DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Monody On Henry Headley
by William Lisle Bowles

To every gentle Muse in vain allied,
In youth's full early morning HEADLEY died!
Too long had sickness left her pining trace,
With slow, still touch, on each decaying grace:
Untimely sorrow marked his thoughtful mien!
Despair upon his languid smile was seen!
Yet Resignation, musing on the grave,
(When now no hope could cheer, no pity save),
And Virtue, that scarce felt its fate severe,
And pale Affection, dropping soft a tear
For friends beloved, from whom she soon must part,
Breathed a sad solace on his aching heart.
Nor ceased he yet to stray, where, winding wild,
The Muse's path his drooping steps beguiled,
Intent to rescue some neglected rhyme,
Lone-blooming, from the mournful waste of time;
And cull each scattered sweet, that seemed to smile
Like flowers upon some long-forsaken pile.[1]
Far from the murmuring crowd, unseen, he sought
Each charm congenial to his saddened thought.
When the gray morn illumed the mountain's side,
To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied;
When meekest eve to the fold's distant bell
Listened, and bade the woods and vales farewell,
Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seen
The last that lingered on the fading green.
The waving wood high o'er the cliff reclined,
The murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind,
His temper's trembling texture seemed to suit;
As airs of sadness the responsive lute.
Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead,
Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled:
Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere,
And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear,
That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate,
By fortune's storms left cold and desolate.
Farewell! yet be this humble tribute paid
To all his virtues, from that social shade
Where once we sojourned.[2] I, alas! remain
To mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain,
That fled neglected. Wisely thou hast trod
The better path; and that High Meed, which GOD
Ordained for Virtue towering from the dust,
Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just!
To His Serene Highness The Duke Of Montpensier On His Portrait Of The Lady Adelaide Forbes.
by Thomas Moore

Donington Park, 1802
To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
The silent story of the mind;
O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
Her evening blushes, ere they fade;
Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,--
And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.
And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
On which her eye delights to rest;
While o'er the lovely look serene,
The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek, that blushes to be seen.
The eye that tells the bosom's truth;
While o'er each line, so brightly true,
Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove,
Blessing the touch whose various hue
Thus brings to mind the form we love;
We feel the magic of thy art,
And own it with a zest, a zeal,
A pleasure, nearer to the heart
Than critic taste can ever feel.
The Apron Of Flowers
by Robert Herrick

To gather flowers, Sappha went,
And homeward she did bring
Within her lawny continent,
The treasure of the Spring.
She smiling blush'd, and blushing smiled,
And sweetly blushing thus,
She look'd as she'd been got with child
By young Favonius.
Her apron gave, as she did pass,
An odour more divine,
More pleasing too, than ever was
The lap of Proserpine.
An Apology
by Anne Bradstreet

To finish what's begun, was my intent,
My thoughts and my endeavours thereto bent;
Essays I many made but still gave out,
The more I mus'd, the more I was in doubt:
The subject large my mind and body weak,
With many moe discouragements did speak.
All thoughts of further progress laid aside,
Though oft perswaded, I as oft deny'd,
At length resolv'd, when many years had past,
To prosecute my story to the last;
And for the same, I hours not few did spend,
And weary lines (though lanke) I many pen'd:
But 'fore I could accomplish my desire,
My papers fell a prey to th' raging fire.
And thus my pains (with better things) I lost,
Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast.
No more I'le do sith I have suffer'd wrack,
Although my Monarchies their legs do lack:
Nor matter is't this last, the world now sees,
Hath many Ages been upon his knees.
The Earth
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

To build a house, with love for architect,
Ranks first and foremost in the joys of life.
And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two,
The space for happiness is just as great
As in a palace.    What a world were this
If each soul born received a plot of ground;
A little plot, whereon a home might rise,
And beauteous green things grow!
We give the dead,
The idle vagrant dead, the Potter's Field;
Yet to the living not one inch of soil.
Nay, we take from them soil, and sun, and air,
To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race.
And to our poor we say, 'Go starve and die
As beggars die; so gain your heritage.'
II
That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those
Long buried in the Potter's Field, in shredded shrouds arose;
They said, 'Against the will of God
We have usurped the fertile sod,
Now will we make it yield.'
Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil;
Each to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil;
(I never knew Ghosts laboured so.)
Each scattered seed, and watched, till lo!
The Graves were opulent.
Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train
Walked, as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain.
(I never knew Ghosts loved such things;
Perchance it brought back early springs
Before they thought of death.)
'The mothers' milk for living babes; the earth for living hosts;
The clean flame for the un-souled dead.'    (Oh, strange the words of Ghosts.)
'If we had owned this little spot
In life, we need not lie and rot
Here in a pauper's bed.'
Laxare Fibulam.
by Robert Herrick

To loose the button is no less,
Than to cast off all bashfulness.
The Iron Hand
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

