DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Golden - Of The Selkirks
by Emily Pauline Johnson

A trail upwinds from Golden;
It leads to a land God only knows,
To the land of eternal frozen snows,
That trail unknown and olden.
And they tell a tale that is strange and wild - 
Of a lovely and lonely mountain child
That went up the trail from Golden.
A child in the sweet of her womanhood,
Beautiful, tender, grave and good
As the saints in time long olden.
And the days count not, nor the weeks avail;
For the child that went up the mountain trail
Came never again to Golden.
And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom,
Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom,
For the love that they knew of olden.
And April dawned, with its suns aflame,
And the eagles wheeled and the vultures came
And poised o'er the town of Golden.
God of the white eternal peaks,
Guard the dead while the vulture seeks! - 
God of the days so olden.
For only God in His greatness knows
Where the mountain holly above her grows,
On the trail that leads from Golden.
The Night.
by W. M. MacKeracher

A tremor, a quiver,
Through her ran
As over the river
The dawn began.
She drew her veil
Over her eyes,
And her face grew pale,
As she watched the sun rise.
She faded, turned
To a ghost, was gone,
As the morning burned
And the day came on.
With veiled, sad eye,
And face still wan,
She waited nigh
When the dusk began.
With her tears of bliss
The earth was wet,
And soothed with her kiss,
When the sun had set.
And with stately pride
She sat on the throne
Of her empire wide
When the day had gone;
And her robes she spread
With their sable hem,
And crowned her head
With her diadem.
And the mute earth saw
That a Queen was she,
And gazed with awe
On her majesty.
Hamomlette
by Paul Cameron Brown

A VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE?
MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORE
CHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARK
INGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THE
HUMAN CONDITION,
SENSELESS FORCES THAT
RAGE AND DESTROY A MAN
COOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLY
A PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICK
I KNEW HIM WELL...
The Troubadour
by William Schwenck Gilbert

A troubadour he played
Without a castle wall,
Within, a hapless maid
Responded to his call.
"Oh, willow, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
If I were only free
I'd hie me far away!"
Unknown her face and name,
But this he knew right well,
The maiden's wailing came
From out a dungeon cell.
A hapless woman lay
Within that dungeon grim 
That fact, I've heard him say.
Was quite enough for him.
"I will not sit or lie,
Or eat or drink, I vow.
Till thou art free as I,
Or I as pent as thou."
Her tears then ceased to flow,
Her wails no longer rang,
And tuneful in her woe
The prisoned maiden sang:
"Oh, stranger, as you play
I recognize your touch;
And all that I can say
Is, thank you very much."
He seized his clarion straight,
And blew thereat, until
A warden oped the gate,
"Oh, what might be your will?"
"I've come, sir knave, to see
The master of these halls:
A maid unwillingly
Lies prisoned in their walls."
With barely stifled sigh
That porter drooped his head,
With teardrops in his eye,
"A many, sir," he said.
He stayed to hear no more,
But pushed that porter by,
And shortly stood before
Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.
Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,
"What would you, sir, with me?"
The troubadour he downed
Upon his bended knee.
"I've come, De Peckham Rye,
To do a Christian task;
You ask me what would I?
It is not much I ask.
"Release these maidens, sir,
Whom you dominion o'er 
Particularly her
Upon the second floor.
"And if you don't, my lord" 
He here stood bolt upright,
And tapped a tailor's sword 
"Come out, you cad, and fight!"
Sir Hugh he called and ran
The warden from the gate:
"Go, show this gentleman
The maid in forty-eight."
By many a cell they past,
And stopped at length before
A portal, bolted fast:
The man unlocked the door.
He called inside the gate
With coarse and brutal shout,
"Come, step it, Forty-eight!"
And Forty-eight stepped out.
"They gets it pretty hot,
The maidens what we cotch 
Two years this lady's got
For collaring a wotch."
"Oh, ah! indeed I see,"
The troubadour exclaimed 
"If I may make so free,
How is this castle named?"
The warden's eyelids fill,
And sighing, he replied,
"Of gloomy Pentonville
This is the female side!"
The minstrel did not wait
The warden stout to thank,
But recollected straight
He'd business at the Bank.
Rebecca
by Hilaire Belloc

Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably
A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy banker's little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.
She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child...
It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.
Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the deadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.
The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
As often they had done before.
Ballade Of Muhammad Din Tilai
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

