DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Khaki Boys Who Were Not At The Front
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! it is not just the men who face the guns,
Not the fighters at the Front alone, to-day
Who will bring the longed-for close to the bloody fray, for those
Could not carry on that fray without the ones
Who are working at war's problems far away.
You are ALL our splendid heroes in the strife,
And we class you with the warriors maimed and scarred,
Though you never have been near enough the battle din to hear,
While you laboured in the dull routine of life
In your khaki suits with sleeves that are not barred.
You have offered up yourselves to save the world;
You have felt the abnegation of the Christ:
And whatever work you do is a noble work and true;
Though it be not done with banners all unfurled,
You will find it has, in sight of God, sufficed.
While you carry back no medals when you go,
Not without you had the fighters borne war's brunt:
So just lift your heads uncowed, for your country will be proud
And its lasting love and honour will bestow
On the khaki boys who were not at the Front.
On The Beautiful Portrait Of Mrs. Foreman, As Pandora.
by Thomas Gent

Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks
Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box,
Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever
In all the charms consenting Gods could give her--
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace
Which makes man play the madman for a face!
But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it,
The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket;
And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes
The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize!
First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured,
From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured,
Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods,
Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods;
Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast,
And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd.
Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood,
Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood.
It was not then, that from the coffer's lid
Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid;
He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent
But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument,
And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her,
Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her!
Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire
by Rupert Brooke

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,
One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,
And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,
Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam,
Most individual and bewildering ghost!
And turn, and toss your brown delightful head
Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.
Fragment.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98 degrees in the shade.
Oh! for the temperate airs that blow
Upon that darling of the sea,
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,
For three days hold supremacy;
But ever-varying skies contend
The blessings of all climes to lend,
To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,
In never-fading beauty smile.
England, oh England! for the breeze
That slowly stirs thy forest-trees!
Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,
Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,
Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow
Of many a giant oak is sleeping;
The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,
Through which the summer rills run weeping.
Oh, land of flowers! while sinking here
Beneath the dog-star of the West,
The music of the waves I hear
That cradle thee upon their breast.
Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly
The wild-winged breezes of the sea,
While from thy smiling, summer sky,
The ripening sun looks tenderly.
And thou - to whom through all this heat
My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn,
Oh! in what "shady blest retreat"
Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?
Across the lawn, in the deep glade,
Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,
Or communed sweetly, side by side,
Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide,
As gently on the pebbly beach
It lays its head, then ebbs away,
Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,
Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?
Or to the firry woods, that shed
Their spicy odours to the sun,
Goest thou with meditative tread,
Thinking of all things that are done
Beneath the sky? - a great, big thought,
Of which I know you're very fond.
For me, my mind is solely wrought
To this one wish: - O! in a pond
Would I were over head and ears!
(Of a cold ducking I've no fears)
Or any where, where I am not;
For, bless the heat! it is too hot!
The Language Of Love.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Oh! he was a student of mystic lore;
And she was a soulful girl
All nerves and mind, of the cultured kind
The paragon, pride, and pearl.
They loved with a neo-Concordic love,
Woofed weirdly with wistful woe.
They sat in a glen, remote from men,
Their converse was high and low.
"What marvellous words of marvellous love,
Speak marvellous souls like these?"
I drew me nigh till their faintest sigh
Was heard with the greatest ease.
"'Oo's 'ittle white lammy is 'oo?" breathed he;
"'Oors. 'Oo's lovey-dovey is 'oo?"
"'Oors! 'Oors! Would 'oo k'y if dovey should die?"
"No'p! tause 'ittle lammy'd die too."
How truthful we poets! The "language of Love"
Is a phrase we employ full oft;
But whenever we do, we prefix thereto,
You've noticed, the adjective "soft."
The Highland Widow's Lament.
by Robert Burns

I.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,
To buy a meal to me.
II.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.
III.
For then I had a score o' kye,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,
And giving milk to me.
IV.
And there I had three score o' yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.
V.
I was the happiest of a' the clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.
VI.
Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last,
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.
VII.
Their waefu' fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yield:
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden's field.
VIII.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the world wide
Sae wretched now as me.
Sonnet: Oh! How I Love, On A Fair Summer's Eve
by John Keats

Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far, far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
Musing on Milton's fate, on Sydney's bier,
Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a delicious tear,
When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.
A Pin
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,
But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene'er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said - 
When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain - 
If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.
A pin is such a tiny thing - of that there is no doubt - 
Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!
She is wonderfully observing.    When she meets a pretty girl
She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl.
And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who's much admired,
She is often heard remarking: "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"
And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride,
And she said: "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."
Then she said: "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend,
You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend."
And she left me with a feeling - most unpleasant, I aver - 
That the whole world would despise me if it hadn't been for her.
Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day;
And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet)
With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust;
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust.
Oh!    I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.
Rosa's Grave.
by Thomas Gent

It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies,
And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed,
When dew-drops leave the weeping skies.
His tenderest tear of pity shed.
And sacred shall the willow be,
That shades the spot where virtue sleeps;
And mournful memory weep to see
The hallow'd watch affection keeps.
Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart
Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease;
Soon from his woes the sufferer part,
And hail thee at the Throne of Peace
The Night
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh! give me the night, the dark, dark night,
The night with never a star.
When the stars are veiled and the moon has sailed
Beyond the horizon's bar.
When thought grows weary of groping its way
Through darkness dense and deep,
And buries its head in oblivion's bed,
Wrapped warm in the mantle of sleep.
For I hate the night, the moon-white night,
The night with a pallid face,
When a million eyes from the watchful skies
Peers into each secret place.
For thought awakes and the old wound aches,
And Sorrow she cannot rest,
But all night long walks to and fro
Through the aisles of my troubled breast.
And Memory thinks it her royal hour
When the heavens glitter and shine;
And she fills the cup of the past well up
With a bitter and scalding wine.
And she calls for a toast to the ghastly ghost
Of a joy that used to be.
And that terrible face in the dear old moon
Stares steadily down at me.
So give me the night, the deep, dark night,
The night with never a star,
When the skies are veiled and the moon has sailed
Beyond the horizon's bar.
The Little Glutton
by Heinrich Hoffmann

Oh! how this Mary loved to eat,--
It was her chief delight;
She would have something, sour or sweet,
To munch from morn till night.
She to the pantry daily stole,
And slyly she would take
Sugar, and plums, and sweetmeats, too,
And apples, nuts, and cake.
Her mother Mary oft reproved,
But, ah! it did no good;
Munch, nibble, chew, from morn to night,
The little glutton would.
One day, upon some bee-hives near
She chanced to cast her eyes;
"How nice that honey there must taste!"
She cried, and off she flies.
On tiptoe now the hives she nears,
Close up to them she creeps,
And through the little window panes
Quite cautiously she peeps.
"Oh, dear! how good it looks!" she cries,
As she the honey sees;
"I must, I will, indeed, have some;
It cannot hurt the bees."
And then a hive she gently lifts,--
Oh, foolish, foolish child,--
Down, down it falls--out swarm the bees
Buzzing with fury wild.
With fright she shrieks, and tries to run,
But ah! 'tis all in vain;
Upon her light the angry bees,
And make her writhe with pain.
Four weeks and more did Mary lie
Upon her little bed,
And, ah! instead of honey, she
On medicine was fed.
Her parents grieved so much at first
Their child so sick to see;
But once more well, with joy they found
Her cured of gluttony.
Hon. Miss Mercer. - Hopner (Sketches In The Exhibition, 1805)
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh! hide those tempting eyes, that faultless form,
Those looks with feeling and with nature warm;
The neck, the softly-swelling bosom hide,
Nor, wanton gales, blow the light vest aside;
For who, when beauties more than life excite
Silent applause, can gaze without delight!
But innocence, enchanting maid, is thine;
Thine eyes in liquid light unconscious shine;
And may thy breast no other feelings prove,
Than those of sympathy and mutual love!
The White Seal
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old,
Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
And summer gales and Killer Whales
Are bad for baby seals.
Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
As bad as bad can be.
But splash and grow strong,
And you can't be wrong,
Child of the Open Sea!
Paeans
by Virna Sheard

