DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To John Nichol - Sonnets
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
Friend of the dead, and friend of all my days
Even since they cast off boyhood, I salute
The song saluting friends whose songs are mute
With full burnt-offerings of clear-spirited praise.
That since our old young years our several ways
Have led through fields diverse of flower and fruit
Yet no cross wind has once relaxed the root
We set long since beneath the sundawn's rays,
The root of trust whence towered the trusty tree,
Friendship this only and duly might impel
My song to salutation of your own;
More even than praise of one unseen of me
And loved the starry spirit of Dobell,
To mine by light and music only known.
II.
But more than this what moves me most of all
To leave not all unworded and unsped
The whole heart's greeting of my thanks unsaid
Scarce needs this sign, that from my tongue should fall
His name whom sorrow and reverent love recall,
The sign to friends on earth of that dear head
Alive, which now long since untimely dead
The wan grey waters covered for a pall.
Their trustless reaches dense with tangling stems
Took never life more taintless of rebuke,
More pure and perfect, more serene and kind,
Than when those clear eyes closed beneath the Thames,
And made the now more hallowed name of Luke
Memorial to us of morning left behind.
Ballade Of The Absent Guest
by Richard Le Gallienne

Friends whom to-night once more I greet,
Most glad am I with you to be,
And, as I look around, I meet
Many a face right good to see;
But one I miss - ah! where is he? - 
Of merry eye and sparkling jest,
Who used to brim my glass for me;
I drink - in what? - the Absent Guest.
Low lies he in his winding-sheet,
By organized hypocrisy
Hurled from his happy wine-clad seat,
Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee;
His very name daren't mention we,
That good old friend who brought such zest,
And set our tongues and spirits free:
I drink - in what? - the Absent Guest.
No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet,"
'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye, - ah! me - 
Or Scotch - and think! we live to see't - 
No whispered word, nor massive fee,
Nor even influenza plea,
Can raise a bubble; but, as best
We may, we make our hollow spree:
I drink - in what? - the Absent Guest.
ENVOI
Friends, good is coffee, good is tea,
And water has a charm unguessed - 
And yet - that brave old deity!
I drink - in tears - the Absent Guest.
Epigram On One Who Made Long Epitaphs.[129]
by Alexander Pope

Friend, for your epitaphs I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.
Song Of Freedom To "The United Left" (1877)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 63)
Freedom's father - power strong,
Freedom's mother - wrath and song.
Giant-stout, a youth self-taught,
Soon a giant's work he wrought.
Ever he, full of glee,
Thought and wit and melody,
Mighty, merry, made his way, - 
Labor's toil or battle-fray.
Enemies whom none could tell
Lay in wait this foe to fell,
Found him waking all too stark,
Sought his sleeping hours to mark,
Tried their skill, bound him still;
When he wakened, they fared ill.
Glad he forward strode firm-paced,
Full of power, full of haste.
Bare fields blossom 'neath his feet,
Commerce swells about his seat,
From his fire gleam thought-rays bright, - 
All things doubled are in might!
For the land law he planned,
Keeps it, guards with head and hand,
Of all rue and error quit,
Crushing him who injures it.
Freedom's God is God of light,
Not the bondsman's god of fright, - 
God of love and brotherhood,
Springtime's hope and will for good.
To earth's ends peace He sends!
Heed the words His law commends:
"One your Lord, and I am He,
Have no other gods but Me!"
Rhymes And Rhythms - VIII
by William Ernest Henley

(To J. A. C.)
Fresh from his fastnesses
Wholesome and spacious,
The north wind, the mad huntsman,
Halloos on his white hounds
Over the grey, roaring
Reaches and ridges,
The forest of ocean,
The chace of the world.
Hark to the peal
Of the pack in full cry,
As he thongs them before him
Swarming voluminous,
Weltering, wide-wallowing,
Till in a ruining
Chaos of energy,
Hurled on their quarry,
They crash into foam!
Old Indefatigable,
Time's right-hand man, the sea
Laughs as in joy
From his millions of wrinkles:
Laughs that his destiny,
Great with the greatness
Of triumphing order,
Shows as a dwarf
By the strength of his heart
And the might of his hands.
Master of masters,
O maker of heroes,
Thunder the brave,
Irresistible message:
'Life is worth living
Through every grain of it
From the foundations
To the last edge
Of the cornerstone, death.'
Frida
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 18)
Frida, I knew that thy life-years were counted.
If but before thee a lifting thought mounted,
Upward thy gaze turned all wistful to view it,
As wouldst thou pursue it.
Eyes that so clear saw the wonderful vision
Looked far away beyond earth's indecision.
Snow-white unfolded the pinions that later
Bore thee to the greater.
Speaking or asking thou broughtest me sorrow;
Eyes thine and words thine seemed wanting to borrow
Clearness more pure and thoughts, victory gaining
Beyond my attaining.
When thou wert dancing in all a child's lightness,
Shaking thy locks like a fountain in brightness,
Laughing till heaven was opened in gladness
Over thy gladness, - 
Or when affliction in sternness had spoken,
So that thy heart in that moment seemed broken,
Far from thy thoughts in thy suffering riven
Were both earth and heaven, - 
Then, oh, I saw then: thy joy and thy grieving
Ever the bounds of the mortal were cleaving.
All seems so little where silent we ponder, - 
But room they have yonder.
Nursery Rhyme. CVII. Proverbs.
by Unknown