A twist of fresh flowers on your dark hair,
And your hair is a panther's shadow.
On your white cheeks the down of a thousand roses,
They speak about your beauty in Lahore.
You have your mother's lips;
Your ring is frosted with rubies,
And your hair is a panther's shadow.
Your ring is frosted with rubies;
I was unhappy and you looked over the wall,
I saw your face among the crimson lilies;
There is no armour that a lover can buy,
And your hair is a panther's shadow.
"The cool fingers of the mistress burn her lovers
And they go away.
I have fatigued the wise of many lands,
And my hair is a tangle of serpents.
What is the profit of these shawls without you?
And my hair is a panther's shadow."
"A squadron of my father's men are about me,
And I have woven a collar of yellow flowers.
My eyes are veiled because I drink cups of bhang,
Being a daughter of the daughter of queens.
You cannot touch me because of my palaces,
And my hair is a panther's shadow."
I will touch you, though your beauty be as fair as song;
For I am a disciple of Abdel Qadir Gilani,
And my songs are as beautiful as women and as strong as love;
And your hair is a panther's shadow.
Your ring is frosted with rubies....
Muhammad Din awaits the parting of your scarves;
Tilai is standing here, young and magnificent like a tree;
And your hair is a panther's shadow.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century).
A Toad Can Die Of Light!
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A toad can die of light!
Death is the common right
Of toads and men, --
Of earl and midge
The privilege.
Why swagger then?
The gnat's supremacy
Is large as thine.
From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay
by James Whitcomb Riley

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing,
Disguised them and came this way,
And one was a promise, and one was a doubt,
And one was a rainy day.
And they met betimes with this maiden,
And the promise it spake and lied,
And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself,
And the rainy day - she died.
Alone
by Walter De La Mare

A very old woman
Lives in yon house - 
The squeak of the cricket,
The stir of the mouse,
Are all she knows
Of the earth and us.
Once she was young,
Would dance and play,
Like many another
Young popinjay;
And run to her mother
At dusk of day.
And colours bright
She delighted in;
The fiddle to hear,
And to lift her chin,
And sing as small
As a twittering wren.
But age apace
Comes at last to all;
And a lone house filled
With the cricket's call;
And the scampering mouse
In the hollow wall.
Little Charlie.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

A violet grew by the river-side,
And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
It breathed a rich perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
And its portals were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
That grew by the river-side.
Not far away in a pleasant home,
There lived a little boy,
Whose cheerful face and childish grace
Filled every heart with joy.
He wandered one day to the river's verge,
With no one near to save;
And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
Was stilled in the restless wave.
The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
And we bade farewell to joy;
For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
To the grave of the little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
That shadows the open door;
We heed them not, for we think of the voice
That we shall hear no more.
We think of him at eventide,
And gaze on his vacant chair
With a longing heart that will scarce believe
That Charlie is not there.
We seem to hear his ringing laugh,
And his bounding step at the door;
But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,
We shall never hear them more!
We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
In the pleasant summer hours;
We will speak his name in a softened voice,
And cover his grave with flowers;
We will think of him in his heavenly home,--
In his heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust
That we shall meet him there.
The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
by Walter Crane

A Trumpeter, prisoner made,
Hoped his life would be spared when he said
He'd no part in the fight,
But they answered him--"Right,
But what of the music you made?"
Songs May Serve A Cause As Well As Swords
The West-Of-Wessex Girl
by Thomas Hardy

A very West-of-Wessex girl,
As blithe as blithe could be,
Was once well-known to me,
And she would laud her native town,
And hope and hope that we
Might sometime study up and down
Its charms in company.
But never I squired my Wessex girl
In jaunts to Hoe or street
When hearts were high in beat,
Nor saw her in the marbled ways
Where market-people meet
That in her bounding early days
Were friendly with her feet.
Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl,
When midnight hammers slow
From Andrew's, blow by blow,
As phantom draws me by the hand
To the place Plymouth Hoe 
Where side by side in life, as planned,
We never were to go!
Begun in Plymouth, March 1913.
On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford, For Naples
by William Wordsworth

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laureled conqueror knows
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
Leaves Compared With Flowers
by Robert Lee Frost