'The Government of India has been pleased to sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'
To him that reads with careless eyes
My present theme affords
But little scope for enterprise
In buttering one's lords:
Fines, he would urge, have always bulked
Largely to Those that rule,
For, plainly, every man They mulct
Contributes to the pool.
But when in ages dead and gone
Our fathers fought with Sin,
However hard they laid it on,
They didn't rub it in;
While These not only bring to bear
Their dark prerogatives,
But diabolically air
The pleasure that it gives!
Here is the Iron Hand that builds
Our realms beyond the sea;
No suaviter in modo gilds
Their fortiter in re;
Here is no washy velvet glove
To pad the Fist of Fear - 
None of your guiding charms of Love - 
None of your hogwash here!
No. From Their thrones amid the stars
They glower athwart the land
Implacable, with 'eye like Mars
To threaten and command.'
Too cold, too truculent, to stay
The awful bolt They fling,
They make no bones about it - They
Are pleased to do this thing!
Blind to the victim's mask of woe,
Deaf to his poignant howls,
No pity stirs Their bosoms, no
Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls!
By prompt and ready cash alone
Their wrath shall be appeased
Who pile it on like gods, and own,
Like men, to being pleased.
To Lose Thee, Sweeter Than To Gain
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
'T is true the drought is destitute,
But then I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of sand,
Its other realm of sea;
Without the sterile perquisite
No Caspian could be.
Coming To Christ.
by Robert Herrick

To him who longs unto his Christ to go,
Celerity even itself is slow.
The Bundle Of Sticks
by Walter Crane

To his sons, who fell out, father spake:
"This Bundle of Sticks you can't break;
Take them singly, with ease,
You may break as you please,
So, dissension your strength will unmake."
Strength Is In Unity
The Gods Wishing To Instruct A Son Of Jupiter.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
For Monseigneur The Duke Du Maine.
To Jupiter was born a son,[2]
Who, conscious of his origin,
A godlike spirit had within.
To love, such age is little prone;
Yet this celestial boy
Made love his chief employ,
And was beloved wherever known.
In him both love and reason
Sprang up before their season.
With charming smiles and manners winning,
Had Flora deck'd his life's beginning,
As an Olympian became:
Whatever lights the tender flame, - 
A heart to take and render bliss, - 
Tears, sighs, in short the whole were his.
Jove's son, he should of course inherit
A higher and a nobler spirit
Than sons of other deities.
It seem'd as if by Memory's aid - 
As if a previous life had made
Experiment and hid it - 
He plied the lover's hard-learn'd trade,
So perfectly he did it.
Still Jupiter would educate
In manner fitting to his state.
The gods, obedient to his call,
Assemble in their council-hall;
When thus the sire: 'Companionless and sole,
Thus far the boundless universe I roll;
But numerous other offices there are,
Of which I give to younger gods the care.
I'm now forecasting for this cherish'd child,
Whose countless altars are already piled.
To merit such regard from all below,
All things the young immortal ought to know.'
No sooner had the Thund'rer ended,
Than each his godlike plan commended;
Nor did the boy too little yearn
His lesson infinite to learn.
Said fiery Mars, 'I take the part
To make him master of the art
Whereby so many heroes high
Have won the honours of the sky.'
'To teach him music be my care,'
Apollo said, the wise and fair;
'And mine,' that mighty god replied,
In the Nemaean lion's hide,
'To teach him to subdue
The vices, an envenom'd crew,
Like Hydras springing ever new.
The foe of weakening luxury,
The boy divine will learn from me
Those rugged paths, so little trod,
That lead to glory man and god.'
Said Cupid, when it came his turn,
'All things from me the boy may learn.'
Well spoke the god of love.
What feat of Mars, or Hercules,
Or bright Apollo, lies above
Wit, wing'd by a desire to please?
Monody
by Herman Melville

To have known him, to have loved him
After loneness long;
And then to be estranged in life,
And neither in the wrong;
And now for death to set his seal--
Ease me, a little ease, my song!
By wintry hills his hermit-mound
The sheeted snow-drifts drape,
And houseless there the snow-bird flits
Beneath the fir-trees' crape:
Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine
That hid the shyest grape.
Dedication - Leaves from Australian Forests
by Henry Kendall

To her who, cast with me in trying days,
Stood in the place of health and power and praise;
Who, when I thought all light was out, became
A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame;
Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere
That waits upon the man of letters here;
Who, unawares, her deep affection showed
By many a touching little wifely mode;
Whose spirit, self-denying, dear, divine,
Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine
To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate
This book of songs 't will help to compensate
For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme,
Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time
Of trials past. That which is most intense
Within these leaves is of her influence;
And if aught here is sweetened with a tone
Sincere, like love, it came of love alone.
Another To Bring In The Witch.
by Robert Herrick

