DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
His Praise Of Finn
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

It is a week from yesterday I last saw Finn; I never saw a braver man. A king of heavy blows; my law, my adviser, my sense and my wisdom, prince and poet, braver than kings, King of the Fenians, brave in all countries; golden salmon of the sea, clean hawk of the air, rightly taught, avoiding lies; strong in his doings, a right judge, ready in courage, a high messenger in bravery and in music.
His skin lime-white, his hair golden; ready to work, gentle to women; his great green vessels full of rough sharp wine. It is rich the king was, the head of his people.
Seven sides Finn's house had, and seven score shields on every side. Fifty fighting men he had about him having woollen cloaks; ten bright drinking-cups in his hall, ten blue vessels, ten golden horns.
It is a good household Finn had, without grudging, without lust, without vain boasting, without chattering, without any slur on any one of the Fenians. Finn never refused any man: he never put away any one that came to his house. If the brown leaves falling in the woods were gold, if the white waves were silver, Finn would have given away the whole of it.
First Arrivals.
by Kate Greenaway

It is a Party, do you know,
And there they sit, all in a row,
Waiting till the others come,
To begin to have some fun.
Hark! the bell rings sharp and clear,
Other little friends appear;
And no longer all alone
They begin to feel at home.
To them a little hard is Fate,
Yet better early than too late;
Fancy getting there forlorn,
With the tea and cake all gone.
Wonder what they'll have for tea;
Hope the jam is strawberry.
Wonder what the dance and game;
Feel so very glad they came.
Very Happy may you be,
May you much enjoy your tea.
Blue-Butterfly Day
by Robert Lee Frost

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
Wet-Weather Talk
by James Whitcomb Riley

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. -
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents -
Although they're apt to grumble some -
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come -
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.
With SOME, of course, it's different -
I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball; -
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly WANTED it,
It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men -
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then. -
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And WANT it - out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too -
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm - and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round -
And back'ard crops! - and wind and rain! -
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again! -
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. -
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Summer Wind.
by William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops
Shining in the far ether, fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
Niagara Dry.
by James McIntyre

It happened once in early spring,
While there did float great thick ice cakes,
That then a gale did quickly bring
Them all down from the upper lakes.
And from Buffalo to Lake Erie,
Across the entrance to river,
It was a scene of icebergs dreary,
Those who saw will remember ever.
Then gale blew up lake and river,
And left Niagara almost dry,
This a lady did discover
As above the Falls she cast her eye.
Such scene it had been witnessed never,
Since Israelites crossed the Red Sea,
When they had resolved forever
From Pharaoh's bondage to flee.
Lady she resolved to venture,
Proudly carrying British flag,
Erecting it in river's centre
In crevice of a rocky crag.
It seems like a romance by Bulwer,
How she captured Niagara,
But it was seen by Bishop Fuller,
Who did at sight of flag hurrah.
Ten thousand years may die away
Before another dry can tread,
In bottom of Niagara,
For she doth jealous guard her bed.
But ice her entrance did blockade,
And wind it kept the waters back,
So that a child could almost wade
Across the brink of cataract.
The Death Of The Poor
by Charles Baudelaire

It is death that consoles and allows us to live.
Alas! that life's end should be all of our hope;
It goes to our heads like a powerful drink,
And gives us the heart to walk into the dark;
Through storm and through snow, through the frost at our feet,
It's the pulsating beacon at limit of sight,
The illustrious inn* that's described in the book,
Where we'll sit ourselves down, and will eat and will sleep;
It's an Angel who holds in his magical grip
Our peace, and the gift of magnificent dreams,
And who makes up the bed of the poor and the bare;
It's the glory of gods, it's the mystical loft,
It's the purse of the poor and their true native land,
It's the porch looking out on mysterious skies!
Rendsch Name - Book Of Gloom.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It is a fault oneself to praise,
And yet 'tis done by each whose deeds are kind;
And if there's no deceit in what he says,
The good we still as good shall find.
Let, then, ye fools, that wise man taste
Of joy, who fancies that he s wise,
That he, a fool like you, may waste
Th' insipid thanks the world supplies.
On Receiving A Crown Of Ivy From John Keats
by James Henry Leigh Hunt

