DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Idyll.
by Edward Shanks

This is the valley where we sojourn now,
Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green
And shaded sweetly by the waving bough
About the trench where floats the soft serene
Arun with waters running low and low
Through banks where lately still the tide has been;
Here is our resting-place, you walk with me
And watch the light die out in Amberley.
The light that dies is soft and flooding still,
Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies
And brimming up the space from hill to hill,
Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise,
Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill
And to each other speak with moaning cries;
We on the hill-side standing rest and see
The light die out in brook and grass and tree.
Lately we walked upon the lonely downs
And through the still heat of the heavy day
We heard the medley of low drifting sounds
And through the matted brambles found a way
Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds
Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay,
Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until
We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.
Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep,
With trees and bushes hidden here and there,
By circling turns into the valley deep
We came and left behind the hill-top air
For this cool village where to-night we sleep,
A country meal, a country bed to share,
With sleepy kisses and contented dreams
Over a land of still and narrow streams.
The light is ebbing in the dusky sky,
The valley floor is in the shadow.    Hark!
With rushing and mysterious noises fly
The bats already, looking for the dark
With blinking still and unaccustomed eye.
Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark
Burns, rising slowly in the rising night,
And pledges peace and promises delight.
Now from the east the wheeling shade appears
And softly night into the valley falls,
Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears,
Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.
Now in the dusk the village disappears,
Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls,
While night in passage swallows up the land
And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.
Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie
And unseen trees with rustling still betray
How all the valley lives invisibly,
Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day,
Float from the sleeping fields to please and die,
Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away
Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light,
To visit the cool meadows of the night.
Far Away from Here
by Charles Baudelaire

This is the sanctuary
where the prettified young lady,
calm, and always ready,
fans her breasts, aglow,
elbow on the pillow,
hears the fountain's flow:
it's the room of Dorothea.
The breeze and water distantly
sing their song, mingled here
with sobs to soothe the spoiled child's fear.
From tip to toe, most thoroughly,
her delicate surfaces appear,
oiled with sweet perfumery.
the flowers nearby swoon gracefully.
The Unpardonable Sin
by Vachel Lindsay

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: - 
To speak of bloody power as right divine,
And call on God to guard each vile chief's house,
And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine: - 
To go forth killing in White Mercy's name,
Making the trenches stink with spattered brains,
Tearing the nerves and arteries apart,
Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains.
In any Church's name, to sack fair towns,
And turn each home into a screaming sty,
To make the little children fugitive,
And have their mothers for a quick death cry, - 
This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:
This is the sin no purging can atone: - 
To send forth rapine in the name of Christ: - 
To set the face, and make the heart a stone.
The Legends Of Evil
by Rudyard Kipling

I
This is the sorrowful story
Told when the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their neighbours' tails:
"Our fathers lived in the forest,
Foolish people were they,
They went down to the cornland
To teach the farmers to play.
"Our fathers frisked in the millet,
Our fathers skipped in the wheat,
Our fathers hung from the branches,
Our fathers danced in the street.
"Then came the terrible farmers,
Nothing of play they knew,
Only. . .they caught our fathers
And set them to labour too!
"Set them to work in the cornland
With ploughs and sickles and flails,
Put them in mud-walled prisons
And, cut off their beautiful tails!
"Now, we can watch our fathers,
Sullen and bowed and old,
Stooping over the millet,
Sharing the silly mould,
"Driving a foolish furrow,
Mending a muddy yoke,
Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,
Steeping their food in smoke.
"We may not speak to our fathers,
For if the farmers knew
They would come up to the forest
And set us to labour too."
This is the horrible story
Told as the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their kinsmen's tails.
II
'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready,
That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below;
He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather,
An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.
Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely,
An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord:
"Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you,
Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!" an' the Donkey went aboard.
But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin',
An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air;
An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches,
Till Noah said: "There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!"
For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation,
The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales;
An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy
The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.
The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous:
"To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?"
An' the Divil gave for answer: "Evict me if you can, sir,
For I came in wid the Donkey, on Your Honour's invitation."
Under The Shadow Of Kiley's Hill
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

