DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Province Of Ontario.
by James McIntyre

In the land of woods and lakes,
Pure happiness each one partakes,
Who is sound in body and in mind,
And to industry is inclined.
Here in great lakes we do take pride,
And them with Uncle Sam divide,
Other lakes seem inferior
In size to great Superior.
And Canadians do take pride,
In Huron's wide expanded tide,
But it onward flows forever,
Through St. Clair lake and river.
But soon again it doth expand,
Into Erie's lake so grand,
Then behold its wondrous charms,
When embraced in Niagara's arms.
Then it more blessings doth bestow,
On pure bosom of Ontario,
Round it our towns and cities cluster,
O'er it Toronto sheds her lustre.
And Ontario doth awake,
The thought that 'tis our favorite lake;
Several states approach Lake Erie,
Each one claiming it for dearie.
But our fires of love do glow,
Alone for Lake Ontario,
Our love for it is so unbounded,
We have almost it surrounded.
And the lands around its beaches,
They are famed for grapes and peaches,
'Mong choicest fruits you ramble on
From Niagara to Hamilton.
Ontario North is land of pines,
A land of lakes and rocks and mines,
And beneath dark pine tree shade,
How happy is the youth and maid.
For here in summer you keep cool,
And fish for trout in sparkling pool,
For pike or salmon you can spear,
And in the season hunt the deer.
In great northern hunting ground,
Where both fish and game abound,
And verdant pastures here are seen,
Where cattle graze 'mong sweetest green.
In the far north a land of pines,
And in the south we have the vines,
Where each year adds into the charms,
Surrounds the homesteads on the farms.
Nature our province doth endow,
With hardy sons to guide the plow,
In south we have the fruitful soil,
Where nature's bounties on us smile.
We have got rich plains and highlands,
Ontario hath thousand islands,
And there is a great array
Of charming isles on Georgian Bay.
And travellers all they do adore,
The lovely isles near Huron's shore,
Superior makes a grand display,
All round her shores to Thunder Bay.
Muskoka's famed for woods and brakes,
For rocks and meadows and clear lakes,
And sportsmen for it proudly claim
That 'tis a land for fish and game.
There doth arise a sweet aroma
From great spruce forests of Algoma,
And from the poplar, birch and pine,
There too is wealth in many a mine.
It may be that of mines the best,
Will be found in Ontario West,
Stretching towards the interior,
Three hundred miles west of Superior.
Essex is our sunny south,
At the Detroit river's mouth,
There the sun doth cheerful smile
On the grape vineyards of Pelee Isle.
Pioneer's axe it now doth ring,
On the shores of Nipissing,
And some do locate claims away
To distant north around James' Bay.
Out Of The Window
by Aldous Leonard Huxley

In the middle of countries, far from hills and sea,
Are the little places one passes by in trains
And never stops at; where the skies extend
Uninterrupted, and the level plains
Stretch green and yellow and green without an end.
And behind the glass of their Grand Express
Folk yawn away a province through,
With nothing to think of, nothing to do,
Nothing even to look at--never a "view"
In this damned wilderness.
But I look out of the window and find
Much to satisfy the mind.
Mark how the furrows, formed and wheeled
In a motion orderly and staid,
Sweep, as we pass, across the field
Like a drilled army on parade.
And here's a market-garden, barred
With stripe on stripe of varied greens ...
Bright potatoes, flower starred,
And the opacous colour of beans.
Each line deliberately swings
Towards me, till I see a straight
Green avenue to the heart of things,
The glimpse of a sudden opened gate
Piercing the adverse walls of fate ...
A moment only, and then, fast, fast,
The gate swings to, the avenue closes;
Fate laughs, and once more interposes
Its barriers.
The train has passed.
Clare Market
by Eugene Field

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;
That I take a delight on a Saturday night
In walking that way and in viewing the sight.
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.
A rich man comes down from the elegant town
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end--
And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze--
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,
So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.
The Fee.
by David Rorie M.D.