Oh! I will hold fast to Joy!
I will not let him depart - 
He shall close his beautiful rainbow wings
And sing his song in my heart.
And I will live with Delight!
I will know what the children know
When they dance along with the April wind
To find where the catkins grow!
I will dream the old, old dreams,
And look for pixie and fay
In shadowy woods - and out on the hills - 
As we did but yesterday.
Love I will keep in my soul - 
Ay! even by lock and key!
There is nothing to fear in all of the world
If Love will but stay with me.
No, I will not let Faith go!
I will say with my latest breath - 
I know there's a new and radiant road
On the other side of Death.
Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle Of Our Own.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause
With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.
With affection as free
From decline as the bowers,
And, with hope, like the bee,
Living always on flowers,
Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.
A Woman's Hair. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

Oh! little lock of golden hue
In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polished brow where once you shone,
Like rays which guild a cloudless sky 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.
Oh! Doubt Me Not.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! doubt me not--the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturbed the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not--the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
And tho' my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro' many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not--the season
Is o'er, when Folly kept me free,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.
Sleep
by George MacDonald

Oh! is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole?
To-night the planets and the stars
Will glimmer through my window-bars
But will not shine upon my soul!
For I shall lie as dead
Though yet I am above the ground;
All passionless, with scarce a breath,
With hands of rest and eyes of death,
I shall be carried swiftly round.
Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams,
Through mossy arches will I go,
Through arches ruinous and low,
And chase the true and false in dreams.
Why should I fall asleep?
When I am still upon my bed
The moon will shine, the winds will rise
And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o'er my head!
O busy, busy things,
Ye mock me with your ceaseless life!
For all the hidden springs will flow
And all the blades of grass will grow
When I have neither peace nor strife.
And all the long night through
The restless streams will hurry by;
And round the lands, with endless roar,
The white waves fall upon the shore,
And bit by bit devour the dry.
Even thus, but silently,
Eternity, thy tide shall flow,
And side by side with every star
Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far,
An idle boat with none to row.
My senses fail with sleep;
My heart beats thick; the night is noon;
And faintly through its misty folds
I hear a drowsy clock that holds
Its converse with the waning moon.
Oh, solemn mystery
That I should be so closely bound
With neither terror nor constraint,
Without a murmur of complaint,
And lose myself upon such ground!
To A. ------
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! did those eyes instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
2.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair,
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
3.
When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
4.
Therefore to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
5.
These might the boldest Sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze,
Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
6.
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven,
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou would'st so far outshine the seven.
7.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear,
E'en suns which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
Jack Frost
by Helen Leah Reed

Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed,
Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red,
With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox,
And grandmother's fair favorites, old-fashioned hollyhocks.
One night we feared Jack Frost might come to blight the tender flowers - 
We almost felt his cruel breath in the early evening hours;
So Margery took coverings and spread them, thick and warm,
To shield the flowers, as blankets wrap a sleeping baby's form.
Then in the morning, when we looked across the dewy grass,
And saw the traces Jack Frost leaves where he is wont to pass - 
For each spreading tree and slender bush had felt his chill caress,
And some had drooped, and some had blushed in crimson loveliness - 
We hastened to the garden-bed, and there, in bright array,
The little flowers looked blithely up to greet the smiling day.
Safe hid from Jack Frost's piercing breath, he never saw them there,
And the flowers still bloom for Margery, to thank her for her care.
To A Lady.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1]
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
2.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
3.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another. [1]
4.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
5.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
6.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
7.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures - 
8.
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd: - 
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
9.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit, - 
For then it beat but to adore thee.
10.
But, now, I seek for other joys - 
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom's sadness.
11.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel - 
To know that thou art lost for ever.
Sonnet: "Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire"
by Rupert Brooke

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,
One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing,
See a slow light across the Stygian tide,
And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,
And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,
And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,
Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,
Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam,
Most individual and bewildering ghost!
And turn, and toss your brown delightful head
Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.
Awake! Young Men of England
by George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

Oh! give me the strength of the Lion,
The wisdom of reynard the Fox
And then I'll hurl troops at the Germans
And give them the hardest of knocks.
Oh! think of the War Lord's mailed fist,
That is striking at England today:
And think of the lives that our soldiers
Are fearlessly throwing away.
Awake! Oh you young men of England,
For if, when your Country's in need,
You do not enlist by the thousand,
You truly are cowards indeed.
Seal Lullaby
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, O'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow.
Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, no shark shall overtake thee
Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.