To house the hag, you must do this:
Commix with meal a little piss
Of him bewitch'd; then forthwith make
A little wafer or a cake;
And this rawly bak'd will bring
The old hag in. No surer thing.
Dependence.
by William Cowper

To keep the lamp alive,
With oil we fill the bowl;
'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.
The Lord's unsparing hand
Supplies the living stream;
It is not at our own command,
But still derived from him.
Beware of Peter's word,[1]
Nor confidently say,
'I never will deny thee, Lord,'
But, 'Grant I never may!'
Man's wisdom is to seek
His strength in God alone;
And e'en an angel would be weak,
Who trusted in his own.
Retreat beneath his wings,
And in his grace confide;
This more exalts the King of kings[2]
Than all your works beside.
In Jesus is our store,
Grace issues from his throne;
Whoever says, 'I want no more,'
Confesses he has none.
Salad
by Sydney Smith

To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!
To Learn The Transport By The Pain,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

To learn the transport by the pain,
As blind men learn the sun;
To die of thirst, suspecting
That brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore
Haunted by native lands, the while,
And blue, beloved air --
This is the sovereign anguish,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXX - Forms Of Prayer At Sea
by William Wordsworth

To kneeling Worshipers no earthly floor
Gives holier invitation than the deck
Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from Wreck
(When all that Man could do availed no more)
By him who raised the Tempest and restrains:
Happy the crew who this have felt, and pour
Forth for his mercy, as the Church ordains,
Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will 'they' implore
In vain who, for a rightful cause, give breath
To words the Church prescribes aiding the lip
For the heart's sake, ere ship with hostile ship
Encounters, armed for work of pain and death.
Suppliants! the God to whom your cause ye trust
Will listen, and ye know that He is just.
The Long Purposes Of God
by Richard Le Gallienne

To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreams
Of some great thing to do, so slowly done,
The long delay of Time all idle seems,
Idle the lordly leisure of the sun;
So splendid his design, so brief his span,
For all the faith with which his heart is burning,
He marvels, as he builds each shining plan,
That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning,
And God more slow in righteousness than Man.
Evil on evil mock him all about,
And all the forces of embattled wrong,
There are so many devils to cast out - 
Save God be with him, how shall Man be strong?
With his own heart at war, to weakness prone,
And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning,
How in this welter shall he hold his own,
And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning?
How shall he fight God's battle all alone?
He hath no lightnings in his puny hand,
Nor starry servitors to work his will,
Only his soul and his strong purpose planned,
His dream of goodness and his hate of ill;
He, but a handful of the eddying dust,
At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing;
A moment man - then, with another gust,
A formless vapour into nowhere going,
Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust.
O so at least it seems - if life were his
A little longer! grant him thrice his years,
And God should see a better world than this,
Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears:
So fierce a flame to burn the dross away
Dreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing:
If Man can do so much in one short day,
O strange it seems that an Eternal Being
Should in his purposes so long delay.
Easy to answer - lo! the unfathomed time
Gone ere each small perfection came to flower,
Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime;
Wouldst thou turn Hell to Heaven in an hour?
Easy to say - God's purposes are long,
His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing,
He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong,
Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing:
So say old poets with persuasive tongue.
And yet - and yet - it seems some swifter doom
From so august a hand might surely fall,
And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume,
And make an end of evil once for all . . .
But vain the questions and the answers vain,
Who knows but Man's impatience is God's doing?
Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain?
Be sure none shall escape, with God pursuing.
Question no more - but to your work again!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXII. Lullabies.
by Unknown

[The following is quoted in Florio's 'New World of Words,' fol., London, 1611, p. 3.]
To market, to market,
To buy a plum bun:
Home again, come again,
Market is done.
Walter Gay.
by George Pope Morris

To know a man well, it is said, Walter Gay,
On shipboard with him you should be:
If this maxim's true, then well I know you,
For we sailed together the sea, Walter Gay,
For we sailed together the sea.
I now watch the star from the strand, Walter Gay,
As oft from the surge I did then:
Like that all alone you sparkled and shone,
The clear northern star among men, Walter Gay,
The clear northern star among men!
May your future course, like the past, Walter Gay,
From wreck and misfortune be free:
your sorrows and care fade into the air,
Or vanish like foam on the sea, Walter Gay,
Or vanish like foam on the sea!
The friendship that's formed on the wave, Walter Gay,
Is deeper than plummet may sound:
That can not decay till we lose our way,
Or death runs the vessel aground, Walter Gay,
Or death runs the vessel aground!
When life's voyage ends, may your bark, Walter Gay
Spread sail like the wings of a dove--
And, when lulls the wind, safe anchorage find
Within the good harbor above, Walter Gay,
Within the good harbor above!
The Lost Battle
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