It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind, 
Thus to be topped with leaves;--to have a sense 
Of honour-shaded thought,--an influence 
As from great nature's fingers, and be twined 
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind, 
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence 
A head that bows to her benevolence, 
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind. 
It is what's within us crowned. And kind and great 
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires, 
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods, 
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state 
Of natural good befitting such desires, 
Towns without gain, and hunted solitudes.
Is It Done?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes,
The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes
Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter,
It is well they have shriveled and burned,
And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter,
It was better removed and returned.
But ah, is it done? in the embers
Where letters and tokens were cast,
Have you burned up the heart that remembers,
And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion
To ruthlessly burn and destroy
The months that were freighted with passion,
The dreams that were drunken with joy?
Can you burn up the rapture of kisses
That flashed from the lips to the soul?
Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses
In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers
That thrilled through each pulse and each vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
And hurts with a haunting refrain?
Is it done? is the life drama ended?
You have put all the lights out, and yet,
Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,
Can the actors go home and forget?
Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping
With a strange restless pain in their hearts,
And in darkness, and anguish and weeping,
Will dream they are playing their parts.
Bad Dreams IV
by Robert Browning

It happened thus: my slab, though new,
Was getting weather-stained, beside,
Herbage, balm, peppermint, o'ergrew
Letter and letter: till you tried
Somewhat, the Name was scarce descried.
That strong stern man my lover came:
Was he my lover? Call him, pray,
My life's cold critic bent on blame
Of all poor I could do or say
To make me worth his love one day,
One far day when, by diligent
And dutiful amending faults,
Foibles, all weaknesses which went
To challenge and excuse assaults
Of culture wronged by taste that halts,
Discrepancies should mar no plan
Symmetric of the qualities
Claiming respect from, say, a man
That's strong and stem. 'Once more he pries
Into me with those critic eyes!'
No question! so, 'Conclude, condemn
Each failure my poor self avows!
Leave to its fate all you contemn!
There's Solomon's selected spouse:
Earth needs must hold such maids, choose them!'
Why, he was weeping! Surely gone
Sternness and strength: with eyes to ground
And voice a broken monotone,
'Only be as you were! Abound
In foibles, faults, laugh, robed and crowned
'As Folly's veriest queen, care I
One feather-fluff? Look pity, Love,
On prostrate me, your foot shall try
This forehead's use, mount thence above,
And reach what Heaven you dignify!'
Now, what could bring such change about?
The thought perplexed: till, following
His gaze upon the ground, why, out
Came all the secret! So, a thing
Thus simple has deposed my king!
For, spite of weeds that strove to spoil
Plain reading on the lettered slab,
My name was clear enough, no soil
Effaced the date when one chance stab
Of scorn . . . if only ghosts might blab!
That Day
by Rudyard Kipling

It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope;
It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt.
'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope;
It were just a bloomin' knock-out, an' our fault!
Now there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,
Nor there ain't no band to play;
An' I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,
Or seen what I seed that day!
We was sick o' bein' punished, an' we let 'em know it, too;
An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword,
An' some one shouted "'Ook it!" an' it come to ~sove-ki-poo~,
An' we chucked our rifles from us, O my Gawd!
There was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep,
No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front begun to go;
But, Christ! along the line o' flight they cut us up like sheep,
An' that was all we gained by doin' so.
I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man,
Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't 'alt to see,
Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran,
An' I thought I knew the voice an', it was me!
We was 'idin' under bedsteads more than 'arf a march away;
We was lyin' up like rabbits all about the countryside;
An' the major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e lived to see that day,
An' the colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried.
We was rotten 'fore we started, we was never disci~plined~;
We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed;
Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind,
So we had to pay for teachin', an' we paid!
The papers 'id it 'andsome, but you know the Army knows;
We was put to groomin' camels till the regiments withdrew,
An' they gave us each a medal for subduin' England's foes,
An' I 'ope you like my song, because it's true!
An' there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,
Nor there ain't no band to play;
But I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,
Or seen what I seed that day!
Is It Done?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes,
The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes
Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter,
It is well they have shrivelled and burned,
And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter,
It was better removed and returned.
But ah, is it done?    In the embers
Where letters and tokens were cast,
Have you burned up the heart that remembers,
And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion
To ruthlessly burn and destroy
The months that were freighted with passion,
The dreams that were drunken with joy?
Can you burn up the rapture of kisses
That flashed from the lips to the soul,
Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses
In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers
That thrilled through each pulse and each vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
And hurts with a haunting refrain?
Is it done? is the life drama ended?
You have put all the lights out, and yet,
Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,
Can the actors go home and forget?
Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping
With a strange restless pain in their hearts,
And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping,
Will dream they are playing their parts.
The Clock-Winder
by Thomas Hardy