This is the place where they all were bred;
Some of the rafters are standing still;
Now they are scattered and lost and dead,
Every one from the old nest fled,
Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Better it is that they ne'er came back,
Changes and chances are quickly rung;
Now the old homestead is gone to rack,
Green is the grass on the well-worn track
Down by the gate where the roses clung.
Gone is the garden they kept with care;
Left to decay at its own sweet will,
Fruit trees and flower-beds eaten bare,
Cattle and sheep where the roses were,
Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Where are the children that strove and grew
In the old homestead in days gone by?
One is away on the far Barcoo
Watching his cattle the long year through,
Watching them starve in the droughts and die.
One, in the town where all cares are rife,
Weary with troubles that cramp and kill,
Fain would be done with the restless strife,
Fain would go back to the old bush life,
Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
One is away on the roving quest,
Seeking his share of the golden spoil;
Out in the wastes of the trackless west,
Wandering ever he gives the best
Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.
What of the parents? That unkempt mound
Shows where they slumber united still;
Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound
Out on the range as in holy ground,
Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Sailor's Yarn, A
by James Jeffrey Roche

This is the tale that was told to me,
By a battered and shattered son of the sea,
To me and my messmate, Silas Green,
When I was a guileless young marine.
"'Twas the good ship Gyascutus,
All in the China seas,
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free
To catch the summer breeze.
"'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,
To his mate in the mizzen hatch,
While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold,
Was winding the larboard watch.
"'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night!
How heads our gallant craft?'
'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.,
And the binnacle lies abaft!'
"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate,
And how does the sextant stand?'
'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point,
And the quadrant's lost a hand!'
"'Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand,
And the sextant falls so low,
It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones
This night are bound to go!
"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake!
And reef the spanker boom;
Bend a studding sail on the martingale,
To give her weather room.
"'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold
What water do you find?'
'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff
And rather more behind!'
"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes
And each belaying pin;
Come stir your stumps, and spike the pumps,
Or more will be coming in!'
"They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps,
They spliced the mizzen brace;
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!
The water gained apace.
"They bored a hole above the keel
To let the water out;
But, strange to say, to their dismay,
The water in did spout.
"Then up spoke the Cook, of our gallant ship,
And he was a lubber brave:
'I have several wives in various ports,
And my life I'd orter save.'
"Then up spoke the Captain of Marines,
Who dearly loved his prog:
'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,
And I move we pipe to grog.'
"Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate
What filled them all with awe;
The second mate, as bad men hate,
And cruel skipper's jaw.
"He took the anchor on his back,
And leaped into the main;
Through foam and spray he clove his way,
And sunk and rose again!
"Through foam and spray, a league away
The anchor stout he bore;
Till, safe at last, he made it fast
And warped the ship ashore!
"'Taint much of a job to talk about,
But a ticklish thing to see,
And suth'in to do, if I say it, too,
For that second mate was me!"
Such was the tale that was told to me
By that modest and truthful son of the sea,
And I envy the life of a second mate,
Though captains curse him and sailors hate,
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,
As would go and lie to a poor marine.
At The End Of The Road
by Madison Julius Cawein

This is the truth as I see it, my dear,
Out in the wind and the rain:
They who have nothing have little to fear,
Nothing to lose or to gain.
Here by the road at the end o' the year,
Let us sit down and drink o' our beer,
Happy-Go-Lucky and her cavalier,
Out in the wind and the rain.
Now we are old, oh isn't it fine
Out in the wind and the rain?
Now we have nothing why snivel and whine?
What would it bring us again?
When I was young I took you like wine,
Held you and kissed you and thought you divine
Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine,
Out in the wind and the rain.
Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led,
Out in the wind and the rain!
How we have drunken and how we have fed!
Nothing to lose or to gain!
Cover the fire now; get we to bed.
Long was the journey and far has it led:
Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead,
Out in the wind and the rain.
The Secret Of Prayer
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

For he who climbs to say his prayer
Meets half way the descending Grace.
ELSA BARKER, in British Review.
This is the secret of all prayers
That in God's sight have worth,
They must be uttered from the stairs
That wind away from earth;
And he who mounts to speak the word,
He shall be heard.    He shall be heard.
And he who will not leave himself,
But stays down with his cares,
Or with his thoughts of pride and pelf,
Though loud and long his prayers,
Beyond earth's dome of arching skies
They shall not rise.    They shall not rise.
Oh, ye who seek for strength and power
Seek first some quiet spot,
And fashion through a silent hour
Your stairway, thought by thought;
Then climb, and pray to God on high:
He shall reply.    He shall reply.
The Eve Of All-Saints.
by Madison Julius Cawein

