DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Wren.
by Charles Sangster

Early each spring the little wren
Came scolding to his nest of moss;
We knew him by his peevish cry,
He always sung so very cross.
His quiet little mate would lay
Her eggs in peace, and think all day.
He was a sturdy little wren;
And when he came in spring, we knew,
Or seemed to know, the flowers would grow
To please him, where they always grew,
Among the rushes, cheerfully;
But not a rush so straight as he!
All summer long that little wren
Would chatter like a saucy thing;
And in the bush attack the thrush
That on the hawthorn perched to sing.
Like many noisy little men,
Lived, bragged, and fought that little wren.
There was a thoughtful maid, and I,
We used to play along the shore,
Searching for shells, and culling flowers,
As at the threshold of life's door,
Through which we had to pass, we stood,
Twin types of childish hardihood.
Year after year we gathered flowers,
And grew apace, as children do;
And each returning spring we marked
The little wrens, they never grew;
One over-quiet and sedate,
The other, a bird-reprobate.
But now the marsh is overflowed,
The rushes rot beneath the sand;
No spring brings back the little wrens,
No children loiter hand in hand;
The maiden rose-bud, pure and good,
Grown to the flower of womanhood.
I Pay My Debt For Lafayette And Rochambeau
by Edgar Lee Masters

- His Own Words
IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL
*         *         *         *         *
Eagle, whose fearless
Flight in vast spaces
Clove the inane,
While we stood tearless,
White with rapt faces
In wonder and pain. ...
Heights could not awe you,
Depths could not stay you.
Anguished we saw you,
Saw Death way-lay you
Where the storm flings
Black clouds to thicken
Round France's defender!
Archangel stricken
From ramparts of splendor - 
Shattered your wings! ...
But Lafayette called you,
Rochambeau beckoned.
Duty enthralled you.
For France you had reckoned
Her gift and your debt.
Dull hearts could harden
Half-gods could palter.
For you never pardon
If Liberty's altar
You chanced to forget. ...
Stricken archangel!
Ramparts of splendor
Keep you, evangel
Of souls who surrender
No banner unfurled
For ties ever living,
Where Freedom has bound them.
Praise and thanksgiving
For love which has crowned them - 
Love frees the world! ...
An Easter Rhyme
by Barcroft Boake

Easter Monday in the city,
Rattle, rattle, rumble, rush;
Tom and Jerry, Nell and Kitty,
All the down-the-harbour 'push,'
Little thought have they, or pity,
For a wanderer from the bush.
Shuffle, feet, a merry measure,
Hurry, Jack and find your Jill,
Let her,if it give her pleasure,
Flaunt her furbelow and frill,
Kiss her while you have the leisure,
For tomorrow brings the mill.
Go ye down the harbour, winding
'Mid the eucalypts and fern,
Respite from your troubles finding,
Kiss her, till her pale cheeks burn,
For to-morrow will the grinding
Mill-stones of the city turn.
Stunted figures, sallow faces,
Sad girls striving to be gay
In their cheap sateens and laces.
Ah! how different 'tis to-day
Where they're going to the races,
Yonder, up Monaro way!
Light mist flecks the Murrumbidgee's
Bosom with a silver stain,
On the trembling wire bridge is
Perched a single long legged crane,
While the yellow, slaty ridges
Sweep up proudly from the plain.
Somebody is after horses,
Donald, Charlie or young Mac,
Suddenly his arm he tosses,
Presently you'll hear the crack,
As the symbol of the cross is
Made on 'Possum's steaming back.
Stirling first! the Masher follows,
Ly-ee-moon and old Trump Card,
Helter skelter through the shallows
Of the willow-shaded ford,
Up the lane and past the 'gallows,'
Driven panting to the yard.
In the homestead, what a clatter;
Habits black and habits blue,
Full a dozen red lips patter:
'Who is going to ride with who?'
Mixing sandwiches and chatter,
Gloves to button, hair to 'do,'
Horses stamp and stirrups jingle,
'Dash the filly! won't she wait?'
Voices, bass and treble, mingle,
'Look sharp, May, or we'll be late;'
How the pulses leap and tingle
As you lift her featherweight!
At the thought the heart beats quicker
Than an old Bohemian's should,
Beating like my battered ticker
Pawned this time, I fear, for good).
Bah! I'll go and have a liquor
With the genial 'Jimmy Wood.'
Poem: Louis Napoleon
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican,
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier's crown,
That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,
And found it sweeter than his honied bees,
And that the giant wave Democracy
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
Spelt from Sibyl's Leaves
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, | vaulty, voluminous, . . stupendous
Evening strains to be t'me's v'st, | womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, | her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, | st'rs principal, overbend us,
F're-f'aturing heaven. For earth | her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as- tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; | self 'n self steep'd and pashed - q'ite
Disremembering, d'smembering | 'll now. Heart, you round me right
With: 'ur 'vening is over us; 'ur night | wh'lms, wh'lms, 'nd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish | damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. 'ur tale, 'ur oracle! | L't life, w'ned, ah l't life wind
Off h'r once sk'ined stained v'ined var'ety | upon, 'll on tw' spools; p'rt, pen, p'ck
Now her 'll in tw' flocks, tw' folds - black, white; | right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But th'se two; w're of a w'rld where b't these | tw' tell, each off the 'ther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, | th'ughts aga'nst thoughts 'n groans gr'nd.
On A Suicide.
by Robert Burns