It is dark as a cave,
Or a vault in the nave
When the iron door
Is closed, and the floor
Of the church relaid
With trowel and spade.
But the parish-clerk
Cares not for the dark
As he winds in the tower
At a regular hour
The rheumatic clock,
Whose dilatory knock
You can hear when praying
At the day's decaying,
Or at any lone while
From a pew in the aisle.
Up, up from the ground
Around and around
In the turret stair
He clambers, to where
The wheelwork is,
With its tick, click, whizz,
Reposefully measuring
Each day to its end
That mortal men spend
In sorrowing and pleasuring
Nightly thus does he climb
To the trackway of Time.
Him I followed one night
To this place without light,
And, ere I spoke, heard
Him say, word by word,
At the end of his winding,
The darkness unminding:-
"So I wipe out one more,
My Dear, of the sore
Sad days that still be,
Like a drying Dead Sea,
Between you and me!"
Who she was no man knew:
He had long borne him blind
To all womankind;
And was ever one who
Kept his past out of view.
The Feud
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Its Beginning
It happened this way: He was just a lad,
Though big for sixteen years; and there they stood,
He and some others, laughing as youth should,
About some nonsense or some fun they'd had.
Then some one said what made another mad,
And words were passed and oaths, (young blood! young blood!)
You know how 'tis! and suddenly, thud! thud!
Two boys were at it. Worse grew out of bad.
One boy went up to him we all admired,
The merry-hearted fellow, handsome one,
And with a curse about why, God knows what!
Just put a pistol to his heart and fired.
That was the feud's beginning. Some one's son
Shot some one's son, and he in turn was shot.
II.
The End
And so one night they came, in wild carouse,
The father and the kinsmen of the boy,
That young fiend shot. With never an"Ahoy,"
They shot into the windows of that house,
And burnt the barn and in it all the cows.
Not one was saved. They came there to destroy,
And did it thoroughly. Like some new joy
They toyed with death and made it boisterous vows.
They killed the boy first; while he blinked and gaped
They shot him by a tree outside the door:
The women fled: the men they killed like dogs,
The father and the uncle. One escaped,
The old grandfather in a gown he wore,
Who hid all night among a pen of hogs.
The Peace Maker
by Henry Lawson

