DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To William Camden
by Ben Jonson

Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know
(How nothing's that!), to whom my country owes
The great renown and name wherewith she goes;
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that she more would crave.
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight and what authority in thy speech!
Man scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee.
Many of thine this better could than I;
But for their powers, accept my piety.
To His Ever-Loving God.
by Robert Herrick

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these
So very many meeting hindrances,
That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay?
Who slowly goes, rids, in the end, his way.
Clear Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,
Remove the bars, or lift me o'er the stiles;
Since rough the way is, help me when I call,
And take me up; or else prevent the fall.
I ken my home, and it affords some ease
To see far off the smoking villages.
Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die
For fear of future biting penury:
No, no, my God, Thou know'st my wishes be
To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee.
Sonnets From The Portuguese IX
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love, which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.
Camouflage
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Camouflage is all the rage.
Ladies in their fight with age - 
Soldiers in their fight with foes - 
Demagogues who mask and pose
In the guise of statesmen - girls
Black of eyes with golden curls - 
Politicians, votes in mind,
Smiling, affable and kind,
All use camouflage to-day.
As you go upon your way,
Walk with caution, move with care;
Camouflage is everywhere!
Culture
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Can rules or tutors educate
The semigod whom we await?
He must be musical,
Tremulous, impressional,
Alive to gentle influence
Of landscape and of sky,
And tender to the spirit-touch
Of man's or maiden's eye:
But, to his native centre fast,
Shall into Future fuse the Past,
And the world's flowing fates in his own mould recast.
A Snow Mountain.
by Jean Ingelow

Can I make white enough my thought for thee,
Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate
To sit aloft in the silence silently
And twin those matchless heights undesecrate.
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he
Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate;
Alone as Galileo, when, set free,
Before the stars he mused disconsolate.
Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song,
Great masters who have made us what we are,
For thou and they have taught us how to long
And feel a sacred want of the fair and far:
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire - 
Our only greatness is that we aspire.
To His Conscience
by Robert Herrick

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee, to pass by
A short and sweet iniquity?
I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
My delicate transgression,
So utter dark, as that no eye
Shall see the hugg'd impiety.
Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
And wind all other witnesses;
And wilt not thou with gold be tied,
To lay thy pen and ink aside,
That in the mirk and tongueless night,
Wanton I may, and thou not write?
It will not be: And therefore, now,
For times to come, I'll make this vow;
From aberrations to live free:
So I'll not fear the judge, or thee.
Angels
by George MacDonald

Came of old to houses lonely
Men with wings, but did not show them:
Angels come to our house, only,
For their wings, they do not know them!
To The Memory Of Raisley Calvert
by William Wordsworth

Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.
The Power Of Fables.
by Jean de La Fontaine

