our needs,
And in the soul's vernacular express
The common law of simple righteousness.
Hatred of cant and doubt of human creeds
May well be felt: the unpardonable sin
Is to deny the Word of God within
Breitmann in Politics I. The Nomination
by Charles G. Leland

Vhen ash de var vas ober,
und Beace her shnow-wice vings
Vas vafin' o'er de coondry
(in shpodts) like efery dings
Und heroes vere revardtet,
de beople all pegan
To say 'tvas shame
dat nodings vas done for Breitemann.
No man wised how id vas shtartet,
or vhere de fore shlog came,
Boot dey shveared it vas a cinder,
dereto a purnin' shame:
'Dere is Schnitzerl in de Gustom-House
potzblitz! can dis dings be!
Und Breitemann he hafe nodings:
vot sighds is dis to see!
'Nod de virst ret cendt for Breitmann!
ish dis do pe de gry
On de man dat sacked de repels
und trinked dem high und dry?
By meine Seel' I shvears id,
und vhat's more I deglares id's drue,
He vonce gleaned oudt a down in half an our,
und shtripped id strumpf und shoe.
'Vhen dey ploondered de down of Huntsville,
I dells you vot, py tam!
He burned oop four biano-fords
and a harp to roast a ham;
Vhen he found de rouge und 'mail de Paris,
which de laties hafe hid in a shpot,
He whited his horse all ofer
und denn pinked his ears, bei Gott!
'Vhen he found dat a blace was ploonder-fool,
he alvays tell dem, sure:
'Men, sack und pack! I shoots mine eyes
for only shoost an uhr.'
Boot if de blace vas fery rich,
he vouldt say mit a solemn mien:
'Men I only shleep for von half uhr more
ve moost hafe tiscipline.'
'He vas shoost like K'nig Etzel,
of whom de shdory dell,
Der Hun who go for de Romans
und gife dem shinin hell:
Only dis dat dey say no grass vouldt crow
vhere Etzel's horse had trot.
Und I really peliefe vhere Breitmann go,
de hops shpring oop, bei Gott!'
If once you tie a dog loose,
dere ish more soon geds aroundt,
Und vhen dis vas shtartedt on Breitmann
id was rings aroom be-foundt;
Dough vhy he moost hafe somedings
vas nod by no means glear,
Nor tid id, like Paulus' confersion,
on de snap to all abbear!
Und, in facdt, Balthazar Bumchen saidt
he couldtent nicht blainly see
Vhy a feller for gaddrin' riches
shood dus revartedt pe:
Der Breitmann own drei Houser,
mit a weinhandle in a stohr,
Dazu ein Lager-Wirthschaft,
und sonst was somedings more.
Dis plasted plackguard none-sense
ve couldn't no means shtand
From a narrow-mineted shvine's kopf,
of our nople captain grand:
Soosh low, goarse, betty bornirtheit
a shentleman deplores;
So ve called him verfluchter Hundsfott,
und shmysed him out of toors.
So ve all dissolfed dat Breitmann
shouldt hafe a nomination
To go to de Legisladoor,
to make some dings off de nation;
Mit de helb of a Connedigut man,
in whom ve hafe great hobes,
Who hat shange his boledics fivdeen dimes,
und derefore knew de robes.
The Horse.
by William Hayley

Virtue! thou hast spells divine,
Spells, that savage force controul!
What's the strongest charm of thine?
Courage in a mother's soul.
Haste my song, the scene proclaim,
That may prove the maxim true!
Fair ones of maternal fame,
Hark! for honour speaks to you.
Noblest of your noble band,
Brave Marcella chanc'd to rove,
Leading childhood in her hand,
Thro' a deep and lonely grove:
See her child! how gay! how light!
Twice two years her life has run,
Like a young Aurora bright,
Sporting near the rising sun.
Thro' a pass of sandy stone,
Where autumnal foliage glow'd,
While the quivering sun-beams shone,
Lay their deep, and narrow road:
Now, as thro' the dale they pac'd,
Pleas'd with its umbrageous charm,
Lo! a fiery steed, in haste,
Prancing, spreads a quick alarm,
Fiercest of Arabia's race,
Force and beauty form'd his pride;
Vainly tutor'd for the chace,
Care he scorn'd, and rule defied.
Soon his rider had been flung,
Tho' like Perseus, he adroit,
Oft to flying coursers clung,
Proud of every bold exploit!
Now, on foot, he tried in vain,
Or to soften, or subdue
This wild steed, whose leading rein,
Short and tight he firmly drew:
But the more the horseman strove
To restrain his fiery force,
More he made the solemn grove
Echo to his frantic course.
Snorting loud, with savage leer,
All controuling powers to foil,
See him plunge! and see him rear!
Mocking all his leader's toil!
Fearless for himself alone,
He, of courage bravely mild,
Manly fear was frank to own
For the mother, and her child:
For the beast, in barb'rous ire,
To the child and mother rush'd;
Both he deem'd must now expire,
By the vicious monster crush'd:
For his rage, with forceful art,
Still he fail'd to turn, or tame:
Fear and pity fill'd his heart,
And convuls'd his manly frame,
"Fly!" he cried, in accents weak,
As the rampant courser sped;
"Fly!" was all, that he could speak,
Toss'd beneath the monster's head.
But without her child to fly,
Brave Marcella now disdained:
As her darling's guard to die,
This her only hope remained.
On the bank, where pine-trees mixt,
Thick to form an arching wood,
At her back her child she fixt,
And before it bravely stood:
Firm in voice, in soul elate,
Then in solemn tone she cried,
"With her features fixt as fate--
Tell your father how I died."
Noble parent! nature saw,
Virtue shining in thy soul,
And with sudden, wond'rous awe
Struck the beast, that spurn'd controul;
For, as if thy fixed eyes
Darted fascinating flame,
He, to thy devout surprise,
Stood before thee fondly tame:
He, as touched by powers above,
That can demons dispossess,
View'd thee, with submissive love,
Like a spaniel's meek caress.
Free from all maternal dread,
Now 'twas thine to raise and chear
Him, from whom the courser fled,
Trembling yet with generous fear!
Fear soon turned to strong delight,
When he saw the savage tam'd;
And enchanted by the sight,
Quick the horseman thus exclaim'd:
"God! I thank thee, I behold
Wonders far surpassing thought
More than fiction ever told,
By maternal virtue wrought!"
"Virtue, in thy praises warm,
I may speak how fair thou art:
I have seen thy fairest form--
Courage in a mother's heart."
Tourists
by Yehuda Amichai

Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Battle Days
by George Parsons Lathrop

I
Veteran memories rally to muster
Here at the call of the old battle days:
Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster:
All the wild whirl of the fight's broken maze:
Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre,
Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the shell,
With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor,
And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel yell.
Stern was our task in the field where the reaping
Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men low:
Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping:
Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and flow.
Swift came the silence - our enemy hiding
Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:
Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;
Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their flight!
Hard and incessant the danger and trial,
Laid on our squadrons, that gladly bore all,
Scorning to meet with delay or denial
The summons that rang in the battle-days' call!
II
Wild days that woke to glory or despair,
And smote the coward soul with sudden shame,
But unto those whose hearts were bold to dare
All things for honor brought eternal fame: - 
Lost days, undying days!
With undiminished rays
Here now on us look down,
Illumining our crown
Of leaves memorial, wet with tender dew
For those who nobly died
In fierce self-sacrifice of service true,
Rapt in pure fire of life-disdaining pride;
Men of this soil, who stood
Firm for their country's good,
From night to night, from sun to sun,
Till o'er the living and the slain
A woful dawn that streamed with rain
Wept for their victory dearly won.
III
Days of the future, prophetic days, - 
Silence engulfs the roar of war;
Yet, through all coming years, repeat the praise
Of those leal comrades brave, who come no more!
And when our voices cease,
Long, long renew the chant, the anthem proud,
Which, echoing clear and loud
Through templed aisles of peace,
Like blended tumults of a joyous chime,
Shall tell their valor to a later time.
Shine on this field; and in the eyes of men
Rekindle, if the need shall come again,
That answering light that springs
In beaconing splendor from the soul, and brings
Promise of faith well kept and deed sublime!
Harmonie Du Soir (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

Voici venir les temps o vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'vapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mlancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'vapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frmit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mlancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frmit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre qui hait le nant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noy dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre qui hait le nant vaste et noir,
Du pass lumineux receuille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noy dans son sang qui se fige ...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
Victor Hugo.
by Eric Mackay

Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead!
Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand
A poor pale wreath, the best at my command,
But all unfit to deck so grand a head.
It is the outcome of a neighbour land
Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years.
It is the token of a nation's tears
Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again.
Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain, -
These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse.
We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse;
We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign.
Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone,
But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!
Hymne A La Beaute (French)
by Charles Baudelaire

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l'ab'me
O Beaut'? ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confus'ment le bienfait et le crime,
Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.
Tu contiens dans ton 'il le couchant et l'aurore;
Tu r'pands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le h'ros l'che et l'enfant courageux.
Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le Destin charm' suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu s'mes au hasard la joie et les d'sastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne r'ponds de rien.
Tu marches sur des morts, Beaut', dont tu te moques;
De tes bijoux l'Horreur n'est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus ch'res breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.
L''ph'm're 'bloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Cr'pite, flambe et dit: B'nissons ce flambeau!
L'amoureux pantelant inclin' sur sa belle
A l'air d'un moribond caressant son tombeau.
Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe,
O Beaut'! monstre 'norme, effrayant, ing'nu!
Si ton 'il, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte
D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu?
De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe? Ange ou Sir'ne,
Qu'importe, si tu rends, 'f'e aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ' mon unique reine!'
L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?
The Dying Christian To His Soul
by Alexander Pope

Vital spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh, quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?
The world recedes; it disappears;
Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?
The Poet's Mind
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
Vex not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit;
Vex not thou the poet's mind,
For thou canst not fathom it.
Clear and bright it should be ever,
Flowing like a crystal river,
Bright as light, and clear as wind.
II.
Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear;
All the place is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer
Come not here.
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wild-bird's din.
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants.
It would fall to the ground if you came in.
In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,
Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder;
All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder.
It springs on a level of bowery lawn,
And the mountain draws it from heaven above,
And it sings a song of undying love;
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full,
You never would hear it, your ears are so dull;
So keep where you are; you are foul with sin;
It would shrink to the earth if you came in.
An Epitaph Upon A Child
by Robert Herrick

Virgins promised when I died,
That they would each primrose-tide
Duly, morn and evening, come,
And with flowers dress my tomb.
Having promised, pay your debts
Maids, and here strew violets.