It has a 'point' of neither sex
But comes in guise of both,
And, doubly dangerous complex,
It is a thing to loathe,
A lady with her sweet, sad smile,
A gentleman on oath.
Strip off the mother-veil, and fur!
And signs of 'quiet taste'.
The dead child's locket take from her
(The dead man's gift in haste)
And wash from every evil line
The layers of filling paste!
From 'saddened eyes' the hell's own glare!
From 'sweet mouth' blasphemy!
Wrench out the gold-filled false teeth there
That twice mock honesty,
And leave the evil face awry
For married folk to see.
For foolish girl wives in despair,
For men's and children's sakes,
Let loose the glossed and padded hair
To writhe like scorching snakes!
And strip the barren body bare
To show what Satan makes.
Aye! I could take her by the throat
More sure than hangman's noose,
And set my teeth and set my nails,
And hate would set my thews.
And fling her to the drought-starved swine,
Were all my brethren Jews.
There was the kindest man I knew,
Brave, handsome, straight and tall,
Between his loved ones and the world
He stood, a fortress wall.
He whines, a ruined drunkard now,
And this thing did it all.
There was the girl who married me
And bore my children twain,
We'll never meet each other's eyes
Like boy and girl again.
The very children's love and trust
By this foul thing was slain.
There was a girl my manhood loved,
She'd Love's own red gold hair,
And grey eyes that were Pity's own
And courage that was rare.
She sleeps amongst the suicides,
And this thing sent her there.
And all because the town was dull
And goodness was too tame,
And people took no interest
In one they could not blame.
And all because my life was clean
And I had won a name.
And now, for years of senseless hate
And paltry, bitter strife,
For 'reparation' come too late,
For sweetheart, mate and wife,
I tread her vile heart in the dust
And ashes of my life.
To A Dead Friend
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

It is as if a silver chord
Were suddenly grown mute,
And life's song with its rhythm warred
Against a silver lute.
It is as if a silence fell
Where bides the garnered sheaf,
And voices murmuring, "It is well,"
Are stifled by our grief.
It is as if the gloom of night
Had hid a summer's day,
And willows, sighing at their plight,
Bent low beside the way.
For he was part of all the best
That Nature loves and gives,
And ever more on Memory's breast
He lies and laughs and lives.
Sunset
by Henry Kendall

It is better, O day, that you go to your rest,
For you go like a guest who was loth to remain!
Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west,
And let out the wild shadows the night and the rain.
Ye winds, ye are dead, with your voices attuned,
That thrilled the green life in the sweet-scented sheaves,
When I touched a warm hand which has faded, and swooned
To a trance of the darkness, and blight on the leaves.
I had studied the lore in her maiden-like ways,
And the large-hearted love of my Annie was won,
'Ere Summer had passed into passionate days,
Or Autumn made ready her fruits for the Sun.
So my life was complete, and the hours that went by,
And the moon and the willow-wooed waters around,
Might have known that we rested, my Annie and I,
In happiness calm as the slumber of sound.
On Sundays we wandered, as glad as a breeze,
By the rocks and the waves on a glittering beach;
Or we loitered in gardens melodious with bees,
And sucked the sweet pulp of the plum and the peach.
'The Forest will show me the secrets of Fame,'
I said to myself in the gum-shadowed glen,
'I will call every blossom and tree by its name,
And the people shall deem me a man of the men.
'I will gather Roses of Sharon, my Soul,
The Roses of Sharon so cool and so sweet;
And our brothers shall see me entwining the whole
For a garland to drop at my dear Annie's feet.'
It is better, O day, that you go to your rest,
For you go like a guest who was loth to remain!
Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west,
And let out the wild shadows the night and the rain.
The Law Of Nature.
by Friedrich Schiller

It has ever been so, my friend, and will ever remain so:
Weakness has rules for itself, vigor is crowned with success.
The Lost Lagoon
by Emily Pauline Johnson

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey,
Beneath the drowse of an ending day,
And the curve of a golden moon.
It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and - you,
And gone is the golden moon.
O! lure of the Lost Lagoon, - 
I dream to-night that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs,
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.
To Luigi Del Riccio.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Nel dolce d' una.
It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea
Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide
Offence to life and honour. This descried,
I hold less dear the health restored to me.
He who lends wings of hope, while secretly
He spreads a traitorous snare by the wayside,
Hath dulled the flame of love, and mortified
Friendship where friendship burns most fervently.
Keep then, my dear Luigi, clear and pure
That ancient love to which my life I owe,
That neither wind nor storm its calm may mar.
For wrath and pain our gratitude obscure;
And if the truest truth of love I know,
One pang outweighs a thousand pleasures far.
The Appeal
by Rudyard Kipling

It I have given you delight
By aught that I have done,
Let me lie quiet in that night 
Which shall be yours anon:
And for the little, little, span
The dead are born in mind,
Seek not to question other than
The books I leave behind.