To M. De Barillon.[1]
Can diplomatic dignity
To simple fables condescend?
Can I your famed benignity
Invoke, my muse an ear to lend?
If once she dares a high intent,
Will you esteem her impudent?
Your cares are weightier, indeed,
Than listening to the sage debates
Of rabbit or of weasel states:
So, as it pleases, burn or read;
But save us from the woful harms
Of Europe roused in hostile arms.
That from a thousand other places
Our enemies should show their faces,
May well be granted with a smile,
But not that England's Isle
Our friendly kings should set
Their fatal blades to whet.
Comes not the time for Louis to repose?
What Hercules, against these hydra foes,
Would not grow weary? Must new heads oppose
His ever-waxing energy of blows?
Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers,
As sweet as mighty in this world of ours,
Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep,[2]
I'll pile your altars with a hundred sheep;
And this is not a small affair
For a Parnassian mountaineer.
Meantime, (if you have time to spare,)
Accept a little incense-cheer.
A homely, but an ardent prayer,
And tale in verse, I give you here.
I'll only say, the theme is fit for you.
With praise, which envy must confess
To worth like yours is justly due,
No man on earth needs propping less.
In Athens, once, that city fickle,
An orator,[3] awake to feel
His country in a dangerous pickle,
Would sway the proud republic's heart,
Discoursing of the common weal,
As taught by his tyrannic art.
The people listen'd - not a word.
Meanwhile the orator recurr'd
To bolder tropes - enough to rouse
The dullest blocks that e'er did drowse;
He clothed in life the very dead,
And thunder'd all that could be said.
The wind received his breath,
As to the ear of death.
That beast of many heads and light,[4]
The crowd, accustom'd to the sound
Was all intent upon a sight - 
A brace of lads in mimic fight.
A new resource the speaker found.
'Ceres,' in lower tone said he,
'Went forth her harvest fields to see:
An eel, as such a fish might he,
And swallow, were her company.
A river check'd the travellers three.
Two cross'd it soon without ado;
The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew. - '
Outcried the crowd
With voices loud - 
'And Ceres - what did she?'
'Why, what she pleased; but first
Yourselves she justly cursed - 
A people puzzling aye your brains
With children's tales and children's play,
While Greece puts on her steel array,
To save her limbs from, tyrant chains!
Why ask you not what Philip[5] does?'
At this reproach the idle buzz
Fell to the silence of the grave,
Or moonstruck sea without a wave,
And every eye and ear awoke
To drink the words the patriot spoke.
This feather stick in Fable's cap.
We're all Athenians, mayhap;
And I, for one, confess the sin;
For, while I write this moral here,
If one should tell that tale so queer
Ycleped, I think, "The Ass's Skin,"[6]
I should not mind my work a pin.
The world is old, they say; I don't deny it; - 
But, infant still
In taste and will,
Whoe'er would teach, must gratify it.
On Another's Sorrow
by William Blake

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear--
And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not year.
Oh He gives to us his joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled an gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
Bloodstream
by Paul Cameron Brown

Camping out, a miraculous thing happened.
The kaleidoscope of vision was focused on a precipice,
caught endangered water about to fall
under microscopic attention.
Moisture was shortlived; so, too, congealed lava sheets
& bedrock over which the water flowed.
The cabin in the distance seemed prisoner to mist
while a rainbow gathered its wits for the next performance.
Nowhere did leaves intrude though a fly made
headway up a glass pane
embedded in wood like antidiluvian plants have been
known to seek amber.
In their chorus, other flies droned then ran up & down the ledge.
In the iate sunshine of the day, a bastardized vision of dirt farmers,
pioneers imprisoned in similar toil.
Canada's Future.
by James McIntyre

Canada is a young giant,
Has not yet acquired its strength,
On the arts of peace reliant,
Throughout its vast breadth and length.
Though 'tis not famed for orange bowers
Nor for the products of its vines,
Though other lands have fairer flowers,
Yet it to nobler gifts inclines.
It doth produce the golden grain
And few lands can with it compete,
They often try but all in vain
To produce such splendid wheat.
Our geologists divine,
That ere long we will behold
Many a rich glittering mine
Of copper, silver and of gold.
But we sing more glorious theme,
It is our verdant pasture land,
Where cows produce a flood of cream,
Doth make cheese of the finest brand.
And great thoughts oftentimes awakes
When we reflect on this wondrous land,
With vast rivers and mighty lakes,
All nature here's on scale so grand.
Young Dominion so gigantic,
Where rail cars run at speed terrific,
Thousands of miles from the Atlantic,
Till in the West you reach Pacific.
From balmy breezes of lake Erie
To the far north frozen ocean,
Where it now seems lone and dreary,
All will yet be life and motion.
Though nation's young its powerful fleet
Doth sail on many a distant sea,
For world's commerce to compete
Her sails in all climes flowing free.
Nuns Of The Perpetual Adoration
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls,
These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray:
And it is one with them when evening falls,
And one with them the cold return of day.
These heed not time; their nights and days they make
Into a long, returning rosary,
Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ's sake;
Meekness and vigilance and chastity.
A vowed patrol, in silent companies,
Life-long they keep before the living Christ.
In the dim church, their prayers and penances
Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed.
Outside, the world is wild and passionate;
Man's weary laughter and his sick despair
Entreat at their impenetrable gate:
They heed no voices in their dream of prayer.
They saw the glory of the world displayed;
They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet;
They knew the roses of the world should fade,
And be trod under by the hurrying feet.
Therefore they rather put away desire,
And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary
And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire:
Because their comeliness was vanity.
And there they rest; they have serene insight
Of the illuminating dawn to be:
Mary's sweet Star dispels for them the night,
The proper darkness of humanity.
Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild:
Surely their choice of vigil is the best?
Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild;
But there, beside the altar, there, is rest.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Can you make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without any seam or needlework?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Can you wash it in yonder well,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Where never sprung water, nor rain ever fell?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Can you dry it on yonder thorn,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Which never bore blossom since Adam was born?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Now you have ask'd me questions three,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
I hope you'll answer as many for me,
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Can you find me an acre of land,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Between the salt water and the sea sand?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Can you plough it with a ram's horn,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And sow it all over with one pepper-corn?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Can you reap it with a sickle of leather,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And bind it up with a peacock's feather?
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
When you have done and finish'd your work,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Then come to me for your cambric shirt,
And you shall be a true lover of mine.
Life In The Woods.
by James McIntyre