In the heicht o' the foray
Sir Raif got a clour,
Sir Raif the regairdless,
In battle sae dour.
O cleanly the saddle
They ca'ed him attour!
Then aid for his wounds
He did sairly beseech,
An' aff to the greenwood
In shade o' a beech
They hurried auld Simon
The kintra-side's leech.
Wi' a tow roon' his neck
Simon knelt on his knee,
An' he saw as he glow'red
Wi' the tail o' his e'e
That armed men held it
Owre bough o' the tree.
"Noo, Simon, to heal
Is your trade, no' to kill,"
Quo' Sir Raif, "An' though, mark ye,
We dootna your skill,
Grup the tow, knaves! If need be
Pull up wi' a will!"
"But what o' my fee,
Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?"
"Gin I live, Master Simon,
I'll wager it's safe!
There! Laugh not, ye villains,
His neck ye may chafe!"
O stanched was the blue blude
That ran on the grass,
Sae eident was Simon
His skill to surpass,
Sir Raif was in fair way
His foes to harass.
An' the fee they gae Simon
The tale is aye rife-
For fittin' Sir Raif
To wield sword i' the strife?
'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en-
For they gae him his life!
The Fugitive
by John Frederick Freeman

In the hush of early even
The clouds came flocking over,
Till the last wind fell from heaven
And no bird cried.
Darkly the clouds were flocking,
Shadows moved and deepened,
Then paused; the poplar's rocking
Ceased; the light hung still
Like a painted thing, and deadly.
Then from the cloud's side flickered
Sharp lightning, thrusting madly
At the cowering fields.
Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,
Down the hill slow thunder trembled;
Day in her cave grew frightened,
Crept away, and died.
The Cross Of Snow
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
The Boaster
by Walter Crane

In the house, in the market, the streets,
Everywhere he was boasting his feats;
Till one said, with a sneer,
"Let us see it done here!
What's so oft done with ease, one repeats."
Deeds Not Words
Hendecasyllabics
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

In the month of the long decline of roses
I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent,
Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions
Half divided the eyelids of the sunset;
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters
Moving tremulous under feet of angels
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens;
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage,
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow;
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels,
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight,
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel,
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not,
Winds not born in the north nor any quarter,
Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine;
Heard between them a voice of exultation,
'Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded,
Even like as a leaf the year is withered,
All the fruits of the day from all her branches
Gathered, neither is any left to gather.
All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms,
All are taken away; the season wasted,
Like an ember among the fallen ashes.
Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight,
Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost,
We bring flowers that fade not after autumn,
Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons,
Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser),
Woven under the eyes of stars and planets
When low light was upon the windy reaches
Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily
Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows
And green fields of the sea that make no pasture:
Since the winter begins, the weeping winter,
All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples
Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever.'
The Two Houses
by Thomas Hardy

In the heart of night,
When farers were not near,
The left house said to the house on the right,
"I have marked your rise, O smart newcomer here."
Said the right, cold-eyed:
"Newcomer here I am,
Hence haler than you with your cracked old hide,
Loose casements, wormy beams, and doors that jam.
"Modern my wood,
My hangings fair of hue;
While my windows open as they should,
And water-pipes thread all my chambers through.
"Your gear is gray,
Your face wears furrows untold."
" Yours might," mourned the other, "if you held, brother,
The Presences from aforetime that I hold.
"You have not known
Men's lives, deaths, toils, and teens;
You are but a heap of stick and stone:
A new house has no sense of the have-beens.
"Void as a drum
You stand: I am packed with these,
Though, strangely, living dwellers who come
See not the phantoms all my substance sees!
"Visible in the morning
Stand they, when dawn drags in;
Visible at night; yet hint or warning
Of these thin elbowers few of the inmates win.
"Babes new-brought-forth
Obsess my rooms; straight-stretched
Lank corpses, ere outborne to earth;
Yea, throng they as when first from the 'Byss upfetched.
"Dancers and singers
Throb in me now as once;
Rich-noted throats and gossamered fingers
Of heels; the learned in love-lore and the dunce.
"Note here within
The bridegroom and the bride,
Who smile and greet their friends and kin,
And down my stairs depart for tracks untried.
"Where such inbe,
A dwelling's character
Takes theirs, and a vague semblancy
To them in all its limbs, and light, and atmosphere.
"Yet the blind folk
My tenants, who come and go
In the flesh mid these, with souls unwoke,
Of such sylph-like surrounders do not know."
" Will the day come,"
Said the new one, awestruck, faint,
"When I shall lodge shades dim and dumb -
And with such spectral guests become acquaint?"
" That will it, boy;
Such shades will people thee,
Each in his misery, irk, or joy,
And print on thee their presences as on me."
On Reading Omar Khayyam
by Vachel Lindsay