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble,
Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel'
To save the Lord the trouble.
Gentle Echo On Woman, A
by Jonathan Swift

IN THE DORIC MANNER
Shepherd.     Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply,
And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?
Echo.                                 Try.
Shepherd.     What must we do our passion to express?
Echo.                                 Press.
Shepherd.     How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before?
Echo.                                 Before.
Shepherd.     What most moves women when we them address?
Echo.                                 A dress.
Shepherd.     Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore?
Echo.                                 A door.
Shepherd.     If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre.
Echo.                                 Liar.
Shepherd.     Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her?
Echo.                                 Buy her.
Shepherd.     When bought, no question I shall be her dear?
Echo.                                 Her deer.
Shepherd.     But deer have horns: how must I keep her under?
Echo.                                 Keep her under.
Shepherd.     But what can glad me when she's laid on bier?
Echo.                                 Beer.
Shepherd.     What must I do so women will be kind?
Echo.                                 Be kind.
Shepherd.     What must I do when women will be cross?
Echo.                                 Be cross.
Shepherd.     Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind?
Echo.                                 Wind.
Shepherd.     If she be wind, what stills her when she blows?
Echo.                                 Blows.
Shepherd.     But if she bang again, still should I bang her?
Echo.                                 Bang her.
Shepherd.     Is there no way to moderate her anger?
Echo.                                 Hang her.
Shepherd.     Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell
What woman is and how to guard her well.
Echo.                                 Guard her well.
Epigram 3. - Spirit Of Plato.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

FROM THE GREEK.
Eagle! why soarest thou above that tomb?
To what sublime and star-ypaven home
Floatest thou? -
I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,
Ascending heaven; Athens doth inherit
His corpse below.
The Book Of Urizen: Chapter II
by William Blake

I
Earth was not: nor globes of attraction
The will of the Immortal expanded
Or contracted his all flexible senses.
Death was not, but eternal life sprung
II
The sound of a trumpet the heavens
Awoke & vast clouds of blood roll'd
Round the dim rocks of Urizen, so nam'd
That solitary one in Immensity
III
Shrill the trumpet: & myriads of Eternity,
Muster around the bleak desarts
Now fill'd with clouds, darkness & waters
That roll'd perplex'd labring & utter'd
Words articulate, bursting in thunders
That roll'd on the tops of his mountains
IV
From the depths of dark solitude. From
The eternal abode in my holiness,
Hidden set apart in my stern counsels
Reserv'd for the days of futurity,
I have sought for a joy without pain,
For a solid without fluctuation
Why will you die O Eternals?
Why live in unquenchable burnings?
V
First I fought with the fire; consum'd
Inwards, into a deep world within:
A void immense, wild dark & deep,
Where nothing was: Natures wide womb
And self balanc'd stretch'd o'er the void
I alone, even I! the winds merciless
Bound; but condensing, in torrents
They fall & fall; strong I repell'd
The vast waves, & arose on the waters
A wide world of solid obstruction
VI
Here alone I in books formd of metals
Have written the secrets of wisdom
The secrets of dark contemplation
By fightings and conflicts dire,
With terrible monsters Sin-bred:
Which the bosoms of all inhabit;
Seven deadly Sins of the soul.
VII
Lo! I unfold my darkness: and on
This rock, place with strong hand the Book
Of eternal brass, written in my solitude.
VIII
Laws of peace, of love, of unity:
Of pity, compassion, forgiveness.
Let each chuse one habitation:
His ancient infinite mansion:
One command, one joy, one desire,
One curse, one weight, one measure
One King, one God, one Law.
The Note Of Nature.
by Theodore Harding Rand

