DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Sair Stroke.
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!
O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e,
Ye be sae stricken doun?
I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
For a' my heart is sair;
For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
And his is halesome fare.
But I hae slain our gude Captain,
That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain--
The Scribe and Treasurere.
There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
And twa by the black, black brig:
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
They waked us soon, they warked us lang,
Wearily did we greet;
'Should he abrade' was a' our sang,
Our food but butcher's-meat.
We hadna train'd but ower a week,
A week, but barely twa,
Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
That mightna gar them fa'.
They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse,
And wow! but it was wark;
And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,
That ilka man s'uld hark.
Then upped and spake our pawkie bow,
--O, but he wasna late!
'Now who shall gar them cry Enow,
That gang this fearsome gate?'
Syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap,
And cast the keevils in,
And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
And stay our Captain's din?
I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
His feres' by Nuneham brig,
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
O, waly to the welkin's top!
And waly round the braes!
And waly all about the shop
(To use a Southron phrase).
Rede ither crews be debonair,
But we 've a weird to dree,
I wis we maun be bumpit sair
By boaties two and three:
Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere,
Sith we maun bumpit be!
Father Abe.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

(Song of the American Sons of Labour.)
THE SONG.
"O we knew so well, dear Father,
When we answered to your call,
And the Southern Moloch stricken
Shook and tottered to his fall - 
"O we knew so well you loved us,
And our hearts beat back to yours
With the rapturous adoration
That through all the years endures!
"Mothers, sisters bade us hasten
Sweethearts, wives with babe at breast;
For the Union, faith and freedom,
For our hero of the West!
"And we wrung forth victory blood-stained
From the desperate hands of Crime,
And our Cause blazed out Man's beacon
Through the endless future time!
"And forgiven, forever we bade it
Cease, that envy, hatred, strife,
As he willed, our murdered Father
That had sealed his love with life!
"O dear Father, was it thus, then?
Did we this but in a dream?
Is it real, hideous present?
Does our suffering only seem?
"Bend and listen, look and tell us!
Are these joyless toilers We?
Slaves more wretched, patient, piteous
Than the slaves we fought to free!
"Are these weak, worn girls and women
Those whose mothers yet can tell
How they kissed and clasped men god-like
With fierce faces fronting hell?
"Bend and listen, look and tell us!
Is this silent waste, possessed
By bloat thieves and their task-masters,
Thy free, thy fair, thy fearless West?
"Are these Eastern mobs of wage-slaves,
Are these cringing debauchees,
Sons of those who slung their rifles - 
Shook the old Flag to the breeze?"
On Elphinston's Translations. Of Martial's Epigrams.
by Robert Burns

O thou, whom poesy abhors,
Whom prose has turned out of doors,
Heard'st thou that groan? proceed no further;
'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murther!
Be Still.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

O throbbing heart, be still!
Canst thou not bear
The heavy dash of Memory's troubled tide,
Long sternly pent, but broken forth again,
Sweeping all barriers ruthlessly aside,
And leaving desolation in its train
Where all was fair?
Fair, did I say? - Oh yes! - 
I'd reared sweet flowers
Of steadfast hope, and quiet, patient trust,
Above the wreck and ruin of my years; - 
Had won a plant of beauty from the dust,
Fanned it with breath of prayer, and wet with tears
Of loneliest hours!
O throbbing heart, be still!
That cherished flower - 
Faith in thy God - last grown, yet first in worth,
Will spring anew ere long - it is not dead,
'Tis only beaten to the breast of earth!
Let the storm rage - be calm - 'twill lift its head
Some stiller hour!
Rose And Roof-Tree.
by George Parsons Lathrop

O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high,
Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy?
"The pulses of the wind my life uplift,
And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift;
"And all my fibres, in a quick consent
Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent.
"I feel the shaking of the far-off sea,
And all things growing blend their life with me:
"When men and women on me look, there glows
Within my veins a life not of the rose.
"Then let me grow, until I touch the sky,
And let me grow and grow until I die!"
So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher,
And scales the roof upon its wings of fire,
And pricks the air, in lovely discontent,
With thorns that question still of its intent.
But when it reached the roof-tree, there it clung,
Nor ever farther up its blossoms flung.
O wayward rose, why hast thou ceased to climb?
Hast thou forgot the ardor of thy prime?
"O hearken!" - thus the rose-spray, listening, - 
"With what weird music sweet these full hearts ring!
"What mazy ripples of deep, eddying sound,
Rise, touch the roof-tree old, and drift around,
"Bearing aloft the burden musical
Of joys and griefs from human hearts that fall!
"Green stem and fair, flush'd circle I will lay
Along the roof, and listen here alway;
"For rose and tree, and every leafy growth
That toward the sky unfolds with spiry blowth,
"No purpose hath save this, to breathe a grace
O'er men, and in men's hearts to seek a place.
"Therefore, O poet, thou who gav'st to me
The homage of thy humble sympathy,
"No longer vest thy verse in rose-leaves frail: - 
Let the heart's voice loud through thy p'an wail!"
*         *         *         *         *
Lo, at my feet the wind of autumn throws
A hundred turbulent blossoms of the rose,
Full of the voices of the sea and grove
And air, and full of hidden, murmured love,
And warm with passion through the roof-tree sent;
Dew-drenched with tears; - all in one wild gush spent!
Old Memory
by William Butler Yeats

