DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Gaelic Legends
by John Campbell

Oft the savage Tale in telling
Less of Love than Wrath and Hate,
Hath within its fierceness dwelling
Some pure note compassionate.
Mark, if rude their nature, stronger,
Manlier are the minds that keep
Thought on rightful vengeance longer
Than on those who can but weep.
Better sing the horrid battle
Than its cause of crime and wrong;
Sing great life-deeds! the death-rattle
Is too common for a song.
Lays where man in fight rejoices
Sang our Sires, from Sire to Son;
Heard and loved the hero voices,
"Dare, and more than life is won!"
To Nova Scotia.
by Thomas Frederick Young

OH brothers, friends, down by the sea,
We can thy voices hear,
And painful is their tone, and free,
Upon each brother's ear.
We hear each voice, pitch'd strong and high,
And, could we see you now,
Our hearts would heave another sigh,
At each beclouded brow.
We hear thy voice, from day to day,
In one long, doleful strain,
Oh tell us why, oh brethren say
Why sounds that voice of pain.
Are we not one, in race and creed,
Rul'd by one gracious queen?
And we have all receiv'd our meed
Of praise and pelf, I ween.
Why vex her now, who's rul'd so long
Upon her virtuous throne?
Why sing her such a doleful song,
And send her such a groan?
And why annoy that whiten'd head,
Our land's adopted son,
Who wisely drew love's slender thread,
And wedded us in one.
And firmer yet he wish'd to bind
Us to our country's weal,
And see, plann'd by his master mind,
One band of glitt'ring steel,
One shining track, which stretches far,
From wild Columbia's shore,
To where those doleful voices are,
And the Atlantic's roar.
Oh brethren, friends down by the sea,
With us your voices raise,
Instead of groans, oh, shout with glee,
With us, one shout of praise.
And trust him, brethren, trust us, too,
Seek not from us to go;
Our country's good is weal for you,
And common, all our woe.
The Beauty of Nature.
by Hattie Howard

Oh bud and leaf and blossom,
How beautiful they are!
Than last year's vernal season
'Tis lovelier by far;
This earth was never so enchanting
Nor half so bright before - 
But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime,
For forty years or more.
What luxury of color
On shrub and plant and vine,
From pansies' richest purple
To pink of eglantine;
From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups,"
With deep cerulean eyes,
Responding to their modest surname
In violet surprise.
Sometimes I think the sunlight
That gilds the emerald hills,
And makes Aladdin dwellings
Of dingy domiciles,
Is surplus beauty overflowing
That Heaven cannot hold - 
The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,
The glare of streets of gold.
In "Cedar Hill," the city
Of "low green tents" of sod,
I read the solemn record
Of those gone home to God;
While from their hallowed dust arising
The fragrant lilies grow
As if their life was all the sweeter
For those who sleep below.
And so 'tis not in sadness
I dwell upon the thought,
When I am dead and buried
That I shall be forgot.
Because the germ of reproduction
Doth this poor body hold,
Perchance to add to nature's beauty
A rose above the mold.
A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay
by W. M. MacKeracher

Written In Montreal.
Often, when the sun is sinking
O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
When the earth and heaven are linking
In that bond of peaceful rest;
Then, the weary city spurning,
On this grand repose I gaze,
And my mind, in fancy turning,
Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.
And I float upon the river
At the selfsame time of day,
When the sparkling waters quiver
'Neath the slanting evening ray.
Day's harsh memories forsaking
With its jarring and its jest,
For the soul is but awaking
As the day is lulled to rest.
Glimpse of even's glory getting
As the summer sun serene,
In his softened splendour setting,
Gilds the spires of Ste. Martine;
Glimmers through the silent bushes,
Glances on the birchen stems;
Casts perchance his fitful blushes
On the paddle, dripping gems.
And the hue of gold is deeper
On the cornfields by the stream;
And the sickle of the reaper
Flashes brightly in his beam.
And the fruits, of late commencing
To indue their glowing tint,
Richest beauty are enhancing
As they catch his gentle glint.
Now he greets the gaudy dresses
Of the lightsome Gallic maids,
Rivals through their raven tresses
Eyes of jet beneath their braids
As the peasant party gathers
Gaily for the sportive dance,
As of old have done their fathers
In the sunny vales of France.
But the night is falling thicker,
And the twilight soon will cease,
So I paddle on the quicker
Past where Beauty reigns with Peace;
Where the little brooks deliver
Water laughing in its glee,
Or the murky English River
Mingles with the Chateauguay.
The Ragman's Wine
by Charles Baudelaire