(Life of the early settlers.)
Canada hath wealthy yeomen
Whose fathers overcome the foemen,
The enemy they boldly slew
Was mighty forests they did hew,
And where they burned heaps of slain
Their sons now reap the golden grain,
But in the region of Northwest
With prairie farms they are blest.
Though this to them it may seem good
Yet many blessings come from wood,
It shelters you from the fierce storm
And in the winter keeps you warm,
For one who hath his forest trees
He builds his house and barn with ease,
And how quick he gets from thence
Timber for bridge and for his fence.
The Tramps
by Robert William Service

Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,
And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet;
When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,
Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet.
Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;
When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale;
When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,
Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale.
Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;
There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!
As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,
And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as swinging heel and toe,
We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,
The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.
A Winter Song.
by Jean Ingelow

Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn - 
Night is the time for the old to die - 
But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,
When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.
Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore
(Night is the time when the old must die),
Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more,
For heart is failing: the end is nigh."
"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried
(Night is the time for the old to die),
"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide" - 
Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.
Heavily plunged from the roof the snow - 
(Night is the time when the old will die),
She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go."
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high.
First at his head, and last at his feet
(Night is the time when the old should die),
Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet,
None else that loved him, none else were nigh.
I wept in the night as the desolate weep
(Night is the time for the old to die),
Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep,
Across the cold hollows how white they lie.
I sought her afar through the spectral trees
(Night is the time when the old must die),
The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze,
And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky.
By night I found her where pent waves steal
(Night is the time when the old should die),
But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel,
And the old stars lived in their homes on high.
The Rain-Crow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Can freckled August, - drowsing warm and blond
Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,
In her hot hair the yellow daisies wound, - 
O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed
To thee? when no plumed weed, no feathered seed
Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,
That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,
Through which the dragonfly forever passes
Like splintered diamond.
II
Drouth weights the trees; and from the farmhouse eaves
The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,
Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves
Limp with the heat - a league of rutty way - 
Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay
Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves - 
Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,
In thirsty meadow or on burning plain,
That thy keen eye perceives?
III
But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.
For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,
When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,
Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring
Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring
And flash and rumble! lavishing large dew
On corn and forest land, that, streaming wet,
Their hilly backs against the downpour set,
Like giants, loom in view.
IV
The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,
Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;
The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,
Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;
While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,
Brood-hens have housed. - But I, who scorned thy power,
Barometer of birds, - like August there, - 
Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,
Like some drenched truant, cower.
Onions
by Unknown

Can the Burbanks of the glorious West
Either make or buy or sell
An onion with an onion's taste
But with a violet's smell?
Love Despised
by Madison Julius Cawein