O thought, fly to her when the end of day
Awakens an old memory, and say,
"Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,
It might call up a new age, calling to mind
The queens that were imagined long ago,
Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough
Through the long years of youth, and who would have thought
It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,
And that dear words meant nothing?" But enough,
For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;
Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said
That would be harsh for children that have strayed.
Invocation
by Joseph Horatio Chant

O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,
The great Revealer of the will Divine;
Thyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,
And bows in homage at a beck of Thine,
Afford me light to guide my unskilled hand,
And by Thy Spirit all my thoughts command.
To Thy great name I dedicate my powers,
Yielding to Thee what Thou with blood hast bought,
Resolved that Thou shalt have my days and hours,
And for Thy sake shall every work be wrought;
O deign to use me, if it be Thy will,
And my poor heart with love and gladness fill.
If this strange impulse which I feel within
To write this book proceeds, O Lord, from Thee,
Let it not die, nor be defiled by sin,
But let the work from self and sin be free,
And prove a guide to home and bliss above,
And help to fill this warring world with love.
The Master's touch I know it sadly lacks,
And may not please the nice artistic taste
Of some fine mind that naught but gold attracts;
Some may not count these iron-filings waste;
Like magnets, to which gold will not adhere,
May they find ore in this to bless and cheer.
In this plain pitcher, Lord, Thy blessing pour,
That from it men their raging thirst may slake,
And when exhausted is the scanty store,
Then let the earthen vessel quickly break;
Its end is gained if Thou art glorified,
And men have learned to love the Christ who died.
As flowers drink in the solar rays and dew,
And in return give bloom and odors sweet,
So would I to Thy Spirit's touch prove true,
And render that return which seemeth meet;
Come, dews of grace! Great Sun, illume my heart!
That I to some sad soul may joy impart.
In Vita. Canzone XI.
by Emma Lazarus

O waters fresh and sweet and clear,
Where bathed her lovely frame,
Who seems the only lady unto me;
O gentle branch and dear,
(Sighing I speak thy name,)
Thou column for her shapely thighs, her supple knee;
O grass, O flowers, which she
Swept with her gown that veiled
The angelic breast unseen;
O sacred air serene,
Whence the divine-eyed Love my heart assailed,
By all of ye be heard
This my supreme lament, my dying word.
Oh, if it be my fate
(As Heaven shall so decree)
That Love shall close for me my weeping eyes,
Some courteous friend I supplicate
Midst these to bury me,
Whilst my enfranchised spirit homeward flies;
Less dreadful death shall rise,
If I may bear this hope
To that mysterious goal.
For ne'er did weary soul
Find a more restful spot in all Earth's scope,
Nor in a grave more tranquil could win free
From outworn flesh and weary limbs to flee.
Perchance the time shall be
When to my place of rest,
With milder grace my wild fawn shall return
Here where she looked on me
Upon that day thrice blest:
Then she shall bend her radiant eyes that yearn
In search of me, and (piteous sight!) shall learn
That I, amidst the stones, am clay.
May love inspire her in such wise,
With gentlest breath of sighs,
That I, a stony corpse, shall hear her pray,
And force the very skies,
That I may wipe the tears from her dear eyes.
From the fair boughs descended
(Thrice precious memory!)
Upon her lap a shower of fragrant bloom
Amidst that glory splendid,
Humbly reposed she,
Attired as with an aureole's golden gloom.
Some blossoms edged her skirt, and some
Fell on her yellow curls,
Like burnished gold and pearls,
Even so they looked to me upon that day.
Some on the ground, some on the river lay,
Some lightly fluttering above,
Encircling her, seemed whispering: "Here reigns Love."
How many times I cried,
As holy fear o'ercame,
"Surely this creature sprang from Paradise,"
Forgetting all beside
Her goddess mien, her frame,
Her face, her words, her lovely smile, her eyes.
All these did so devise
To win me from the truth, alas!
That I did say and sigh,
"How came I hither, when and why?"
Deeming myself in heaven, not where I was.
Henceforth this grassy spot
I love so much, peace elsewhere find I not.
My Song, wert thou adorned to thy desire,
Thou couldst go boldly forth
And wander from my lips o'er all the earth.
The Two Spirits: An Allegory.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

