DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Identification In Belfast
by Robert Lowell

(I.R.A. Bombing)
The British Army now carries two rifles,
one with rubber rabbit-pellets for children,
the other's of course for the Provisionals....
'When they first showed me the boy, I thought oh good,
it's not him because he's blonde
I imagine his hair was singed dark by the bomb.
He had nothing on him to identify him,
except this box of joke trick matches;
he liked to have them on him, even at mass.
The police were unhurried and wonderful,
they let me go on trying to strike a match...
I just wouldn't stop you cling to anything
I couldn't believe I couldn't light one match
only joke matches... Then I knew he was Richard.'
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Da' pi' begli occhi e dal pi' chiaro viso.
HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN.
The brightest eyes, the most resplendent face
That ever shone; and the most radiant hair,
With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare;
The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace;
Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abase
Those who to Love the most rebellious were;
Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appear
Like that of her who first did Eden trace;
These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choir
Of angel hosts those kindred charms admire;
While lone and darkling I on earth remain.
Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can read
Each secret of my soul, shall intercede;
And I her sainted form behold again.
NOTT.
Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweet
That ever shone, and from that loveliest hair,
With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare,
That speech with love, that smile with grace replete,
From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat.
Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'er
To Love were rebels; from those feet so fair,
From her whole form, for Eden only meet,
My spirit took its life--now these delight
The King of Heaven and his angelic train,
While, blind and naked, I am left in night.
One only balm expect I 'mid my pain--
That she, mine every thought who now can see,
May win this grace--that I with her may be.
MACGREGOR.
The Death Of The Duke Of Clarence And Avondale
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

To the Mourners.
The bridal garland falls upon the bier,
The shadow of a crown, that o'er him hung,
Has vanish'd in the shadow cast by Death.
So princely, tender, truthful, reverent, pure'
Mourn! That a world-wide Empire mourns with you,
That all the Thrones are clouded by your loss,
Were slender solace. Yet be comforted;
For if this earth be ruled by Perfect Love,
Then, after his brief range of blameless days,
The toll of funeral in an Angel ear
Sounds happier than the merriest marriage-bell.
The face of Death is toward the Sun of Life,
His shadow darkens earth: his truer name
Is 'Onward,' no discordance in the roll
And march of that Eternal Harmony
Whereto the worlds beat time, tho' faintly heard
Until the great Hereafter. Mourn in hope!
Canadian Voyageurs On The Nile.
by James McIntyre

The British soldiers on the Nile
With gratitude did kindly smile,
On the Canadian voyageurs
Who skilfully did ply their oars.
And they invoked their benison
On boatsmen led by Denison,
Neither the rapids nor the falls
Along the Nile these braves appals.
For in such toils they did partake,
On each native stream and lake,
Thoughts of their homes in visions throng,
While singing Canadian boat song.
And they all hoped again to see
The glorious land of maple tree,
From their memories they never
Forgot the land of lake and river.
While up the Nile they do advance
They dream about their own St. Lawrence,
And Manitoba's streams and lakes,
Pleasant reflections oft awakes.
And thus each day they cheerful toil,
Ascending of old Father Nile,
Whose waters fertilize the soil,
And is the home of crocodile.
Wolseley he had exhibition
In Red River expedition,
How these voyageurs could steer,
Or with the axe a roadway clear.
Those who speak the tongue of France,
From the banks of the St. Lawrence,
At call to arms quick advance,
With rifle, bayonet and lance.
The Star Of The West.
by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

I.
The cannon is mute and the sword in its sheath 
Uncrimsoned the banner floats joyous and fair:
Yet beauty is twining an evergreen wreath,
And the voice of the minstrel is heard on the air.
Are these for the glory encircling a crown 
A phantom evoked but by tyranny's breath?
Are these for the conqueror's vaunted renown 
All ghastly with gore, and all tainted with death?
Bright Star of the West broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!
II.
When Tyranny came, his fierce lions aloft
Told the instinct that burned in his cohorts of mail 
But our eagles swooped down, and the battle-field oft,
Was the grave of the foeman, stern, ghastly and pale.
The cloud of the strife rolled darkly away 
And the carnage-fed wolves slunk back to their den 
While Peace shone around like the god of the day,
And shed her blest light on the children of men.
Bright Star of the West broad Land of the Free!
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!
III.
Thus Liberty dawned from the midnight of years;
And here rose her altar. Oh kneel at her shrine!
Her blessings unnumbered ye children of tears,
Whatever be thy Fatherland lo they are thine!
In faith and in joy, let us cherish the light,
That comes like the sunshine all warm from above,
For thus shall the Demons that sprung from the night
Of the Past fade away in the noontide of love.
Bright Star of the West broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!
IV.
Stern Seer of the future, thy curtain unroll,
And show to long ages our empire of peace 
Where man never bent to the despot's control,
And the spirit of liberty never shall cease.
Our Stars and our Stripes 'mid battle's loud thunder,
Were bound by our sires in the wedlock of love 
Oh! ne'er shall the spirit of strife put asunder,
The UNION thus hallowed by spirits above.
Bright Star of the West broad Land of the Free,
The wreath and the anthem are woven for thee!
September.
by Madison Julius Cawein