Friday night's dream
On the Saturday told,
Is sure to come true,
Be it never so old.
Sonnet. To A Lyre.
by Thomas Gent

Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov'd strain
The magic pow'r of pleasure have I known:
Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain,
And seem to taste of joys that long had flown.
When o'er my suffering soul reflection casts
The gloom of sorrow's sable-shadowing veil,
Recalling sad misfortunes chilling blasts 
How sweet to thee to tell the mournful tale!
And tho' denied to me the strings to move
Like heavenly-gifted bards, to whom belong
The power to melt the yielding soul to love,
Or wake to war, with energetic song.
Yet thou, my Lyre, canst cheer the gloomy hour,
When sullen grief asserts her tyrant pow'r.
A Happy New Year
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

11.30 P.M., DEC. 31
Friend, when the year is on the wing,
'Tis held a fair and comely thing
To turn reflective glances
Over the days' forbidden Scroll,
See if we're better on the whole,
And average our chances.
Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag
Each separate deed from out the bag
That up till now has hidden 't,
And bring before the shuddering view
All that we swore we wouldn't do,
Or should have done, but didn't.
The broken code, the baffled laws
Our little private faults and flaws,
And every naughty habit,
Come whistling through the Waste of Life,
Until one longs to take a knife,
Feel for his heart, and stab it.
Unchanged, exultant, one and all
Rise up spontaneous to the call,
And bring their stings behind them;
But when the search is duly plied
For items on the credit side,
One has a job to find them!
I know not why they change. I know - 
None better - how one's feelings grow
Distinctly kin to mutiny,
To see one's assets limping in,
All too preposterously thin
To stand a moment's scrutiny.
I know that shock must follow shock,
Until the sole remaining Rock
That all one's hopes exist on,
Crumbles beneath the crushing force
Of Conscience, kicking like a horse,
And pounding like a piston.
Hardly a little year has past
Since you, I take it, swore to cast
Aside the bonds that girt you,
And thought to stun the dazzled earth,
A pillared Miracle of Worth,
Raised on a plinth of Virtue.
One always does. One wonders why.
One knows that, as the years go by,
One finds the same old blunders,
The same old acts, the same old words;
And as one trots them out in herds,
Or one by one, one wonders;
Another year, - a touch of grey, - 
A little stiffness, - day by day
We feel the need of, shall we say,
Goggles to face the sun with, - 
A little loss of youthful bloom, - 
A little nearer to the Tomb!
(Pardon this momentary gloom)
Bang go the bells. That's done with!
Friendship.
by Friedrich Schiller

[From "Letters of Julius to Raphael," an unpublished Novel.]
Friend! the Great Ruler, easily content,
Needs not the laws it has laborious been
The task of small professors to invent;
A single wheel impels the whole machine
Matter and spirit; yea, that simple law,
Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.
This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein,
Their radiant labyrinths to weave around
Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain,
Which into interwoven systems bound
All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun
As brooks that ever into ocean run!
Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide
Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond?
Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side
Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond
Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go
To that perfection which the angels know!
Happy, O happy I have found thee I
Have out of millions found thee, and embraced;
Thou, out of millions, mine! Let earth and sky
Return to darkness, and the antique waste
To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be,
Still shall each heart unto the other flee!
Do I not find within thy radiant eyes
Fairer reflections of all joys most fair?
In thee I marvel at myself the dyes
Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there,
And in the bright looks of the friend is given
A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven!
Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes
From the intolerant storm to rest awhile,
In love's true heart, sure haven of repose;
Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile
From that bright eloquence affection gave
To friendly looks? there, finds not pain a grave?
In all creation did I stand alone,
Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find,
Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone,
My griefs should feel a listener in the wind;
My joy its echo in the caves should be!
Fool, if ye will Fool, for sweet sympathy!
We are dead groups of matter when we hate;
But when we love we are as gods! Unto
The gentle fetters yearning, through each state
And shade of being multiform, and through
All countless spirits (save of all the sire)
Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.
Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade,
From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek,
Who the fine link between the mortal made,
And heaven's last seraph everywhere we seek
Union and bond till in one sea sublime
Of love be merged all measure and all time!
Friendless ruled God His solitary sky;
He felt the want, and therefore souls were made,
The blessed mirrors of his bliss! His eye
No equal in His loftiest works surveyed;
And from the source whence souls are quickened, He
Called His companion forth ETERNITY!
A Song In The Desert
by Rudyard Kipling