FIRST SPIRIT:
O thou, who plumed with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire -
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there -
Night is coming!
SECOND SPIRIT:
The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight,
And make night day.
FIRST SPIRIT:
But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken -
Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain -
Night is coming!
SECOND SPIRIT:
I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound,
My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark
On high, far away.
...
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aery fountains.
Some say when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day:
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
The Passing Of A Heart.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O touch me with your hands - 
For pity's sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!
Touch - touch me with your hands. - 
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day - 
O touch me with your hands!
Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep.    Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.
O Muse Divine
by John Frederick Freeman

O thou, my Muse,
Beside the Kentish River running
Through water-meads where dews
Tossed flashing at thy feet
And tossing flashed again
When the timid herd
By thy swift passing stirred
Up-leapt and ran;
Thou that didst fleet
Thy shadow over dark October hills
By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey,
Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills
Of the green lonely land;
Thou that in May
Once when I saw thee sunning
Thyself so lovely there
Than the flushed flower more fair
Fallen from the wild apple spray,
Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand
Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges
Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges
Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne; -
O thou, my Muse,
Scarce longer seen than the brief hues
Of winter cloud that flames
Over the tarnished silver Thames;
So often nearing,
As often disappearing,
With thy body's shadow brushing
My brain at midnight, lightly touching;
O yield thee, Muse, to me,
No more in dream delights and morn forgettings,
But in a ferny hollow I know well
And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings.
... Bring thou thyself, and there
In that warm ferny hollow where the sun
Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine
And my eyes' happy shine -
There, O lovely Muse,
Shall on thy shining body be begot,
Fruit of delights a many mingling in one,
Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought;
My child and thine,
O Muse divine!
A Vagrant Heart
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

O to be a woman! to be left to pique and pine,
When the winds are out and calling to this vagrant heart of mine.
Whisht! it whistles at the windows, and how can I be still?
There! the last leaves of the beech-tree go dancing down the hill.
All the boats at anchor they are plunging to be free-
O to be a sailor, and away across the sea!
When the sky is black with thunder, and the sea is white with foam,
The gray-gulls whirl up shrieking and seek their rocky home,
Low his boat is lying leeward, how she runs upon the gale,
As she rises with the billows, nor shakes her dripping sail.
There is danger on the waters-there is joy where dangers be-
Alas! to be a woman and the nomad's heart in me.
Ochone! to be a woman, only sighing on the shore-
With a soul that finds a passion for each long breaker's roar,
With a heart that beats as restless as all the winds that blow-
Thrust a cloth between her fingers, and tell her she must sew;
Must join in empty chatter, and calculate with straws-
For the weighing of our neighbour-for the sake of social laws.
O chatter, chatter, chatter, when to speak is misery,
When silence lies around your heart-and night is on the sea.
So tired of little fashions that are root of all our strife,
Of all the petty passions that upset the calm of life.
The law of God upon the land shines steady for all time;
The laws confused that man has made, have reason not nor rhyme.
O bird that fights the heavens, and is blown beyond the shore,
Would you leave your flight and danger for a cage to fight no more?
No more the cold of winter, or the hunger of the snow,
Nor the winds that blow you backward from the path you wish to go?
Would you leave your world of passion for a home that knows no riot?
Would I change my vagrant longings for a heart more full of quiet?
No!-for all its dangers, there is joy in danger too:
On, bird, and fight your tempests, and this nomad heart with you!
The seas that shake and thunder will close our mouths one day,
The storms that shriek and whistle will blow our breaths away.
The dust that flies and whitens will mark not where we trod.
What matters then our judging? we are face to face with God.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To God On Prayer.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Tu che Forza ed Amor.
O Thou, who, mingling Force and Love, dost draw
And guide the complex of all entities,
Framed for that purpose; whence our reason sees
In supreme Fate the synthesis of Law;
Though prayers transgress which find defect or flaw
In things foredoomed by Thy divine decrees,
Yet wilt Thou modify, by slow degrees
Or swift, good times or bad Thy mind foresaw:
I therefore pray--I who through years have been
The scorn of fools, the butt of impious men,
Suffering new pains and torments day by day--
Shorten this anguish, Lord, these griefs allay;
For still Thou shalt not have changed counsel when
I soar from hence to liberty foreseen.
The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm.
by Robert Burns