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.
But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.
Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.
I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.
Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.
A Train Went Through A Burial Gate,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A train went through a burial gate,
A bird broke forth and sang,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
Till all the churchyard rang;
And then adjusted his little notes,
And bowed and sang again.
Doubtless, he thought it meet of him
To say good-by to men.
In The Record Room, Surrogate's Office.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat;
Where buried papers, fold on fold,
Crumble to dust, that 'thwart the sun
Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold.
The day is dying. All about,
Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still
I ponder o'er a dead girl's name
Fast fading from a dead man's will.
Katrina Harland, fair and sweet,
Sole heiress of your father's land,
Full many a gallant wooer rode
To snare your heart, to win your hand.
And one, perchance who loved you best,
Feared men might sneer "he sought her gold" 
And never spoke, but turned away
Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.
Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved,
And mourned him all a virgin life.
Perhaps forgot his very name
As happy mother, happy wife.
Unanswered, sad, I turn away 
"You loved her first, then?" First well no 
You little goose, the Harland will
Was proved full sixty years ago.
But Katrine's lands to-day are known
To lawyers as the Glass House tract;
Who were her heirs, no record shows;
The title's bad, in point of fact,
If she left children, at her death,
I've been retained to clear the title;
And all the questions, raised above,
Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.
The Toast
by Virna Sheard

A toast to thee, 0 dear old year,
While the last moments fly,
A toast to thy sweet memory - 
We'll lift the glasses high,
And bid to thee a fond farewell
As thou art passing by!
A toast to those who reaped success
In this good year of grace;
A toast to every one of them - 
Come! Give the victors place!
Come, wish them well with right good will - 
The winners in the race!
And one toast more! To those who failed
Wherever they may be; - 
With faces white they fought the fight,
But missed the victory;
So here's to them - the ones who strove - 
On land and on the sea!
Fair dreams to thee, 0 grey old year,
Thy working time is done,
And gone for thee the silver moon,
And golden noon-day sun;
Yet sad old year - and glad old year - 
We'll know no better one.
Easter Morn
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A truth that has long lain buried
At Superstition's door,
I see, in the dawn uprising
In all its strength once more.
Hidden away in the darkness,
By Ignorance crucified,
Crushed under stones of dogmas -
Yet lo! it has not died.
It stands in the light transfigured,
It speaks from the heights above,
"EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN REDEEMER;
THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE."
And the spirits of men are gladdened
As they welcome this Truth re-born
With its feet on the grave of Error
And its eyes to the Easter Morn.
On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford
by William Wordsworth

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
Alphabet, No. 6.
by Edward Lear

tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood,
said. "My Boy, oh, do not cry; it cannot do you good!"
said, "A Cup of Coffee hot can't do you any harm."
said, "A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm."
said, "An Egg beat up with milk would quickly make him well."
said, "A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell."
said, "Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold."
said, "His Hat should be kept on, to keep him from the cold."
said, "Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon."
said, "Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon!"
said, "A Kangaroo is here, - this picture let him see."
said, "A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea."
said, "A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction."
said, "Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction."
said, "An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink."
said, "Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think."
said, "A Quince I recommend, - a Quince, or else a Quail."
said, "Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail."
said, "A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!"
said, "A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half!"
said, "An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!"
said, "I'll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!"
said, "Some Whisky-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!"
said, "Some double XX ale would be the best of all!"
said, "Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!"
said, "Here is a box of Zinc! Get in, my little master!
We'll shut you up! We'll nail you down! We will, my little master!
We think we've all heard quite enough of this your sad disaster!"
A Valentine
by Barcroft Boake

A Valentine The Bree was up; the floods were out
Around the hut of Culgo Jim:
The hand of God had broke the drought
And filled the channels to the brim:
The outline of the hut loomed dim
Among the shades of murmurous pine,
That eve of good Saint Valentine.
He watched, and to his sleepy gaze
The dying embers of the fire,
Its yellow reds and pearly greys,
Made pictures of his younger days.
Outside the waters mounted higher
Beneath a half-moon's sickly shine,
That eve of good Saint Valentine.
There, in the great slab fire-place
The oak log, burnt away to coal,
Showed him the semblance of a face
Framed in a golden aureole:
Eyes, the clear windows of a soul
Soul of a maid, who used to sign
Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.'
Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear
Love's kisses, not to be the mock
Of grave-worms . . . Suddenly a whirr,
And twelve loud strokes upon the clock;
Then at the door a gentle knock.
The collie dog began to whine
That morn of good Saint Valentine.
He opened; by his heels the hound
Sniffed at the night. 'Who comes, and why?
What? no one! Hush! was that a sound?
Methought I heard a human cry.
Bah! 'twas a curlew passing by
Out where the lignum bushes twine,
This morn of good Saint Valentine.
'What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down!
No? Well, lead on, perchance a
It is, poor brute, that fears to drown.
Heavens! how chill the waters creep!
Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap?
'Tis but a foolish quest of thine,
This morn of good Saint Valentine.
'Nay, not so foolish as I thought . . .
Hark! 'mid those reeds a feeble scream!
Mother of God! a cradle brought
Down from some homestead up the stream!
A white-robed baby! Do I dream?
No, 'tis that dear dead love of mine
Who sends me thus a Valentine!'
The Yarrow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
A Tortured tree in a huddled hollow,
On whose gnarled boughs three leaves are blowing:
A strip of path that the hunters follow,
That leads to fields of the wind's wild sowing,
And a rain-washed hill with the wild-thorn growing.
II.
And here one day, when the sky was raining,
And the wind came sharp as an Indian-arrow,
And Winter walked on the hills complaining,
I found a blossom of summer yarrow,
In the freezing wet, where the way was narrow.
III.
Its dim white umble was bravely lifted,
Defying Winter and wind and weather,
Facing the rout as they whirled and shifted,
Twisting its blossom and leaves together,
Its fern-fair leaves that were sweet as the heather.
IV.
And I thought, as I saw it there so fearless,
Facing death, that was sure to follow
When the sky and the earth with white were cheerless,
And the rabbit shivered within its hollow,
That here was a weed that was worth the swallow.
V.
Its fortitude and its strength reminded
My soul of the souls that arc like the yarrow,
That face defeat, though its blows have blinded,
And smile, and fight, in their heart an arrow,
And fall unknown in the path that is narrow.
In Peace
by John Greenleaf Whittier