Often, beneath a street lamp's reddish light,
Where wind torments the glass and flame by night,
Where mankind swarms in stormy turbulence
Within a suburb's muddy labyrinth,
One comes upon a shaking ragman, who
Staggers against the walls, as poets do,
And disregardful of policemen's spies,
Pours from his heart some glorious enterprise.
Swearing his oaths, he dictates laws he's made
To vanquish evil, bring the victims aid,
And there beneath the sky, a canopy,
Grows drunk upon his own sublimity.
Yes, and these men harassed by household strife,
Tortured by age, bruised by the blows of life,
Under their heaps of rubbish burdened down,
The dregs, the vomit of this teeming town,
Appear again, redolent of the jar,
With their companions, bleached and battle-scarred,
Moustaches like the rags of bannerets.
Arches of triumph rise before their steps,
A solemn magic! flags and flowers too!
And in this orgy, dazzling to the view,
Of cheers, of bugles, drums, the sun above,
They glorify a people drunk with love!
And so it is, like Pactolus of old,
For fickle Humankind, wine rolls with gold;
By human throat wine finds a voice to sing,
And reigns by all its gifts, a proper king.
To drown the spite and dull the lethargy
Of damned old men who die in secrecy,
Remorseful God gave sleep to every one;
Man added wine, true scion of the Sun!
Boy And Squirrel.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.
Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.
Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump,
What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers;
What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?
But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees,
Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze,
Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards,
And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.
It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me,
Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free;
An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you;
You make me twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!
Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know;
He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind,
And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.
But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you,
He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do;
That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me,
And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree.
The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff,"
We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh;
Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play,
If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!
Fate
by George MacDonald

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I
Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven
Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven
Black passages which have not any sky:
The scourge is on me now, with all the cry
Of ancient life that hath with murder striven.
How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven,
How many a hand in prayer been lifted high
When the black fate came onward with the rush
Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume!
Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb
Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush
The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush
As if we were all huddled in one doom!
Lines On A Sleeping Child.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Oh child! who to this evil world art come,
Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,
Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!
Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!
Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin
Hath worn no trace; thou look'st as though from heaven,
But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;
Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.
Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,
And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;
The time's at hand when thou must wake to weep,
Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.
How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies
Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul,
Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,
And long in bitterness to reach the goal!
How oft wilt thou, upon Time's flinty road,
Gaze at thy far off early days, in vain;
Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load,
And curse and pray, then take it up again!
How many times shall the fiend Hope, extend
Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips!
How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend,
To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!
How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp, - 
How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow - 
How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp
Their knotted arms around thine aching brow!
Oh, living soul, hail to thy narrow cage!
Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave!
Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age,
Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!
Nobody Knows
by Walter De La Mare

Often I've heard the Wind sigh
By the ivied orchard wall,
Over the leaves in the dark night,
Breathe a sighing call,
And faint away in the silence
While I, in my bed,
Wondered, 'twixt dreaming and waking,
What it said.
Nobody knows what the Wind is,
Under the height of the sky,
Where the hosts of the stars keep far away house
And its wave sweeps by - 
Just a great wave of the air,
Tossing the leaves in its sea,
And foaming under the eaves of the roof
That covers me.
And so we live under deep water,
All of us, beasts and men,
And our bodies are buried down under the sand,
When we go again;
And leave, like the fishes, our shells,
And float on the Wind and away,
To where, o'er the marvellous tides of the air,
Burns day.
Over The Roofs
by Sara Teasdale

I
Oh chimes set high on the sunny tower
Ring on, ring on unendingly,
Make all the hours a single hour,
For when the dusk begins to flower,
The man I love will come to me!...
But no, go slowly as you will,
I should not bid you hasten so,
For while I wait for love to come,
Some other girl is standing dumb,
Fearing her love will go.
II
Oh white steam over the roofs, blow high!
Oh chimes in the tower ring clear and free !
Oh sun awake in the covered sky,
For the man I love, loves me I...
Oh drifting steam disperse and die,
Oh tower stand shrouded toward the south,
Fate heard afar my happy cry,
And laid her finger on my mouth.
III
The dusk was blue with blowing mist,
The lights were spangles in a veil,
And from the clamor far below
Floated faint music like a wail.
It voiced what I shall never speak,
My heart was breaking all night long,
But when the dawn was hard and gray,
My tears distilled into a song.
IV
I said, 'I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more.'
But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.
My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
'I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free.'
To Mrs. M. B. On Her Birthday
by Alexander Pope