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at Thy command;
That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
This universal frame,
From countless, unbeginning time
Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years
Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before Thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.
Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
Again thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!"
Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night, cut down, it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.
Mrs. Browning
by Madison Julius Cawein

O voice of ecstasy and lyric pain,
Divinely throated and divinely heard
Among old England's songsters! Sprite or bird,
Haunting the woods of song with raptured strain!
In whose wild music Love is born and slain.
And young Desire cries ever a battle word,
And Passion goes, ready with kiss or sword,
To make us captive or set free again.
Above the flowery meads of English song,
Enchantment-sweet, her golden numbers pour,
Commanding and compelling, like Desire!
O nightingale and lark, how o'er the throng
Of all thy sister singers thou dost soar,
Filled with seraphic love and Sapphic fire!
The Lacking Sense
by Thomas Hardy

SCENE. - A sad-coloured landscape, Waddon Vale
I
"O Time, whence comes the Mother's moody look amid her labours,
As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves?
Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors,
With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face,
As of angel fallen from grace?"
II
- "Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly:
In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves.
The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most queenly,
Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere beneath the sun
Such deeds her hands have done."
III
- "And how explains thy Ancient Mind her crimes upon her creatures,
These fallings from her fair beginnings, woundings where she loves,
Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, effects, and features
Admitting cramps, black humours, wan decay, and baleful blights,
Distress into delights?"
IV
- "Ah! know'st thou not her secret yet, her vainly veiled deficience,
Whence it comes that all unwittingly she wounds the lives she loves?
That sightless are those orbs of hers? - which bar to her omniscience
Brings those fearful unfulfilments, that red ravage through her zones
Whereat all creation groans.
V
"She whispers it in each pathetic strenuous slow endeavour,
When in mothering she unwittingly sets wounds on what she loves;
Yet her primal doom pursues her, faultful, fatal is she ever;
Though so deft and nigh to vision is her facile finger-touch
That the seers marvel much.
VI
"Deal, then, her groping skill no scorn, no note of malediction;
Not long on thee will press the hand that hurts the lives it loves;
And while she dares dead-reckoning on, in darkness of affliction,
Assist her where thy creaturely dependence can or may,
For thou art of her clay."
The Tweed Visited
by William Lisle Bowles

O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile,
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile),
Delighted turns thy stranger-stream to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend
O'er thy tall banks a soothing charm bestow;
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem like the converse of some long-lost friend.
Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The distant pastoral pipe is heard no more;
Yet here while laverocks sing could I abide,
Far from the stormy world's contentious roar,
To muse upon thy banks at eventide.
Love Song
by Charles G. Leland

O vere mine lofe a sugar-powl,
De fery shmallest loomp
Vouldt shveet de seas, from pole to pole,
Und make de shildren shoomp.
Und if she vere a clofer-field,
I'd bet my only pence,
It vouldn't pe no dime at all
Pefore I'd shoomp de fence.
Her heafenly foice, it drill me so,
It oft-dimes seems to hoort,
She ish de holiest anamile
Dat roons oopon de dirt.
De renpow rises vhen she sings,
De sonnshine vhen she dalk;
De angels crow und flop deir vings
Vhen she goes out to valk.
So livin white, so carnadine,
Mine lofe's gomblexion show;
It's shoost like Abendcarmosine,
Rich gleamin on de shnow.
Her soul makes plushes in her sheek
Ash sommer reds de wein,
Or sonnlight sends a fire life troo
An blank Karfunkelstein.
De 'berschwengliche id'es
Dis lofe poot in my mind,
Vouldt make a foost-rate philosoph
Of any human kind.
'Tis schudderin schveet on eart to meet
An himmlisch-hoellisch Qual;
Und treat mitwhiles to K'mmel Schnapps
De schoenheitsidial.
Dein F'ss seind weiss wie Kreiden,
Dein Ermlein Helfenbein,
Dein ganzer Leib ist Seiden
Dein Brust wie Marmelstein-
Ja-vot de older boet sang,
I sing of dee-dou Fine!
Dou'rt soul und pody, heart und life
Glatt, zart, gelind, und rein.
Influence Of Time On Grief
by William Lisle Bowles

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile:
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
At Sea
by James Whitcomb Riley

O we go down to sea in ships -
But Hope remains behind,
And Love, with laughter on his lips,
And Peace, of passive mind;
While out across the deeps of night,
With lifted sails of prayer,
We voyage off in quest of light,
Nor find it anywhere.
O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea,
Yet keepest from our eyes
The shores of an eternity
In calms of Paradise,
Blow back upon our foolish quest
With all the driving rain
Of blinding tears and wild unrest,
And waft us home again.
The Heart Of The Woman
by William Butler Yeats

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.