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake,
Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shore
Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make
Such harmonies as keep the woods awake,
And listening all night long for their sweet sake
A green-waved slope of meadow, hovered o'er
By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light
On viewless stems, with folded wings of white;
A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seen
Where the low westering day, with gold and green,
Purple and amber, softly blended, fills
The wooded vales, and melts among the hills;
A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest
On the calm bosom of a stormless sea,
Bearing alike upon its placid breast,
With earthly flowers and heavenly' stars impressed,
The hues of time and of eternity
Such are the pictures which the thought of thee,
O friend, awakeneth,--charming the keen pain
Of thy departure, and our sense of loss
Requiting with the fullness of thy gain.
Lo! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross,
Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine,
Of thy beatitude the radiant sign!
No sob of grief, no wild lament be there,
To break the Sabbath of the holy air;
But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayer
Of hearts still waiting for a rest like thine.
O spirit redeemed! Forgive us, if henceforth,
With sweet and pure similitudes of earth,
We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green,
Of love's inheritance a priceless part,
Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen
To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art,
With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart
The Unattained
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A vision beauteous as the morn,
With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming,
Slow glided o'er a field late shorn
Where walked a poet idly dreaming.
He saw her, and joy lit his face,
"Oh, vanish not at human speaking,"
He cried, "thou form of magic grace,
Thou art the poem I am seeking.
"I've sought thee long!    I claim thee now - 
My thought embodied, living, real."
She shook the tresses from her brow.
"Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal.
I am the phantom of desire - 
The spirit of all great endeavour,
I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,'
That calls men up and up for ever.
"'Tis not alone thy thought supreme
That here upon thy path has risen;
I am the artist's highest dream,
The ray of light he cannot prison.
I am the sweet ecstatic note
Than all glad music gladder, clearer,
That trembles in the singer's throat,
And dies without a human hearer.
"I am the greater, better yield,
That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbour,
For me he bravely tills the field
And whistles gaily at his labour.
Not thou alone, O poet soul,
Dost seek me through an endless morrow,
But to the toiling, hoping whole
I am at once the hope and sorrow.
"The spirit of the unattained,
I am to those who seek to name me,
A good desired but never gained:
All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."
The Two Samaritans And The Tramp
by Henry Lawson

A tramp was trampin' on the road,
The afternoon was warm an' muggy,
And by-and-by he chanced to meet
A parsin ridin' in a buggy.
Said he: 'As follerers ov the Loard,
To do good offices we oughter!'
An' from a water-bag he poured,
An' guv the tramp, a drink er water.
The parsin he went rattlin' 'ome
To ware his fam-i-lee was thrivin',
The tramp went on until he met
A bullick-driver, bullick drivin',
'It's bilin' 'ot,' the driver sed
As soon's the dirty tramp drawed nearer,
And from a little keg he poured,
And giv the tramp a pint of beer, 'ah!'
(P.S., The 'ah' is meant to stand for the tramp a-drinking ov it.)
I ain't agin the temperance cause,
Nor yet no advocate ov drinkin',
I only tells the yarn because,
Well, at the time it somehow seemed
Ter kind ov set me thinkin'.
A Voice By The Cedar Tree
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

A voice by cedar tree
In the meadow under the Hall!
She is singing an air that is known to me,
A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song like a trumpet's call!
Singing of men that in battle array
Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green,
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,
And myself so languid and base.