Earth's manifold noises break
Overhead, in the calm,
In unison full, and wake
The note of a psalm.
On the sunny hills, in the vales,
It falls on my ear;
Down the baffling winds it sails,
In the night draweth near.
It sounds like great mountains to me,
A deep monotone - 
Like the veiled AEonian sea,
That girdles Time's zone.
The sun and the stars and the moon
Keep time with this note,
The evening and morning and noon,
Things near and remote.
The tides ebb and flow to its beat,
'Tis the seasons' rhyme, - 
The harebell and twin-flower sweet
Its undertone chime.
The night-moth stirs to the reed,
And the beetle booms;
The bird and the beast are keyed
To the flower that blooms.
And man to his high service goes
Aswing to his goal,
Like the tides and the stars and the rose, - 
Tone, overtone, whole!
I hear it by day and by night,
In storm and in calm, - 
A low swelling note from a height,
With the roll of a psalm.
Valentine Verses, Sent To My Young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan, Of Wallington-House, Northumberland.
by John Carr (Sir)

Emma! 'tis early time for thee
To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,
That breathe around the rosy shrine
Of honest old Saint Valentine.
Too young art thou for strains of love;
'Tis not thy passion I would move;
Instead of lover's strains, I send
The cordial wishes of a friend.
Nobly has Nature done her duty,
To give thee of thy mother's beauty
So large a share - oh! then be thine
The mental charms that in her shine!
And may thy father's taste refin'd
Still add new graces to thy mind;
And may'st thou to each charm impart
The gen'rous frankness of his heart.
Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move
In many a heart more genuine love
Than ever warm'd poetic line,
Or sigh'd in any Valentine.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXVIII. Riddles.
by Unknown

Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy and Bess,
They all went together to seek a bird's nest.
They found a bird's nest with five eggs in,
They all took one, and left four in.
Self-Congratulation
by Anne Bronte

Ellen, you were thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire,
Careless of form and face;
Then whence this change? and wherefore now
So often smooth your hair?
And wherefore deck your youthful form
With such unwearied care?
Tell us, and cease to tire our ears
With that familiar strain,
Why will you play those simple tunes
So often, o'er again?
'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone;
Each year its own new feelings brings,
And years move swiftly on:
'And for these little simple airs,
I love to play them o'er
So much, I dare not promise, now,
To play them never more.'
I answered, and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts,
Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form,
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gazer well might trace;
The speaking eye, the changing lip,
The ready blushing cheek,
The smiling, or beclouded brow,
Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine
For hours, and never know
The secret changes of my soul
From joy to keenest woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard, without, approaching steps
Of one well known to me!
There was no trembling in my voice,
No blush upon my cheek,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope, or joy, to speak;
But, oh! my spirit burned within,
My heart beat full and fast!
He came not nigh, he went away,
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not:
My voice was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face
No signs of sadness came.
They little knew my hidden thoughts;
And they will never know
The aching anguish of my heart,
The bitter burning woe
The Elleree.[1]
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