[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]
In the midst of the battle I turned,
(For the thunders could flourish without me)
And hid by a rose-hung wall,
Forgetting the murder about me;
And wrote, from my wound, on the stone,
In mirth, half prayer, half play: - 
"Send me a picture book,
Send me a song, to-day."
I saw him there by the wall
When I scarce had written the line,
In the enemy's colors dressed
And the serpent-standard of wine
Writhing its withered length
From his ghostly hands o'er the ground,
And there by his shadowy breast
The glorious poem I found.
This was his world-old cry:
Thus read the famous prayer:
"Wine, wine, wine and flowers
And cup-bearers always fair!"
'Twas a book of the snares of earth
Bordered in gold and blue,
And I read each line to the wind
And read to the roses too:
And they nodded their womanly heads
And told to the wall just why
For wine of the earth men bleed,
Kingdoms and empires die.
I envied the grape stained sage:
(The roses were praising him.)
The ways of the world seemed good
And the glory of heaven dim.
I envied the endless kings
Who found great pearls in the mire,
Who bought with the nation's life
The cup of delicious fire.
But the wine of God came down,
And I drank it out of the air.
(Fair is the serpent-cup,
But the cup of God more fair.)
The wine of God came down
That makes no drinker to weep.
And I went back to battle again
Leaving the singer asleep.
The Gourd
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

In the heavy earth the miner
Toiled and laboured day by day,
Wrenching from the miser mountain
Brilliant treasure where it lay.
And the artist worn and weary
Wrought with labour manifold
That the king might drink his nectar
From a goblet made of gold.
On the prince's groaning table
Mid the silver gleaming bright
Mirroring the happy faces
Giving back the flaming light,
Shine the cups of priceless crystal
Chased with many a lovely line,
Glowing now with warmer colour,
Crimsoned by the ruby wine.
In a valley sweet with sunlight,
Fertile with the dew and rain,
Without miner's daily labour,
Without artist's nightly pain,
There there grows the cup I drink from,
Summer's sweetness in it stored,
And my lips pronounce a blessing
As they touch an old brown gourd.
Why, the miracle at Cana
In the land of Galilee,
Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,
Is no longer strange to me.
For the poorest and the humblest
Could a priceless wine afford,
If they 'd only dip up water
With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.
So a health to my old comrade,
And a song of praise to sing
When he rests inviting kisses
In his place beside the spring.
Give the king his golden goblets,
Give the prince his crystal hoard;
But for me the sparkling water
From a brown and brimming gourd!
In The Long Run
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.
The lucky wight may prosper for a day,
But in good time true merit leads the van
And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way.
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,
But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,
In the long run.
In the long run all godly sorrow pays,
There is no better thing than righteous pain,
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,
Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end,
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend
In the long run.
In the long run all hidden things are known,
The eye of truth will penetrate the night,
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,
However well 'tis guarded from the light.
All the unspoken motives of the breast
Are fathomed by the years and stand confess'd
In the long run.
In the long run all love is paid by love,
Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;
The great eternal Government above
Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth.
Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;
So beautiful a thing was never lost
In the long run.
Nursery Rhyme. DLII. Natural History.
by Unknown

In the month of February,
When green leaves begin to spring,
Little lambs do skip like fairies,
Birds do couple, build, and sing.
For My Niece Angeline.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