Friend, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it,
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive, shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?
First for my eyes, above all, he made show of his treasure.
First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.
If it were good, what acclaim! None other so moved me.
If it were faulty, what shame? While he mocked me he loved me.
Friend, thou hast seen in Rida'ar, the low moon descending,
One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?
Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,
Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him.
Whether the cliff-walled defiles, the ambush prepared for him;
Whether the wave-crested dunes, a single sword bared for him,
Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him
Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him.
Whether he feasted or fasted, sweated or shivered,
There was no proof of the matter, no sign was delivered.
Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,
He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with.
Friend, thou hast known at Rida'ar, when the Council was bidden,
One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?
One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?
And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting!
Never again in Rida'ar, my watch-fire burning,
That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;
Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her,
Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader!
Gems and wrought gold, never sold, brought for me to behold them;
Tales of far magic unrolled, to me only he told them,
With the light, easy laugh of dismissal 'twixt story and story,
As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory.
Never again in Rida'ar! My ways are made black to me!
Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!
There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.
Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said, yet he said:, 'Cease not from singing.')
Fresh From His Fastnesses
by William Ernest Henley

To J. A. C.
Fresh from his fastnesses
Wholesome and spacious,
The North Wind, the mad huntsman,
Halloas on his white hounds
Over the grey, roaring
Reaches and ridges,
The forest of ocean,
The chace of the world.
Hark to the peal
Of the pack in full cry,
As he thongs them before him,
Swarming voluminous,
Weltering, wide-wallowing,
Till in a ruining
Chaos of energy,
Hurled on their quarry,
They crash into foam!
Old Indefatigable,
Time's right-hand man, the sea
Laughs as in joy
From his millions of wrinkles:
Laughs that his destiny,
Great with the greatness
Of triumphing order,
Shows as a dwarf
By the strength of his heart
And the might of his hands.
Master of masters,
O maker of heroes,
Thunder the brave,
Irresistible message:-
'Life is worth Living
Through every grain of it,
From the foundations
To the last edge
Of the cornerstone, death.'
Never Had a Chance
by Hattie Howard

Fresh from piano, school, and books,
A happy girl with rosy looks
Young Plowman wooed and won; despite
Her pretty, pouting prejudice,
Her deep distaste for rural bliss
Or countryfied delight.
Romance through all her nature ran - 
Indeed, to wed a husband-man
Suffused her ardent maiden thought;
But lofty fancy dwelt upon
A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn,
A city's corner lot.
Her lily fingers that so well
Could paint a scene - in aquarelle - 
Or broider plush with leaves and vines,
No more of real labor knew
Than waxen petals of the dew
On native eglantines.
Anon, with lapse of tender ways
That emphasized the courting days,
The housewife in her apron blue,
As mistress of her new abode,
By frequent lachrymations showed
Her grief and blunders too.
The butter-making, bread and cheese,
The old folks difficult to please,
The harvest hands - voracious bears! - 
The infantry, a parent's pride,
By duos proudly classified:
So multiplied her cares.
The treadmill round of duties that
Makes any life inane and flat,
Without diversion sandwiched in,
The drudgery, the overplus
Of toil and trouble arduous,
Were rugged discipline.
What time for books and music, when
The lambs were bleating in their pen,
The chickens peeping at the door;
The rodent gnawing at the churn,
The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn,
The kettle boiling o'er?
To hers, so far between and few,
What resting-spells the farmer knew!
What intervals for culture! and
When intellect assumed the race,
He peerless held the foremost place - 
No nobler in the land.
By virtue of exalted rank
"The brilliant senator from -    - "
Adorns society's expanse;
While by his side with folded hands,
Her beauty gone, the woman stands
Who "never had a chance."
Friar Anselmo.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)
Committed one sad day a deadly sin;
Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,
From the rebuking presence of the Lord,
And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,
Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.
All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,
In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.
When all at once a cry of sharp distress
Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;
And, looking from the convent window high,
He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie
Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,
Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.
The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred,
When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard
With gentle hands, and touched with love divine,
He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.
With tender foresight cared for all his needs,--
A blessed ministry of noble deeds.
In such devotion passed seven days. At length
The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.
With grateful thanks he left the convent walls,
And once again on death Anselmo calls.
When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light,
And on the wall he saw an angel write,
(An angel in whose likeness he could trace,
More noble grown, the traveller's form and face),
"Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,
God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.
"Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,
By noble service done thy fellow-men.
"His soul draws nearest unto God above,
Who to his brother ministers in love."
Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,
His soul was lightened of its past despair.
Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will,
His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.
And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,
Owed to the friar solace and relief.
To The Judge
by James Whitcomb Riley