Can one resolve and hunt it from one's heart?
This love, this god and fiend, that makes a hell
Of many a life, in ways no tongue can tell,
No mind divine, nor any word impart.
Would not one think the slights that make hearts smart,
The ice of love's disdain, the wint'ry well
Of love's disfavor, love's own fire would quell?
Or school its nature, too, to its own art
Why will men cringe and cry forever here
For that which, once obtained, may prove a curse?
Why not remember that, however fair,
Decay is wed to Beauty? That each year
Takes somewhat from the riches of her purse,
Until at last her house of pride stands bare?
The Rain-Crow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Can freckled August,--drowsing warm and blonde
Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,
In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,--
O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed
To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed
Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,
That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses,
Through which the dragonfly forever passes
Like splintered diamond.
II
Drouth weights the trees, and from the farmhouse eaves
The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,
Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves
Limp with the heat--a league of rutty way--
Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay
Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves--
Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,
In thirsty heaven or on burning plain,
That thy keen eye perceives?
III
But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.
For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,
When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,
Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring
Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring
And flash and rumble! lavishing dark dew
On corn and forestland, that, streaming wet,
Their hilly backs against the downpour set,
Like giants vague in view.
IV
The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,
Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;
The bumble-bee, within the last half-hour,
Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;
While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,
Brood-hens have housed.--But I, who scorned thy power,
Barometer of the birds,--like August there,--
Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,
Like some drenched truant, cower.
The Serpent.
by Wilfred S. Skeats

Canada, the time approaches,
And is even now at hand,
When thou must declare what ruler
Thine allegiance shall command.
In thy midst there creeps a Serpent--
Deadliest of all thy foes--
Gliding in among thy councils,
Spreading venom where she goes.
Like the fatal boa-constrictor
Charming those who soon must die,
She can so transfix her victim
By the glitter of her eye,
That the greatest of thy statesmen
Dares not question her decree,
But in meek humiliation
Bows to her, abjuring thee.
Rise, Canadians! and boldly
Thrust the Serpent from your land;
And should any strive to help her,
Crush them with your martial hand.
Rise unanimous, and fear not
In your country's cause to fight;
Better bloodshed than surrender
To the wily Serpent's might.
Hurl from power the men who basely
Truckle to the Serpent's will;
Cast them out and call on others--
Truer men--their place to fill.
Men whose chiefest aim shall be to
Fight for Canada and home--
Men who will not bow before the
Dictates of the Church of Rome.
Canada, the time approaches,
And is even now at hand--
Wilt thou choose that Rome or England
Thine allegiance shall command?
Relieving Guard
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Thomas Starr King. Obiit March 4, 1864
Came the relief. 'What, sentry, ho!
How passed the night through thy long waking?'
'Cold, cheerless, dark, as may befit
The hour before the dawn is breaking.'
'No sight? no sound?' 'No; nothing save
The plover from the marshes calling,
And in yon western sky, about
An hour ago, a star was falling.'
'A star? There's nothing strange in that.'
'No, nothing; but, above the thicket,
Somehow it seemed to me that God
Somewhere had just relieved a picket.'
The Rain-Crow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Can freckled August, drowsing warm and blond
Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,
In her hot hair the yellow daisies wound,
O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed
To thee? when no plumed weed, no feathered seed
Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,
That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,
Through which the dragonfly forever passes
Like splintered diamond.
II.
Drouth weights the trees; and from the farmhouse eaves
The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,
Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves
Limp with the heat a league of rutty way
Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay
Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves
Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,
In thirsty meadow or on burning plain,
That thy keen eye perceives?
III.
But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.
For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,
When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,
Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring
Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring
And flash and rumble! lavishing large dew
On corn and forest land, that, streaming wet,
Their hilly backs against the downpour set,
Like giants, loom in view.
IV.
The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,
Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;
The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,
Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;
While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,
Brood-hens have housed. But I, who scorned thy power,
Barometer of birds, like August there,
Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,
Like some drenched truant, cower.