In the morning of life, when all things appear bright,
And far in the distance the shadows of night,
With kind parents still spared thee, and health to enjoy,
What period more fitting thy powers to employ
In the service of him, who his own life has given
To procure thee a crown and a mansion in Heaven.
As a dream that is gone at the breaking of day,
And a tale that's soon told, so our years pass away.
"Then count that day lost, whose low setting sun
Can see from thy hand no worthy act done."
Midst the roses of life many thorns thou wilt find,
"But the cloud that is darkest, with silver is lined."
As the children of Israel were led on their way
By the bright cloud at night, and the dark cloud by day,
So the Christian is led through the straight narrow road
That brings him direct to his home and his God;
And when the last stage of life's journey is o'er,
And Jordan's dark waves can affright him no more,
When safely arrived in his own promised land,
He's permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand,
Then weighed in the balance how light will appear
All the sorrows of life, with his blissful state there.
Oh! let us by faith take a view of him now,
See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow;
His old tattered robe swept away by the flood,
Is replaced by a new one, the gift of his Lord;
The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought,
It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot.
The streets that he walks in are pav'd with gold,
And yet it's transparent as glass we are told;
The pure river of water of life is in view,
And for healing the nations, the tree of life too.
There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night
Is excluded forever - the Lord God is their light.
But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,
No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there.
And these joys may be ours - oh! how blissful the thought,
Ours without money, without price may be bought.
For us they've been purchased by the Son of God,
At an infinite price - his own precious blood.
They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose,
'Tis life to accept them, - 'tis death to refuse.
Weston, May 15, 1862.
Song of Marion's Men.
by George Pope Morris

In the ranks of Marion's band,
Through morass and wooded land,
Over beach of yellow sand,
Mountain, plain, and valley,
A southern maid, in all her pride,
Marched gayly at her lover's side,
In such disguise
That e'en his eyes
Did not discover Sallie!
When returned from midnight tramp,
Through the forest dark and damp,
Oh his straw-couch in the camp,
In his dreams he'd dally
With that devoted, gentle fair,
Whose large black eyes and flowing hair
So near him seem,
That in his dream,
He breathes his love for Sallie!
Oh, what joy, that maiden knew,
When she found her lover true!--
Suddenly the trumpet blew,
Marion's men to rally!
To ward the death-spear from his side!--
In battle by Santee she died!--
Where sings the surge
A ceaseless dirge
Near the lone grave of Sallie.
Another. (Charms.)
by Robert Herrick

In the morning when ye rise,
Wash your hands and cleanse your eyes.
Next be sure ye have a care
To disperse the water far;
For as far as that doth light,
So far keeps the evil sprite.
Love's Thread Of Gold.
by Jean Ingelow

In the night she told a story,
In the night and all night through,
While the moon was in her glory,
And the branches dropped with dew.
'Twas my life she told, and round it
Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
Cradled like a child asleep.
In the night I saw her weaving
By the misty moonbeam cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
With a sacred thread of gold.
Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
Lulling tears so mystic sweet;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
And her web lay at my feet.
Of my life she made the story:
I must weep - so soon 'twas told!
But your name did lend it glory,
And your love its thread of gold!
A Song Of Life
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the rapture of life and of living,
I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather - 
They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,
In the pride and the pleasure of wealth
(For who dares dispute me my dower
Of talents and youth-time and health?),
I can laugh at the world and its sages - 
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow,
And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are you troubled and sad?    I beseech you
Come out of the shadows of strife - 
Come out in the sun while I teach you
The secret of life.
Come out of the world - come above it - 
Up over its crosses and graves,
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises - 
But only the perfume of flowers - 
And your life shall be glad with surprises
Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
Apollo distills in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is,
And as full of delight.
The Overland Mail
by Rudyard Kipling

In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day,
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat, let the tiger turn tail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill,
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
"Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runnger, two bags of the Overland Mail."
Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him?
The Service admits not a "but" or and "if."
While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.
From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine, to the peak from the vale,
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road,
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below,
There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode,
The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:
"In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!"
A Dream
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the night I dreamed that you had died,
And I thought you lay in your winding sheet;
And I kneeled low by your coffin side,
With my cheek on your heart that had ceased to beat.
And I thought as I looked on your form so still,
A terrible woe, and an awful pain,
Fierce as vultures that slay and kill,
Tore at my bosom and maddened my brain.
And then it seemed that the chill of death
Over me there like a mantle fell,
And I knew by my fluttering, failing breath
That the end was near, and all was well.
I woke from my dream in the black midnight -
It was only a dream at worst or best -
But I lay and thought till the dawn of light,
Had the dream been true we had both been blest.
Better to kneel by your still dead form,
With my cheek on your breast, and die that way,
Than to live and battle with night and storm,
And drift away from you day by day.
Better the anguish of death and loss,
The sharp, quick pain, and the darkness, then,
Than living on with this heavy cross
To bear about in the world of men.