A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township
Friend of my earliest youth,
Can't you arrange to come down
And visit a fellow out here in the woods -
Out of the dust of the town?
Can't you forget you're a Judge
And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend -
Can't you arrange to come down?
Can't you forget for a while
The arguments prosy and drear, -
To lean at full-length in indefinite rest
In the lap of the greenery here?
Can't you kick over "the Bench,"
And "husk" yourself out of your gown
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good -
Can't you arrange to come down?
Bah! for your office of State!
And bah! for its technical lore!
What does our President, high in his chair,
But wish himself low as before!
Pick between peasant and king, -
Poke your bald head through a crown
Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring! -
Can't you arrange to come down?
"Judge it" out here, if you will, -
The birds are in session by dawn;
You can draw, not complaints, but a sketch of the hill
And a breath that your betters have drawn;
You can open your heart, like a case,
To a jury of kine, white and brown,
And their verdict of "Moo" will just satisfy you! -
Can't you arrange to come down?
Can't you arrange it, old Pard? -
Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent! -
Here we have "Breitmann," and Ward,
Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content!
Can't you forget you're a Judge
And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend -
Can't you arrange to come down?
Sonnet XC.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio.
THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.
Friend, on this spot, I life but half endure
(Would I were wholly here and you content),
Where from the storm and wind my course I bent,
Which suddenly had left the skies obscure.
Fain would I tell--for here I feel me sure--
Why lightnings now no fear to me present;
And why unmitigated, much less spent,
E'en as before my fierce desires allure.
Soon as I reach'd these realms of love, and saw
Where, sweet and pure, to life my Laura came,
Who calms the air, at rest the thunder lays;
Love in my soul, where she alone gives law,
Quench'd the cold fear and kindled the fast flame;
What were it then on her bright eyes to gaze!
MACGREGOR.
The Sunset Thoughts Of A Dying Girl.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Friends! do you see in yon sunset sky,
That cloud of crimson bright?
Soon will its gorgeous colors die
In coming dim twilight;
E'en now it fadeth ray by ray - 
Like it I too shall pass away!
Look on yon fragile summer flower
Yielding its sweet perfume;
Soon shall it have lived out its hour,
Its beauty and its bloom:
Trampled, 'twill perish in the shade - 
Alas! as quickly shall I fade.
Mark you yon planet gleaming clear
With steadfast, gentle light,
See, heavy dark clouds hovering near,
Have veiled its radiance bright - 
As you vainly search that gloomy spot,
You'll look for me and find me not!
Turn now to yonder sparkling stream,
Where silver ripples play;
Dancing within the moon's pale beam - 
Ah! short will be their stay,
They break and die upon the shore - 
Like them I soon shall be no more!
Yes! emblems meet of my career,
Are ripple, cloud, and flower;
Fated like me to linger here,
But for a brief, bright hour - 
And then, alas! to yield my place;
And leave, perchance, on earth no trace!
No trace, my friends, save in your hearts,
That pure and sacred shrine - 
Where, 'spite life's thousand cares and arts,
A place shall yet be mine;
And love as deep as that of yore - 
Though on this earth we meet no more!
Poem, Addressed To Mr. Mitchell, Collector Of Excise. Dumfries, 1796.
by Robert Burns

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil
Wi' a' his witches
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel,
In my poor pouches!
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it,
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bear't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.
Postscript.
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by felt death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't,
A tentier way:
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!
The Peter-Penny.
by Robert Herrick

Fresh strewings allow
To my sepulchre now,
To make my lodging the sweeter;
A staff or a wand
Put then in my hand,
With a penny to pay S. Peter.
Who has not a cross
Must sit with the loss,
And no whit further must venture;
Since the porter he
Will paid have his fee,
Or else not one there must enter.
Who at a dead lift
Can't send for a gift
A pig to the priest for a roaster,
Shall hear his clerk say,
By yea and by nay,
No penny, no paternoster.