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires,
Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows
Of clematis, through which September goes,
Song-hearted, rich in realized desires,
Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires
Of acrid marigolds, that light long rows
Of lamps, and salvias, red as day's red close,
That torches seem by which the Month attires
Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen,
Towering imperial in her two-fold crown
Of harvest and of vintage; all her form
Majestic gold and purple: in her mien
The might of motherhood; her baby brown,
Abundance, high on one exultant arm.
Bridge Of Prayer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The bridge of prayer from heavenly heights suspended
Unites the earth with spirit-realms in Space.
The interests of those separate worlds are blended
For those whose feet turn often toward that place.
In troubled nights of sorrow and repining,
When joy and hope seem sunk in dark despair,
We still may see above the shadows shining,
The gleaming archway of the bridge of prayer.
From that fair height, our souls may lean and listen
To sounds of music from the farther shore,
And through the vapours, sometimes dear eyes glisten
Of loved ones who have hastened on before.
And angels come from their Celestial City -
And meet us half way on the bridge of prayer.
God sends them forth, full of divinest pity
To strengthen us for burdens we must bear.
Oh! you whose feet walk in some shadowed by-way,
Far from the scenes of pleasure and delight,
Still free to you hangs this suspended highway,
Where heavenly glories dawn upon the sight.
And common paths glow with a grace supernal,
And happiness walks hand in hand with care,
And faith becomes a knowledge fixed, eternal,
For those who often seek the bridge of prayer.
The Bustle In A House
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, --
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
'Out, Out'
by Robert Lee Frost

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap 
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all 
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart 
He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off 
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little less nothing! and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
The Domain
by John Le Gay Brereton

The bulging cloud mounts lazily
In shade where sunlight glances through,
And sweeping lightly from the tree
Melts indolently in the blue.
The scanty grass-blades yonder shake,
A tremulous flurry takes the smoke,
And ancient memories start awake
At pungent scent of fig and oak.
For here of old an urchin strayed
And gloomed in lonely pride the while,
An outlaw in a forest glade
Or pirate on a tropic isle.
Here where a staid policeman strolls
Ned Kelly in his armour stood,
And underneath the roadway rolls
The river of the Haunted Wood.
And yonder, couched in phantom fern,
Not far from Nelson's rolling ship,
I spied the antler'd head of Herne
And saw the startled rabbit skip.
And Will Wing shook in desperate strife
Defiantly his bloody hand,
And heard the waves of daily life
Drone on the reef-ring, far from land.
Not Robin, clad in verdant baize,
Nor Britain's silver-plated king,
Was master of the winning ways
That drew me to the flag of Wing.
He sauntered on the southern isle
In garments of eccentric cut,
And, with his grim sardonic smile,
Would masticate his coco-nut.
Within his cave, upon a heap
Of Spanish coin and rubies red,
I've seen him lying half-asleep
And dreaming of the blood he'd shed.
The gold-dust, spilled about the ground,
Made common dirt a treasure rare,
And if you fingered it you found
The flashing jewels buried there.
The seabird, sweeping free and far
On wings of wonder, will not see
That green isle and its coral bar,
That corsair and his mystery.
As when a lump of sugar shrinks,
When coffee waves about it glide,
Crumbles and topples, melts and sinks,
And mingles with the sombre tide,
So is the islet vanished; yet
As now I gulp a bitter draught
The sweetness lingers. Up, and set
The canvas of the rakish craft!
Golden Glories.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

The buttercup is like a golden cup,
The marigold is like a golden frill,
The daisy with a golden eye looks up,
And golden spreads the flag beside the rill,
And gay and golden nods the daffodil,
The gorsey common swells a golden sea,
The cowslip hangs a head of golden tips,
And golden drips the honey which the bee
Sucks from sweet hearts of flowers and stores and sips.
Hymn Of Breaking Strain
by Rudyard Kipling

