DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To India.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

O India, India, O my lovely land - 
At whose sweet throat the greedy English snake,
With fangs and lips that suck and never slake,
Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band,
The loathsome shape twists, chaining foot and hand - 
O from this death-swoon must thou never wake,
From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake,
And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand?
Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes wherein there stays
The patience of that august faith that scorns
The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze
Where, not within the timeless East and haze,
The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns,
There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!
O Jay!
by George Parsons Lathrop

O jay - 
Blue-jay!
What are you trying to say?
I remember, in the spring
You pretended you could sing;
But your voice is now still queerer,
And as yet you've come no nearer
To a song.
In fact, to sum the matter,
I never heard a flatter
Failure than your doleful clatter.
Don't you think it's wrong?
It was sweet to hear your note,
I'll not deny,
When April set pale clouds afloat
O'er the blue tides of sky,
And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums
You, in your white and azure coat,
A herald proud, came forth to cry,
"The royal summer comes!"
But now that autumn's here,
And the leaves curl up in sheer
Disgust,
And the cold rains fringe the pine,
You really must
Stop that supercilious whine - -
Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic
Angry critic.
You don't fulfill your early promise:
You're not the smartest
Kind of artist,
Any more than poor Blind Tom is.
Yet somehow, still,
There's meaning in your screaming bill.
What are you trying to say?
Sometimes your piping is delicious,
And then again it's simply vicious;
Though on the whole the varying jangle
Weaves round me an entrancing tangle
Of memories grave or joyous:
Things to weep or laugh at;
Love that lived at a hint, or
Days so sweet, they'd cloy us;
Nights I have spent with friends; - 
Glistening groves of winter,
And the sound of vanished feet
That walked by the ripening wheat;
With other things.... Not the half that
Your cry familiar blends
Can I name, for it is mostly
Very ghostly; - 
Such mixed-up things your voice recalls,
With its peculiar quirks and falls.
Possibly, then, your meaning, plain,
Is that your harsh and broken strain
Tallies best with a world of pain.
Well, I'll admit
There's merit in a voice that's truthful:
Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful,
But querulously fit.
And if we cannot sing, we'll say
Something to the purpose, jay!
Kissing The Rod.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O heart of mine, we shouldn't
Worry so!
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know!
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!
We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone! -
Were not shine and shadow blent
As the gracious Master meant? -
Let us temper our content
With His own.
For, we know, not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.
Psal. VIII.
by John Milton

O Jehovah our Lord how wondrous great
And glorious is thy name through all the earth?
So as above the Heavens thy praise to set
Out of the tender mouths of latest bearth,
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou
Hast founded strength because of all thy foes
To stint th'enemy, and slack th'avengers brow
That bends his rage thy providence to oppose.
When I behold thy Heavens, thy Fingers art,
The Moon and Starrs which thou so bright hast set,
In the pure firmament, then saith my heart,
O What is man that thou remembrest yet,
And think'st upon him; or of man begot
That him thou visit'st and of him art found;
Scarce to be less then Gods, thou mad'st his lot,
With honour and with state thou hast him crown'd.
O're the works of thy hand thou mad'st him Lord,
Thou hast put all under his lordly feet,
All Flocks, and Herds, by thy commanding word,
All beasts that in the field or forrest meet.
Fowl of the Heavens, and Fish that through the wet
Sea-paths in shoals do slide. And know no dearth.
O Jehovah our Lord how wondrous great
And glorious is thy name through all the earth.
The Going Of The Battery - Wives' Lament
by Thomas Hardy

(November 2, 1899)
I
O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough -
Light in their loving as soldiers can be -
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
II
- Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily - only too readily! -
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.
III
Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
IV
Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.
V
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
VI
Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.
VII
- Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.
Home.
by John Clare

O home, however homely,--thoughts of thee
Can never fail to cheer the absent breast;
How oft wild raptures have been felt by me,
When back returning, weary and distrest:
How oft I've stood to see the chimney pour
Thick clouds of smoke in columns lightly blue,
And, close beneath, the house-leek's yellow flower,
While fast approaching to a nearer view.
These, though they're trifles, ever gave delight;
E'en now they prompt me with a fond desire,
Painting the evening group before my sight,
Of friends and kindred seated round the fire.
O Time! how rapid did thy moments flow,
That chang'd these scenes of joy to scenes of woe.
Bare Boughs
by Madison Julius Cawein

O Heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,
The blithe bird's strain, and understood
The song it sang to leaf and bud,
What dost thou in the wood?
O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,
The glad brook's word to sun and moon,
What dost thou here where song lies low,
And dead the dreams of June?
Where once was heard a voice of song,
The hautboys of the mad winds sing;
Where once a music flowed along,
The rain's wild bugle's ring.
The weedy water frets and ails,
And moans in many a sunless fall;
And, o'er the melancholy, trails
The black crow's eldritch call.
Unhappy brook! O withered wood!
O days, whom Death makes comrades of!
Where are the birds that thrilled the blood
When Life struck hands with Love?
A song, one soared against the blue;
A song, one silvered in the leaves;
A song, one blew where orchards grew
Gold-appled to the eaves.
The birds are flown; the flowers, dead;
And sky and earth are bleak and gray:
Where Joy once went, all light of tread,
Grief haunts the leaf-wild way.
Judith.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O her eyes are amber-fine - 
Dark and deep as wells of wine,
While her smile is like the noon
Splendor of a day of June.
If she sorrow - lo! her face
It is like a flowery space
In bright meadows, overlaid
With light clouds and lulled with shade
If she laugh - it is the trill
Of the wayward whippoorwill
Over upland pastures, heard
Echoed by the mocking-bird
In dim thickets dense with bloom
And blurred cloyings of perfume.
If she sigh - a zephyr swells
Over odorous asphodels
And wan lilies in lush plots
Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.
Then, the soft touch of her hand - 
Takes all breath to understand
What to liken it thereto! - 
Never roseleaf rinsed with dew
Might slip soother-suave than slips
Her slow palm, the while her lips
Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss
Sweet as heated honey is.
Tam I' The Kirk
by Violet Jacob

O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation
Owre valley an' hill wi' the ding frae its iron mou',
When a'body's thochts is set on his ain salvation,
Mine's set on you.
There's a reid rose lies on the Buik o' the Word 'afore ye
That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day,
But the lad that pu'd yon flower i' the mornin's glory,
He canna pray.
He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o' the wa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie'd him - 
It an' us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt raises,
He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o' the psalms an' the paraphrases,
Cryin' "Jean, Jean, Jean!"
Good Friday
by Abram Joseph Ryan

O Heart of Three-in-the evening,
You nestled the thorn-crowned head;
He leaned on you in His sorrow,
And rested on you when dead.
Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening
He gave you His richest dower;
He met you afar on Calvary,
And made you "His own last hour".
O Brow of Three-in-the evening,
Thou wearest a crimson crown;
Thou art Priest of the hours forever,
And thy voice, as thou goest down
The cycles of time, still murmurs
The story of love each day:
"I held in death the Eternal,
In the long and the far-away."
O Heart of Three-in-the evening,
Mine beats with thine to-day;
Thou tellest the olden story,
I kneel -- and I weep and pray.
____
Boulogne, sur mer.
To Jealousy.
by Robert Herrick

O jealousy, that art
The canker of the heart;
And mak'st all hell
Where thou do'st dwell;
For pity be
No fury, or no firebrand to me.
Far from me I'll remove
All thoughts of irksome love:
And turn to snow,
Or crystal grow,
To keep still free,
O! soul-tormenting jealousy, from thee.
Sonnet CCV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colle.
HE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HER.
O hill with green o'erspread, with groves o'erhung!
Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,
Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,
Sits she by fame through every region sung:
My heart, which wisely unto her has clung--
More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!
Notes now the turf o'er which her soft steps stray,
Now where her angel-eyes' mild beam is flung;
Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,
"Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,
Doom'd but to taste the bitterness of love!"
She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:
Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove--
O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!
WRANGHAM.
Fresh, shaded hill! with flowers and verdure crown'd,
Where, in fond musings, or with music sweet,
To earth a heaven-sent spirit takes her seat!
She who from all the world has honour found.
Forsaking me, to her my fond heart bound
--Divorce for aye were welcome as discreet--
Notes where the turf is mark'd by her fair feet,
Or from these eyes for her in sorrow drown'd,
Then inly whispers as her steps advance,
"Would for awhile that wreteh were here alone
Who pines already o'er his bitter lot."
She conscious smiles. Not equal is the chance;
An Eden thou, while I a heartless stone.
O holy, happy, and beloved spot!
MACGREGOR.
Her Beautiful Eyes.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O her beautiful eyes! they are as blue as the dew
On the violet's bloom when the morning is new,
And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun
O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run:
As the morn shirts the mists and the clouds from the skies - 
So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.
And her beautiful eyes are as midday to me,
When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,
And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,
And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet
And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies - 
So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.
O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own
As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne;
And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar
Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,
And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise - 
So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes.
O Hide Me In Thy Love
by John Frederick Freeman