1.
This is the tale they tell,
Of an Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beautiful Aimee Dean.
2.
Did I love her? God and she,
They know and I!
And love was the life of me
Whatever else may be,
Would God that I could die!
3.
That All-Saints' eve was dim;
The frost lay white
Under strange stars and a slim
Moon in the graveyard grim,
An Autumn ghost of light.
4.
They told her: "Go alone,
With never a word,
To the burial plot's unknown
Grave with the grayest stone,
When the clock on twelve is heard;
5.
"Three times around it pass,
With never a sound;
Each time a wisp of grass
And myrtle pluck, and pass
Out of the ghostly ground;
6.
"And the bridegroom that's to be
At smiling wait,
With a face like mist to see,
With graceful gallantry
Will bow you to the gate."
7.
She laughed at this, and so
Bespoke us how
To the burial place she'd go:
And I was glad to know,
For I'd be there to bow.
8.
An acre from the farm
The homestead graves
Lay walled from sun and storm;
Old cedars of priestly form
Around like sentinel slaves.
9.
I loved, but never could say
Such words to her,
And waited from day to day,
Nursing the hope that lay
Under the doubts that were.
10.
She passed 'neath the iron arch
Of the legended ground,
And the moon like a twisted torch
Burned over one lonesome larch;
She passed with never a sound.
11.
Three times had the circle traced,
Three times had bent
To the grave that the myrtle graced;
Three times, then softly faced
Homeward, and slowly went.
12.
Had the moonlight changed me so?
Or fear undone
Her stepping strange and slow?
Did she see and did not know?
Or loved she another one?
13.
Who knows? She turned to flee
With a face so white
That it haunts and will haunt me;
The wind blew gustily,
The graveyard gate clanged tight.
14.
Did she think it me or, what,
Clutching her dress?
Her face so pinched that not
A star in a stormy spot
Shows half as much distress.
15.
Did I speak? did she answer aught?
O God! had I said
"Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!
And the mist and the moon distraught
Stared with me on her, dead....
16.
This is the tale they tell
Of the Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beautiful Aimee Dean.
The Ballad Of G. R. Dibbs
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

This is the story of G.R.D.,
Who went on a mission across the sea
To borrow some money for you and me.
This G. R. Dibbs was a stalwart man
Who was built on a most extensive plan,
And a regular staunch Republican.
But he fell in the hands of the Tory crew
Who said, "It's a shame that a man like you
Should teach Australia this nasty view.
"From her mother's side she should ne'er be gone,
And she ought to be glad to be smiled upon,
And proud to be known as our hanger-on."
And G. R. Dibbs, he went off his peg
At the swells who came for his smiles to beg
And the Prince of Wales, who was pulling his leg
And he told them all when the wine had flown,
"The Australian has got no land of his own,
His home is England, and there alone."
So he strutted along with the titled band
And he sold the pride of his native land
For a bow and a smile and a shake of the hand.
And the Tory drummers they sit and call:
"Send over your leaders great and small;
For the price is low, and we'll buy them all
"With a tinsel title, a tawdry star
Of a lower grade than our titles are,
And a puff at a prince's big cigar."
And the Tories laugh till they crack their ribs
When they think how they purchased G. R. Dibbs.
A Death-Bed
by Rudyard Kipling

"This is the State above the Law.
The State exists for the State alone."
[This is a gland at the back of the jaw, 
And an answering lump by the collar-bone.],
Some die shouting in gas or fire; 
Some die silent, by shell and shot. 
Some die desperate, caught on the wire; 
Some die suddenly. 
This will not. 
"Regis suprema voluntas Lex" 
[It will follow the regular course of throats.] 
Some die pinned by the broken decks, 
Some die sobbing between the boats. 
Some die eloquent, pressed to death 
By the sliding trench, as their friends can hear. 
Some die wholly in half a breath. 
Some give trouble for half a year. 
"There is neither Evil nor Good in life
Except as the needs of the State ordain." 
[Since it is rather too late for the knife, 
All we can do is to mask the pain.] 
Some die saintly in faith and hope, 
One died thus in a prison-yard, 
Some die broken by rape or the rope; 
Some die easily. 
This dies hard. 
"I will dash to pieces who bar my way. 
Woe to the traitor! 
Woe to the weak!" 
[Let him write what he wishes to say. 
It tires him out if he tries to speak.] 
Some die quietly. 
Some abound In loud self-pity. 
Others spread Bad morale through the cots around... 
This is a type that is better dead. 
"The war was forced on me by my foes. 
All that I sought was the right to live." 
[Don't be afraid of a triple dose; 
The pain will neutralize all we give. 
Here are the needles. 
See that he dies 
While the effects of the drug endure.... 
What is the question he asks with his eyes?,
Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]
A Gleam Of Sunshine
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the place.    Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook,
But seen on either side.
Here runs the highway to the town;
There the green lane descends,
Through which I walked to church with thee,
O gentlest of my friends!
The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving boughs,
A shadow, thou didst pass.
Thy dress was like the lilies,
And thy heart as pure as they:
One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day.
I saw the branches of the trees
Bend down thy touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass
Rise up to kiss thy feet,
"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born!"
Solemnly sang the village choir
On that sweet Sabbath morn.
Through the closed blinds the golden sun
Poured in a dusty beam,
Like the celestial ladder seen
By Jacob in his dream.
And ever and anon, the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves
That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,
And still I thought of thee.
Long was the prayer he uttered,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him,
And still I thought of thee.
But now, alas! the place seems changed;
Thou art no longer here:
Part of the sunshine of the scene
With thee did disappear.
Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,
Like pine-trees dark and high,
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe
A low and ceaseless sigh;
This memory brightens o'er the past,
As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that near us hangs
Shines on a distant field.
The Rock Pool
by Edward Shanks