The careful text-books measure
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
The blame of loss, or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Stuff, the Man!
But, in our daily dealing
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us,,
For no laid course prepare,
And presently o'ertake us
With loads we cannot bear:
Too merciless to bear.
The prudent text-books give it
In tables at the end,
The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend,
What traffic wrecks macadam,
What concrete should endure,
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
Have no such literature,
To warn us or make sure!
We hold all Earth to plunder,
All Time and Space as well
Too wonder-stale to wonder
At each new miracle;
Till, in the mid-illusion
Of Godhead 'neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
On all we did or planned,
The mighty works we planned.
We only of Creation
(Oh, luckier bridge and rail!)
Abide the twin-damnation,
To fail and know we fail.
Yet we, by which sole token
We know we once were Gods,
Take shame in being broken
However great the odds
The Burden or the Odds.
Oh, veiled and secret Power
Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
Of overthrow and pain;
That we, by which sure token
We know Thy ways are true,
In spite of being broken,
Because of being broken,
May rise and build anew.
Stand up and build anew!
The Burden
by Theodosia Garrison

The burden that I bear would be no less
Should I cry out against it; though I fill
The weary day with sound of my distress,
It were my burden still.
The burden that I bear may be no more
For all I bear it silently and stay
Sometimes to laugh and listen at a door
Where joy keeps holiday.
I ask no more save only this may be--
On life's long road, where many comrades fare,
One shall not guess, though he keep step with me,
The burden that I bear.
Dillard Sissman
by Edgar Lee Masters

The buzzards wheel slowly
In wide circles, in a sky
Faintly hazed as from dust from the road.
And a wind sweeps through the pasture where I lie
Beating the grass into long waves.
My kite is above the wind,
Though now and then it wobbles,
Like a man shaking his shoulders;
And the tail streams out momentarily,
Then sinks to rest.
And the buzzards wheel and wheel,
Sweeping the zenith with wide circles
Above my kite. And the hills sleep.
And a farm house, white as snow,
Peeps from green trees - far away.
And I watch my kite,
For the thin moon will kindle herself ere long,
Then she will swing like a pendulum dial
To the tail of my kite.
A spurt of flame like a water-dragon
Dazzles my eyes - 
I am shaken as a banner.
Peace.
by Emma Lazarus

The calm outgoing of a long, rich day,
Checkered with storm and sunshine, gloom and light,
Now passing in pure, cloudless skies away,
Withdrawing into silence of blank night.
Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright,
Like the weird cloud of death that falls apace
On the still features of the passive face.
Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss,
The touch that stopped the beating of the heart.
A look so blissfully serene as this,
Not all the joy of living could impart.
With dauntless faith and courage therewithal,
The Master found her ready at his call.
On such a golden evening forth there floats,
Between the grave earth and the glowing sky
In the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes,
The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly,
A human soul, that drifts at liberty,
Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise,
To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies.!
A Poem Served To Order
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Phi Beta Kappa, June 26, 1873
The Caliph ordered up his cook,
And, scowling with a fearful look
That meant, - We stand no gammon, - 
"To-morrow, just at two," he said,
"Hassan, our cook, will lose his head,
Or serve us up a salmon."
"Great sire," the trembling chef replied,
"Lord of the Earth and all beside,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on
(Look in Eothen,-there you'll find
A list of titles. Never mind;
I have n't time to go on:)
"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke,
"Your Highness must intend a joke;
It doesn't stand to reason
For one to order salmon brought,
Unless that fish is sometimes caught,
And also is in season.
"Our luck of late is shocking bad,
In fact, the latest catch we had
(We kept the matter shady),
But, hauling in our nets, - alack!
We found no salmon, but a sack
That held your honored Lady!"
"Allah is great!" the Caliph said,
"My poor Zuleika, you are dead,
I once took interest in you."
"Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know
We cut the lines and let her go."
"Allah be praised! Continue."
"It is n't hard one's hook to bait,
And, squatting down, to watch and wait,
To see the cork go under;
At last suppose you've got your bite,
You twitch away with all your might, - 
You've hooked an eel, by thunder!"
The Caliph patted Hassan's head
"Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said,
"And won thy master's favor.
Yes; since what happened t' other morn
The salmon of the Golden Horn
Might have a doubtful flavor.
"That last remark about the eel
Has also justice that we feel
Quite to our satisfaction.
To-morrow we dispense with fish,
And, for the present, if you wish,
You'll keep your bulbous fraction."
"Thanks! thanks!" the grateful chef replied,
His nutrient feature showing wide
The gleam of arches dental:
"To cut my head off wouldn't pay,
I find it useful every day,
As well as ornamental."
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Brothers, I hope you will not fail
To see the moral of my tale
And kindly to receive it.
You know your anniversary pie
Must have its crust, though hard and dry,
And some prefer to leave it.
How oft before these youths were born
I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn
For what the Muse might send me!
How gayly then I cast the line,
When all the morning sky was mine,
And Hope her flies would lend me!
And now I hear our despot's call,
And come, like Hassan, to the hall, - 
If there's a slave, I am one, - 
My bait no longer flies, but worms!
I 've caught - Lord bless me! how he squirms!
An eel, and not a salmon!
The Old Castle
by George MacDonald