A SONG OF SECOND SIGHT.
Elleree! O Elleree!
Seeing what none else may see,
Dost thou see the man in grey?
Dost thou hear the night hounds bay?
Elleree! O Elleree!
Seventh son of seventh son,
All thy thread of life is spun,
Thy little race is nearly run,
And death awaits for thee!
Elleree! O Elleree!
Coronach shall wail for thee;
Get thee shrived and get thee blest,
Get thee ready for thy rest,
Elleree! O Elleree!
That thou owest quickly give,
What thou ownest thou must leave,
And those thou lovest best shall grieve,
But all in vain for thee!
"Bodach Glas!"[2] the chieftain said,
"All my debts but one are paid,
All I love have long been dead,
All my hopes on Heaven are stay'd,
Death to me can bring no dole;"
Thus the Elleree replied;--
But with ebbing of the tide
As sinks the setting sun he died;--
May Christ receive his soul!
Emily, John, James, And I. A Derby Legend.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Emily Jane was a nursery maid,
James was a bold Life Guard,
John was a constable, poorly paid
(And I am a doggerel bard).
A very good girl was Emily Jane,
Jimmy was good and true,
John was a very good man in the main
(And I am a good man too).
Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James,
Though Emily liked them both;
She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims
(And I couldn't take my oath).
But sooner or later you're certain to find
Your sentiments can't lie hid -
JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind
(And I think it was time she did).
Said Jane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
"I'll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!"
(Which I would have done, with joy).
From Johnny escaped an expression of pain,
But Jimmy said, "Done with you!
I'll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane!"
(And I would have said so too).
John lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
(For Johnny was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
(Which I often do, when vexed).
For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force,
To punish all Epsom crimes;
Young people will cross when they're clearing the course
(I do it myself, sometimes).
* * * * * * * *
The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,
(For I, with my harp, was there).
And Jimmy went down with his JANE that day,
And John by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
(And I had a narrow escape).
He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim,
And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!"
(I often say "dim!" myself).
John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves;
For his sergeant he told, aside,
That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves
(And I think he was justified).
But James wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork,
And Jenny would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
(A bottle I think fair game).
But, ah! there's another more serious crime!
They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
(I pointed them out to John).
The constable fell on the pair in a crack -
And then, with a demon smile,
Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back
(I played on my harp the while).
Stern Johnny their agony loud derides
With a very triumphant sneer -
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
(And I shed a silent tear).
And Jenny is crying away like mad,
And Jimmy is swearing hard;
And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad
(And I am a doggerel bard).
But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again
The scenes of our Isthmian Games -
John caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
(I felt very much for James).
John led him away with a victor's hand,
And Jimmy was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
(As many a time I'VE been).
And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
Though Emily pleaded hard;
And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife
(And I am a doggerel bard).
To Miss E.P.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul's future existence,
Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
2.
Had their Prophet possess'd but an atom of sense,
He ne'er would have woman from Paradise driven,
But instead of his Houris a flimsy pretence,
With woman alone, he had peopled his Heaven.
3.
But still to increase your calamities more,
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots but one husband to share amongst four,
With souls you'd dispense - but this last who could bear it.
4.
His religion to please neither party is made,
On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
But I can't contradict what so oft has been said,
"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."
5.
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of St. MATT. - read the second and twentieth chapter.
6.
'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
"But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelist's Text,)
"We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."
7.
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
8.
Distraction and discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor St. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
9.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd
Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd,
We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you forever.
10.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
An Acrostic
by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth it is in vain you say
"Love not", thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
Zantippe's talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breathe it less gently forth, and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love, was cured of all beside,
His folly, pride, and passion, for he died.
Sonnet - On An Old Book With Uncut Leaves
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,
No finger ever traced thy yellow page
Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage
The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire
Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre
Dost thou suggest. Nay,--impotent in age,
Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage
And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.
How different was the thought of him that writ.
What promised he to love of ease and wealth,
When men should read and kindle at his wit.
But here decay eats up the book by stealth,
While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,
Hugs its incongruous virginity!
Under The Washington Elm, Cambridge
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

April 27,1861
Eighty years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore
They would follow the sign their banners bore,
And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done,
Half is left to do, - 
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!
When the battle is fought and won,
What shall be told of you?
Hark! - 't is the south-wind moans, - 
Who are the martyrs down?
Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones
That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones
Of the murder-haunted town!
What if the storm-clouds blow?
What if the green leaves fall?
Better the crashing tempest's throe
Than the army of worms that gnawed below;
Trample them one and all!
Then, when the battle is won,
And the land from traitors free,
Our children shall tell of the strife begun
When Liberty's second April sun
Was bright on our brave old tree!
The Clock's Song.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Eileen of four,
Eileen of smiles;
Eileen of five,
Eileen of tears;
Eileen of ten, of fifteen years,
Eileen of youth
And woman's wiles;
Eileen of twenty,
In love's land,
Eileen all tender
In her bliss,
Untouched by sorrow's treacherous kiss,
And the sly weapon in life's hand, - 
Eileen aroused to share all fate,
Eileen a wife,
Pale, beautiful,
Eileen most grave
And dutiful,
Mourning her dreams in queenly state.
Eileen! Eileen!....
Empires.
by Robert Herrick

Empires of kings are now, and ever were,
As Sallust saith, coincident to fear.
Seaweed, Tussock And Fern
by Henry Lawson

Emblems of storm and danger,
Spindrift and mountain stern,
Plants that welcome the stranger, 
Seaweed, tussock, and fern.
Known to the world-wide ranger,
Who sailed on the 'Never Return,'
Emblems of storm and danger, 
Flax and tussock and fern.
Plants that welcome the stranger,
Sea-swept and driven astern,
Beloved by the wide-world ranger, 
Seaweed, tussock, and fern.
Farewell To The Muse
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.
Farewell and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and woe:
Oh! none but some lover, whose heartstrings are breaking
The pang that I feel at our parting can know.
Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow,
Or pale disappointment to darken my way,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of tomorrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of today!
But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not assuage;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior I lay stretch'd on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ;
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers
Farewell, then, Enchantress I'll meet thee no more!