O hide me in Thy love, secure
From this earth-clinging meanness.
Lave my uncleanness
In Thy compassionating love!
Bury this treachery as deep
As mercy is enrooted.
My days ill-fruited
Shake till the shrivelled burden fall.
Put by those righteous arrows, Lord,
Put even Thy justice by Thee;
So I come nigh Thee
As came the Magdalen to Thy feet.
And like a heavy stone that's cast
In a pool, on Thee I throw me,
And feel o'erflow me
Ripples of pity, deep waves of love.
Lullaby Of An Infant Chief
by Walter Scott (Sir)

O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXVIII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

O how the pleasant ayres of true loue be
Infected by those vapours which arise
From out that noysome gulfe, which gaping lies
Betweene the iawes of hellish Ielousie!
A monster, others harme, selfe-miserie,
Beauties plague, Vertues scourge, succour of lies;
Who his owne ioy to his owne hurt applies,
And onely cherish doth with iniurie:
Who since he hath, by Natures speciall grace,
So piercing pawes as spoyle when they embrace;
So nimble feet as stirre still, though on thornes;
So many eyes, ay seeking their owne woe;
So ample eares as neuer good newes know:
Is it not euill that such a deuil wants hornes?
The Ragged Wood
by William Butler Yeats

O hurry where by water among the trees
The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,
When they have but looked upon their images --
Would none had ever loved but you and I!
Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed
Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky,
When the sun looked out of his golden hood? --
O that none ever loved but you and I!
O hurry to the ragged wood, for there
I will drive all those lovers out and cry --
O my share of the world, O yellow hair!
No one has ever loved but you and I.
How Can I Be Blythe And Glad?
by Robert Burns

Tune - "The bonnie lad that's far awa."
I.
O how can I be blythe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa?
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa.
II.
It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
But ay the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa.
But ay the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa.
III.
My father pat me frae his door,
My friends they line disown'd me a',
But I hae ane will tak' my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
But I hae ane will tak' my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
IV.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa;
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
V.
O weary Winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw;
And my young babie will be born,
And he'll be hame that's far awa.
And my young babie will be born,
And he'll be hame that's far awa.
Afflictions Sanctified By The Word.
by William Cowper

O how I love thy holy word,
Thy gracious covenant, O Lord!
It guides me in the peaceful way;
I think upon it all the day.
What are the mines of shining wealth,
The strength of youth, the bloom of health!
What are all joys compared with those
Thine everlasting word bestows!
Long unafflicted, undismay'd,
In pleasure's path secure I stray'd;
Thou madest me feel thy chastening rod,[1]
And straight I turn'd unto my God.
What though it pierced my fainting heart,
I bless thine hand that caused the smart;
It taught my tears awhile to flow,
But saved me from eternal woe.
Oh! hadst thou left me unchastised,
Thy precept I had still despised;
And still the snare in secret laid,
Had my unwary feet betray'd.
I love thee, therefore, O my God,
And breathe towards thy dear abode;
Where, in thy presence fully blest,
Thy chosen saints for ever rest.
Against Unworthy Praise
by William Butler Yeats

O Heart, be at peace, because
Nor knave nor dolt can break
What's not for their applause,
Being for a woman's sake.
Enough if the work has seemed,
So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.
What, still you would have their praise!
But here's a haughtier text,
The labyrinth of her days
That her own strangeness perplexed;
And how what her dreaming gave
Earned slander, ingratitude,
From self-same dolt and knave;
Aye, and worse wrong than these.
Yet she, singing upon her road,
Half lion, half child, is at peace.
On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People A Brother and Sister
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

O I admire and sorrow! The heart's eye grieves
Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years.
A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves,
And beauty's dearest veriest vein is tears.
Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast:
Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest
In one fair fall; but, for time's aftercast,
Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.
And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beams
Their young delightful hour do feature down
That fleeted else like day-dissolv'd dreams
Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown.
She leans on him with such contentment fond
As well the sister sits, would well the wife;
His looks, the soul's own letters, see beyond,
Gaze on, and fall directly forth on life.
But ah, bright forelock, cluster that you are
Of favoured make and mind and health and youth,
Where lies your landmark, seamark, or soul's star?
There's none but truth can stead you. Christ is truth.
There's none but good can b' good, both for you
And what sways with you, maybe this sweet maid;
None good but God - a warning wav'd to
One once that was found wanting when Good weighed.
Man lives that list, that leaning in the will
No wisdom can forecast by gauge or guess,
The selfless self of self, most strange, most still,
Fast furled and all foredrawn to No or Yes.
Your feast of; that most in you earnest eye
May but call on your banes to more carouse.
Worst will the best. What worm was here, we cry,
To have havoc-pocked so, see, the hung-heavenward boughs?
Enough: corruption was the world's first woe.
What need I strain my heart beyond my ken?
O but I bear my burning witness though
Against the wild and wanton work of men.
Vashti.
by Jean Blewett