The brother knew well the castle old,
Every closet, each outlook fair,
Every turret and bartizan bold,
Every chamber, garnished or bare.
The brother was out in the heavenly air;
Little ones lost the starry way,
Wandered down the dungeon stair.
The brother missed them, and on the clay
Of the dungeon-floor he found them all.
Up they jumped when they heard him call!
He led the little ones into the day--
Out and up to the sunshine gay,
Up to the father's own door-sill--
In at the father's own room door,
There to be merry and work and play,
There to come and go at their will,
Good boys and girls to be lost no more!
Floridian.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
The cactus and the aloe bloom
Beneath the window of your room;
Your window where, at evenfall,
Beneath the twilight's first pale star,
You linger, tall and spiritual,
And hearken my guitar.
It is the hour
When every flower
Is wooed by moth or bee
Would, would you were the flower, dear,
And I the moth to draw you near,
To draw you near to me,
My dear,
To draw you near to me.
II.
The jasmine and bignonia spill
Their balm around your windowsill;
The sill where, when magnolia-white,
In foliage mists, the moon hangs far,
You lean with bright deep eyes of night
And hearken my guitar.
It is the hour
When from each flower
The wind woos fragrances
Would, would you were the flower, love,
And I the wind to breathe above,
To breathe above and kiss,
My love,
To breathe above and kiss.
The Boundary Rider
by Thomas William Heney

The bridle reins hang loose in the hold of his lean left hand;
As the tether gives, the horse bends browsing down to the sand,
On the pommel the right hand rests with a smoking briar black,
Whose thin rings rise and break as he gazes from the track.
Already the sun is aslope, high still in a pale hot sky,
And the afternoon is fierce, in its glare the wide plains lie
Empty as heaven and silent, smit with a vast despair,
The face of a Titan bound, for whom is no hope nor care.
Hoar are its leagues of bush, and tawny brown is its soil,
In that immensity lost are human effort and toil,
A few scattered sheep in the scrub hardly themselves to be seen;
One man in the wilderness lone; beside, a primaeval scene.
Firm and upright in his saddle as a soldier upon parade,
Yet graceful too is his seat, for Nature this horseman made;
From childhood a fearless rider, now like a centaur he,
And half of his strength is gone when he jumps from the saddle-tree.
Back from his sweat-wet hair his felt is carelessly placed,
Handkerchief at his throat, sagging shirt round a lank firm waist;
True to the set of strong loins the belted moleskins are tight,
Plain from forehead to stirrup a virile vigour in sight.
Yet scarce more than a boy, but the long blaze not more sure
Has left on the countenance spare a hue that shall ever endure,
Than the life of the plains has set reliance and courage there,
Constancy, manliness frank in a young face debonair.
He should be no less who rides for ever each spacious bound,
Better than human speech he knows the desert around.
He journeys from dawn to dusk, and always he rides alone,
The hue of the wilderness takes, as his mind its monotone.
He hears the infrequent cries, shrieking or hoarse and slow,
Sheep bleating, the minah's scream, the monologue of the crow;
He rides in a manless land, and in leagues of the salt-bush plain,
Seeks day after day for change, and seeks it ever in vain.
In his hands his life each morn as he swings to his leathern seat,
Woe to him if he falls where as water the plain sucks heat,
Alone in a vast still tomb, cruel and loth to spare,
Death waits for each sense and slays whilst the doomed wretch feels despair.
Memorial Day
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.