Oh be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new,
But, like a Sieve, let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis alas! too clear,
Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace.
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.
Baptism In Lake Allumette
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Oh Allumette, hemmed with thy fringe of pine,
Watched over by thy mountains far away,
Thy waters have been troubled oftentime,
Never before as they have been to day!
The red man on the war path, with light stroke,
Hath cleaved thy waters moving stealthily;
Hunter and hunted deer thy surface broke
With splash and struggle of the living prey.
Across thy bosom venturous Champlain
And faithful Brule have pursued their way;
Seeking for distant golden Indian vain
Finding Coulonge while searching for Cathay
The knights of industry the sons of toil,
Trouble thy waters in the eager strife
To win success and wealth, the glittering spoil
For which men daily peril more than life
'Twas a new motive from their homes to day
That drew an eager wondering people out,
Like those who from Mount Zion took their way,
From Judah and the regions round about
It might have been the Jordan flowed along
Or that, sweet stream where people met for prayer,
Still expectation held the gathering throng
By the lake shore, in the hushed Sabbath air
And earnest, fervent pleading prayer was made
Rose the sweet strains of the old Scottish psalm
And words of witness for God s truth were said,
The only sound that broke the sacred calm
Then down into the waters of the lake,
The preacher and believer slowly came,
Not heeding scornful words for His dear sake,
Who bore the cross for us despised the shame
Buried with Him by baptism to death
Following the path which He the Sa lour trod,
To rise with Him to that new life He saith
He hath laid up for us with Christ in God
How Oft, When Watching Stars. (Savoyard Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
I from my casement lean.
"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"
Never to mortal ear
Could words, tho' warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear
As do those notes to me!
Then quick my own light lute I seek,
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho' they naught to others speak,
He knows their language well.
"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"I come, my love!--thine, thine till break of day."
Oh, weak the power of words,
The hues of painting dim
Compared to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!
The Minstrel's Grave.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"
Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs o'er my pillow,
From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one farewell.
Lent.
by Edwin C. Ranck

"Oh lend me five," the young man cried,
"My money all is spent."
The maiden shook her head and sighed,
"I'm sorry but it's Lent."
The Last Buccaneer
by Charles Kingsley

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;
Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold,
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;
So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,
And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I'm old and going - I'm sure I can't tell where;
One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there:
If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.
Eversley, 1857,
Preface to Poems By Samuel Rogers.
by Samuel Rogers

Oh could my Mind, unfolded in my page,
Enlighten climes and mould a future age;
There as it glow'd, with noblest frenzy fraught,
Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;
To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start!
Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year,
My life, my manners, and my name endear;
And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,
Still hold communion with the wise and just!--
Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource,
When thro' the world it steals its secret course,
Revive but once a generous wish supprest,
Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;
In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,
Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;
Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere,
Tho' short their date, as his who trac'd them here.
A Love Song
by Virna Sheard

Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait,
The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late,
A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!
Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes,
Joy hath one summer time, like to the rose,
Love only lives through all the winter snows.
Then haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own,
And see! A rose leaf on the night breeze blown!
For thee I wait - for thee I wait alone!
Songs of the Fleet - The Song of the Guns at Sea
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Oh hear!    Oh hear!
Across the sullen tide
Across the echoing dome horizon-wide
What pulse of fear
Beats with tremendous boom!
What call of instant doom,
With thunderstroke of terror and of pride,
With urgency that may not be denied,
Reverberates upon the heart's own drum
Come! . . .    Come! . . . for thou must come!
Come forth, O Soul!
This is thy day of power.
This is the day and this the glorious hour
That was the goal
Of thy self-conquering strife.
The love of child and wife,
The fields of Earth and the wide ways of Thought--
Did not thy purpose count them all as nought
That in this moment thou thyself mayst give
And in thy country's life for ever live?
Therefore rejoice
That in thy passionate prime
Youth's nobler hope disdained the spoils of Time
And thine own choice
Fore-earned for thee this day.
Rejoice! rejoice to obey
In the great hour of life that men call Death
The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath,
Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb
Come! . . .    Come! . . . the time is come!
Repentant.
by John Hartley

Oh lend me thy hand in the darkness,
Lead me once more to the light,
Bear with my folly and weakness,
Point me the way to do right.
Long have I groped in the shadow
Of error, temptation and doubt,
In the maze I've strayed hither and thither,
Vainly seeking to find a way out.
When I grasp thy firm hand in the darkness,
Courage takes place of my fear;
No more do I shudder and tremble,
When I know that my loved one is near.
From sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me; - 
From dangers that sorely affright,
Till at last every terror shall leave me,
And I rest in thine own loving light.
Rest! Aye, rest! If I have thy forgiveness,
If thy strong arm about me is twined;
Let the past, like a horrible vision,
Be for ever cast out of thy mind.
When I wilfully all my vows slighted,
And sought joy in a glittering sin,
I found but two lives that were blighted,
Two hearts filled with ruin within.
Oh, take me again to thy bosom,
With a kiss, tho' it be on my brow;
And forgive one who wayward and sinful,
Ne'er knew how she loved thee till now.
And keep me away from the darkness,
Let thy hand lead me on evermore,
Let me cling to thee, bless thee, and love thee,
As no loved one was e'er loved before.
Monica's Last Prayer
by Matthew Arnold

'Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!'
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall.
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call.
But at God's altar, oh! remember me.
Thus Monica, and died in Italy.
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Had been; but at the end, to her pure soul
All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.
Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole;
Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!
To Mrs. ----
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the darling line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty.
While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,
Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream,
With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem
That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought - and then forgotten as a dream.