This is the sea. In these uneven walls
A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away
Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls,
Her sisters through the capes that hold the bay
Dancing in lovely liberty recede.
Yet lovely in captivity she lies,
Filled with soft colours, where the wavering weed
Moves gently and discloses to our eyes
Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent shells
Under the light-shot water; and here repose
Small quiet fish and dimly glowing bells
Of sleeping sea-anemones that close
Their tender fronds and will not now awake
Till on these rocks the waves returning break.
The Low-Down White
by Robert William Service

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;
There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town,
With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.
And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three;
One for herself to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me,
To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.
To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;
To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face,
Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.
Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak
In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek,
I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase, and rise with a verse of Greek?
Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight;
Called to the bar - my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight;
Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate.
But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare,
And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care -
Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair.
She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow,
Like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want and woe;
And yonder she comes, by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow.
The Story Of Moses.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

This is the story of Moses,
The earliest scribe that we keep:
Void was the earth and formless,
And dark was the face of the deep,
Till God's word flashed in lightning,
Beautiful, bountiful, bright,
And night was the name of the darkness,
And day was the name of the light.
This is the story of Moses--
(Doubt it, if ever you can)--
The world was too good to begin with,
So God made Adam, the man;
And for Adam He made the woman,
And He gave them laws to obey;
And, lastly, He sent the serpent
To follow and tempt and betray.
This is the story of Moses--
Eve got a man from the Lord,
And his name was Cain, and another
Called Abel, the evil-starred;
And the brothers quarreled at their worship,
And Abel, the meek, was slain,
And Death shook hands with the slayer,
His first and best friend, Cain.
This is the story of Moses
Of how our people began,
Of the broken law and the bloodshed--
First fruits of the God-sent man;
This is the story of Moses,
The earliest scribe who writ,
And all the scribes who are writing
Don't vary the tale a whit.
Helen Of Troy
by Edgar Lee Masters

On an ancient vase representing in bas-relief the flight of Helen.
This is the vase of Love
Whose feet would ever rove
O'er land and sea;
Whose hopes forever seek
Bright eyes, the vermeiled cheek,
And ways made free.
Do we not understand
Why thou didst leave thy land,
Thy spouse, thy hearth?
Helen of Troy, Greek art
Hath made our heart thy heart,
Thy mirth our mirth.
For Paris did appear,
Curled hair and rosy ear
And tapering hands.
He spoke, the blood ran fast,
He touched, and killed the past,
And clove its bands.
And this, I deem, is why
The restless ages sigh,
Helen, for thee.
Whate'er we do or dream,
Whate'er we say or seem,
We would be free.
We would forsake old love,
And all the pain thereof,
And all the care;
We would find out new seas,
And lands more strange than these,
And flowers more fair.
We would behold fresh skies
Where summer never dies
And amaranths spring;
Lands where the halcyon hours
Nest over scented bowers
On folded wing.
We would be crowned with bays,
And spend the long bright days
On sea or shore;
Or sit by haunted woods,
And watch the deep sea's moods,
And hear its roar.
Beneath that ancient sky
Who is not fain to fly
As men have fled?
Ah! we would know relief
From marts of wine and beef,
And oil and bread.
Helen of Troy, Greek art
Hath made our heart thy heart,
Thy love our love.
For poesy, like thee,
Must fly and wander free
As the wild dove.
The Door
by Edgar Lee Masters

This is the room that thou wast ushered in.
Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win?
Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath?
There is no door but death.
Do shadows crouch within the mocking light?
Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight
Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore,
There is no less one door.
Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom,
The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom?
Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth,
There is no door but death.
There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof
Above the rents within the stairless roof.
Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor,
Who knocks? Unbolt the door!