"O last days of the year!" she whispered low,
"You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay
A while, a little while. Do you not know
What tender things you bear with you away?
"I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,
Of all the riches that were mine the day
There crept down on the world the soft New Year,
A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay.
"But twelve short months ago! a little space
In which to lose so much - a whole life's wealth
Of love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace - 
Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.
"Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,
The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss,
The joy of living, and the glorious song
That drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss.
"O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great!
That crowned me, covered me a year ago!
A bankrupt, I - gone faith, gone warm caress
Gone love, gone youth, gone all!"
She whispered low.
"Oh, last days of the year, you take away
The riches that I held so close and dear.
Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stay
With one poor bankrupt,
Last days of the year."
The Last Wooin
by George MacDonald

"O lat me in, my bonny lass!
It's a lang road ower the hill,
And the flauchterin snaw begud to fa'
On the brig ayont the mill!"
"Here's nae change-hoose, John Munro!"
"I'll ken that to my cost
Gien ye gar me tak the hill the nicht,
Wi' snaw o' the back o' frost!
But tell me, lass, what's my offence."
"Weel ken ye! At the fair
Ye lichtlied me! Ay, twasna ance!--
Ye needna come nae mair!"
"I lichtlied ye?"--"Ay, ower the glass!"
"Foul-fa' the ill-faured mou
'At made the leein word to pass
By rowin 't i' the true!
The trouth is this: I dochtna bide
To hear yer bonnie name
Whaur lawless mous war openit wide
Wi' ill-tongued scoff and blame;
And what I said was: 'Hoot, lat sit!
She's but a bairn, the lass!'
It turnt the spait o' words a bit,
And loot yer fair name pass."
"Thank ye for naething, John Munro!
My name it needna hide;
It's no a drucken sough wud gar
Me turn my heid aside!"
"O Elsie, lassie, be yersel!
The snaw-stour's driftin thrang!
O tak me in, the win' 's sae snell,
And in an hour I'll gang."
"I downa pay ye guid for ill,
Ye heedna fause and true!
Gang back to Katie at the mill--
She loos sic like as you!"
He turnt his fit; she heardna mair.
The lift was like to fa';
And Elsie's hert grew grit and sair
At sicht o' the drivin snaw.
She laid her doon, but no to sleep,
Her verra hert was cauld;
And the sheets war like a frozen heap
O' drift aboot her faul'd.
She rase fu' air; the warl lay fair
And still in its windin-sheet;
At door-cheek, or at winnock-lug,
Was never a mark o' feet!
She crap for days aboot the hoose,
Dull-futtit and hert-sair,
Aye keekin oot like a hungert moose--
But Johnnie was na there!
Lang or the spring begoud to thow
The waesome, sick-faced snaw,
Her hert was saft a' throu and throu,
Her pride had ta'en a fa'.
And whan the wreaths war halflins gane,
And the sun was blinkin bonnie,
Oot ower the hill she wud gang her lane
To speir aboot her Johnnie.
Half ower, she cam intil a lair
O' snaw and slush and weet:
The Lord hae mercy! what's that there?
It was Johnnie at her feet.
Aneth the snaw his heid was smorit,
But his breist was maistly bare,
And twixt his richt ban' and his hert
Lay a lock o' gouden hair.
The warm win' blew, the blackcock flew,
The lerrick muntit the skies;
The burnie ran, and a baein began,
But Johnnie wudna rise.
The sun was clear, the lift was blue,
The winter was awa;
Up cam the green gerse plentifu,
The better for the snaw;
And warm it happit Johnnie's grave
Whaur the ae lock gouden lay;
But on Elsie's hingin heid the lave
Was afore the barley gray.
O Lassie, Art Thou Sleeping Yet.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Let me in this ae night."
I.
O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet,
Or art thou waking, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!
II.
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet!
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet:
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
III.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!