To his heart it struck such terror
That he laughed a laugh of scorn, - 
The man in the soldier's doublet,
With the sword so bravely worn.
It struck his heart like the frost-wind
To find his comrades fled,
While the battle-field was guarded
By the heroes who lay dead.
He drew his sword in the sunlight,
And called with a long halloo:
"Dead men, there is one living
Shall stay it out with you!"
He raised a ragged standard,
This lonely soul in war,
And called the foe to onset,
With shouts they heard afar.
They galloped swiftly toward him.
The banner floated wide;
It sank; he sank beside it
Upon his sword, and died.
Longing To Be With Christ.
by William Cowper

To Jesus, the Crown of my hope,
My soul is in haste to be gone:
O bear me, ye cherubim, up,
And waft me away to his throne!
My Saviour, whom absent I love,
Whom, not having seen, I adore;
Whose name is exalted above
All glory, dominion, and power;
Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain
My soul from her portion in thee;
Ah! strike off this adamant chain,
And make me eternally free.
When that happy era begins,
When array'd in thy glories I shine,
Nor grieve any more, by my sins,
The bosom on which I recline:
Oh, then shall the veil be removed,
And round me thy brightness be pour'd;
I shall meet him whom absent I loved,
I shall see whom unseen I adored.
And then, never more shall the fears,
The trials, temptations, and woes,
Which darken this valley of tears,
Intrude on my blissful repose.
Or, if yet remember'd above,
Remembrance no sadness shall raise;
They will be but new signs of thy love,
New themes for my wonder and praise.
Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain
Shall set me eternally free,
Will but strengthen and rivet the chain
Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee.
Epigram - To John I Owed Great Obligation
by Matthew Prior

To John I owed great obligation,
But John unhappily thought fit
To publish it to all the nation:
Sure John and I are more than quit.
To Hear Her Sing.
by James Whitcomb Riley

To hear her sing - to hear her sing - 
It is to hear the birds of Spring
In dewy groves on blooming sprays
Pour out their blithest roundelays.
It is to hear the robin trill
At morning, or the whip-poor-will
At dusk, when stars are blossoming - 
To hear her sing - to hear her sing!
To hear her sing - it is to hear
The laugh of childhood ringing clear
In woody path or grassy lane
Our feet may never fare again.
Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
It is to hear the village bells
At twilight, as the truant hears
Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.
Such joy it is to hear her sing,
We fall in love with everything - 
The simple things of every day
Grow lovelier than words can say.
The idle brooks that purl across
The gleaming pebbles and the moss,
We love no less than classic streams - 
The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.
To hear her sing - with folded eyes,
It is, beneath Venetian skies,
To hear the gondoliers' refrain,
Or troubadours of sunny Spain. - 
To hear the bulbul's voice that shook
The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:
What wonder we in homage bring
Our hearts to her - to hear her sing!
Translations. - A Spiritual Song, Concerning Our Holy Baptism, Wherein Is Briefly Contained What It Is, Who Has Instituted It, Whereto It Serves, &C. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

To Jordan when our Lord had gone,
His Father's pleasure willing,
He took his baptism of St. John,
His work and charge fulfilling;
Therein he did appoint a bath
To wash us from defilement,
And there to drown that cruel Death
In his blood of assoilment:
'Twas no less than a new life.
Let all then hear and right receive
The baptism of the Father;
And learn what Christians must believe,
Shunning where heretics gather.
Water indeed, not water mere
Therein can work his pleasure:
His holy Word is also there
With Spirit rich, unmeasured:
He is the one baptizer.
This clearly showed He by his word
Of open recognition;
The Father's voice men plainly heard
At Jordan claim his mission.
God said, This is my own dear Son
In whom I am well contented;
To you I send him, every one--
That all may hear I have sent him,
And follow what he teaches.
Also God's Son himself here stands
In human presentation;
On him the Holy Ghost descends
In dove-like shape and fashion,
That not a doubt should ever rise
That, when we are baptized,
All the three Persons do baptize;
And they be recognized
Themselves come to dwell with us.
Christ to his scholars says: Go forth,
Give to all men acquaintance
That lost in sin lies the whole earth,
And must turn to repentance.
Believe, and be baptized, and then
Each man is blest for ever;
From that hour he's a new-born man,
And thenceforth, dying never,
The kingdom shall inherit.
But who in this grace puts no faith
Abides in sin, life misses;
He is condemned to endless death
Deep down in hell's abysses.
Nothing avails his righteousness,
And lost are all his merits;
Sin original holds its place--
The sin which he inherits;
And help himself he cannot.
The eye but water doth behold
As from man's hand it floweth;
But inward faith the power untold
Of Jesus Christ's blood knoweth:
Faith sees therein a red flood roll,
With Christ's blood dyed and blended,
Which hurt of every kind makes whole,
Whether from Adam heired
Or by ourselves committed.