DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
East Of Oswego
by Paul Cameron Brown

Ticonderoga to Lake George,
the classic invasion route
up the Richelieu valley
past Plattsburg,
Verdun,
' Montr'al
across the North Shore
reroute again
to savour Albany;
last of the trading posts east of Oswego
before New York
protective sanctuary
lodgings,
free from the scalping knife
barrens and
the horrors Fenimore Cooper described.
Apple crisp, fall damp the air
with an unbroken stretch of forest
and Adirondack mountains,
there, delicate slip
of fair womanhood
bliss, she lies, gentle as the finger lakes
clothed in autumn crimson.
The Tiger
by William Blake

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
To The Sun
by Clark Ashton Smith

Thy light is as an eminence unto thee,
And thou are upheld by the pillars of thy strength.
Thy power is a foundation for the worlds;
They are builded thereon as upon a lofty rock
Whereto no enemy hath access.
Thou puttest forth thy rays, and they hold the sky
As in the hollow of an immense hand.
Thou erectest thy light as four walls,
And a roof with many beams and pillars.
Thy flame is a stronghold based as a mountain;
Its bastions are tall, and firm like stone.
The worlds are bound with the ropes of thy will;
Like steeds are they stayed and contrained
By the reins of invisible lightnings.
With bands that are stouter than iron manifold,
And stronger than the cords of the gulfs,
Thou withholdest them from the brink
Of outward and perilous deeps,
Lest they perish in the desolations of the night,
Or be stricken of strange suns;
Lest they be caught in the pitfalls of the abyss,
Or fall into the furnace of Arcturus.
Thy law is as a shore unto them,
And they are restrained thereby as the sea.
Thou art food and drink to the worlds;
Yea, by thy toil are they sustained,
That they fail not upon the road of space,
Whose goal is Hercules.
When thy pillars of force are withdrawn,
And the walls of thy light fall inward,
Borne down by the sundering night,
And thy head is covered with the Shadow,
The worlds shall wander as men bewildered
In the sterile and lifeless waste.
Athirst and unfed shall they be,
When the springs of thy strength are dust,
And thy fields of light are black with dearth.
They shall perish from the ways
That thou showest no longer,
And emptiness shall close above them.
Hickory Dickory Dock.
by Clara Doty Bates

Tick-Tack! tick-tack!
This way, that way, forward, back,
Swings the pendulum to and fro,
Always regular, always slow.
Grave and solemn on the wall,--
Hear it whisper! hear it call!
Little Ginx knows naught of Time,
But has heard the mystic rhyme,--
"Hickory, dickory, dock!
The mouse ran up the clock!"
Tick-tack! tick-tack!
White old face with figures black!
So when dismal, stormy days
Keep him from his out-door plays,
Most that he cares for is to sit
Watching, always watching it.
And when the hour strikes he thinks,--
(A dear, wise head has the little Ginx!)
"The clock strikes one,
The mice ran down!"
Tick-tack! tick-tack!
This way, that way, forward, back!
Though so measured and precise,
Ginx believes it full of mice.
A mouse runs up at every tick,
But when the stroke comes, scampering quick,
Mice run down again; so they go,
Up and down, and to and fro!
Hickory, dickory, dock,
Full of mice is the clock!
Merlin I
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor tinkle of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smite the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned flood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
'Pass in, pass in,' the angels say,
'In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise.'
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,--
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mould the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall not seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,--
The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 't is inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;--
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors.
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.
To The Author Of A Sonnet Beginning "'Sad Is My Verse,' You Say, 'And Yet No Tear.'"
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.
2.
Yet there is one I pity more;
And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
3.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May once be read - but never after:
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
4.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain - 
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.
The Shepherd.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

(On a fragment by De Bussy.)
Thy slender form I think I see
On winter hills of Tuscany,
Thy slender pipe I think I hear,
So very faint, so very clear.
That lonely reed! It seems to me
To sing thine own simplicity,
For thou art but a child and young,
How should 'st thou know a subtler tongue?
Then, still a child, I pray thee pass!
I would not see thee with a lass.
Nor follow thee o'er grass and rock.
As thou dost lead some larger flock.
Ah no! That little, wilding pipe
I would not give for one more ripe;
E'en glad were I to hear it spent
Unchanged, and thou still innocent!
Sonnet XLV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

La guancia che fu gi' piangendo stanca.
TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.
Thy weary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows,
My much loved lord, upon the one repose;
More careful of thyself against Love be,
Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see;
And with the other close the left-hand path
Too easy entrance where his message hath;
In sun and storm thyself the same display,
Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.
And, with the third, drink of the precious herb
Which purges every thought that would disturb,
Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste:
But me enshrine where your best joys are placed,
So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx,
If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.
MACGREGOR.
Translations. - Lieder. (From Heine.)
by George MacDonald

IV.
Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:
What a knocking in that little chamber!--dost hear?
There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he
Is hard at work on a coffin for me.
He hammers and knocks by night and by day;
'Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:
Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,
That I the sooner may go to sleep!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXIII. Jingles.
by Unknown

Tiddle liddle lightum,
Pitch and tar;
Tiddle liddle lightum,
What's that for?
Coquetry
by Eugene Field

Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee--
The spider courted the frisky flea;
Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-doo--
The flea ran off with the bugaboo!
"Oh, tiddle-de-dee!"
Said the frisky flea--
For what cared she
For the miseree
The spider knew,
When, tiddle-de-doo,
The flea ran off with the bugaboo!
Rumpty-tumpty, pimplety-pan--
The flubdub courted a catamaran
But timplety-topplety, timpity-tare--
The flubdub wedded the big blue bear!
The fun began
With a pimplety-pan
When the catamaran,
Tore up a man
And streaked the air
With his gore and hair
Because the flubdub wedded the bear!
To A Lady Playing The Harp
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Thy tones are silver melted into sound,
And as I dream
I see no walls around,
But seem to hear
A gondolier
Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.
Italian skies--that I have never seen--
I see above.
(Ah, play again, my queen;
Thy fingers white
Fly swift and light
And weave for me the golden mesh of love.)
Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes
And soft dark hair,
'T is thou that mak'st my skies
So swift to change
To far and strange:
But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.
Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee
As one who drowns
In floods of melody.
Still in thy art
Give me this part,
Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.
At A Lunar Eclipse
by Thomas Hardy

Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
Of imperturbable serenity.
How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry
With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
That profile, placid as a brow divine,
With continents of moil and misery?
And can immense Mortality but throw
So small a shade, and Heaven's high human scheme
Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies?
Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show,
Nation at war with nation, brains that teem,
Heroes, and women fairer than the skies?
Psal. LXXXV.
by John Milton

Thy Land to favour graciously
Thou hast not Lord been slack,
Thou hast from hard Captivity
Returned Jacob back.
Th' iniquity thou didst forgive
That wrought thy people woe,
And all their Sin, that did thee grieve
Hast hid where none shall know.
Thine anger all thou hadst remov'd,
And calmly didst return
From thy *1fierce wrath which we had prov'd
Far worse then fire to burn.
God of our saving health and peace,
Turn us, and us restore,
Thine indignation cause to cease
Toward us, and chide no more.
Wilt thou be angry without end,
For ever angry thus
Wilt thou thy frowning ire extend
From age to age on us?
Wilt thou not *2 turn, and hear our voice
And us again *2 revive ,
That so thy people may rejoyce
By thee preserv'd alive.
Cause us to see thy goodness Lord,
To us thy mercy shew
Thy saving health to us afford
And lift in us renew.
And now what God the Lord will speak
I will go strait and hear,
For to his people he speaks peace
And to his Saints full dear,
To his dear Saints he will speak peace,
But let them never more
Return to folly, but surcease
To trespass as before.
Surely to such as do him fear
Salvation is at hand
And glory shall ere long appear
To dwell within our Land.
Mercy and Truth that long were miss'd
Now joyfully are met
Sweet Peace and Righteousness have kiss'd
And hand in hand are set.
Truth from the earth like to a flowr
Shall bud and blossom then,
And Justice from her heavenly bowr
Look down on mortal men.
The Lord will also then bestow
Whatever thing is good
Our Land shall forth in plenty throw
Her fruits to be our food.
Before him Righteousness shall go
His Royal Harbinger,
Then *3 will he come, and not be slow
His footsteps cannot err.
Sonnet LXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie.
THOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO RESIST THEM.
Till silver'd o'er by age my temples grow,
Where Time by slow degrees now plants his grey,
Safe shall I never be, in danger's way
While Love still points and plies his fatal bow
I fear no more his tortures and his tricks,
That he will keep me further to ensnare
Nor ope my heart, that, from without, he there
His poisonous and ruthless shafts may fix.
No tears can now find issue from mine eyes,
But the way there so well they know to win,
That nothing now the pass to them denies.
Though the fierce ray rekindle me within,
It burns not all: her cruel and severe
Form may disturb, not break my slumbers here.
MACGREGOR.
Epigram - Thy Nags, The Leanest Things Alive
by Matthew Prior

Thy nags, the leanest things alive,
So very hard thou lovest to drive,
I heard thy anxious coachman say
It costs thee more in whips than hay.
Epitaph On Caxton
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Thy prayer was 'Light-more Light-while Time shall last!'
Thou rawest a glory growing on the night,
But not the shadows which that light would cast,
Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light.
Anima Anceps
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Till death have broken
Sweet life's love-token,
Till all be spoken
That shall be said,
What dost thou praying,
O soul, and playing
With song and saying,
Things flown and fled?
For this we know not
That fresh springs flow not
And fresh griefs grow not
When men are dead;
When strange years cover
Lover and lover,
And joys are over
And tears are shed.
If one day's sorrow
Mar the day's morrow
If man's life borrow
And man's death pay
If souls once taken,
If lives once shaken,
Arise, awaken,
By night, by day
Why with strong crying
And years of sighing,
Living and dying,
Fast ye and pray?
For all your weeping,
Waking and sleeping,
Death comes to reaping
And takes away.
Though time rend after
Roof-tree from rafter,
A little laughter
Is much more worth
Than thus to measure
The hour, the treasure,
The pain, the pleasure,
The death, the birth;
Grief, when days alter,
Like joy shall falter;
Song-book and psalter,
Mourning and mirth.
Live like the swallow;
Seek not to follow
Where earth is hollow
Under the earth.
The Sacking Of The City.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")
[XXIII., November, 1825.]
Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,
The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.
Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,
Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;
Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,
While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!
Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,
O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;
With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,
At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;
Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend!
Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,
Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.
Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel
Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,
To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel,
And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
To William Shelley.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thy little footsteps on the sands
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands,
Where now the worm will feed no more;
Thy mingled look of love and glee
When we returned to gaze on thee -
To Harriet.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thy look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life's too bitter bowl;
No grief is mine, but that alone
These choicest blessings I have known.
Harriet! if all who long to live
In the warm sunshine of thine eye,
That price beyond all pain must give, -
Beneath thy scorn to die;
Then hear thy chosen own too late
His heart most worthy of thy hate.
Be thou, then, one among mankind
Whose heart is harder not for state,
Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind,
Amid a world of hate;
And by a slight endurance seal
A fellow-being's lasting weal.
For pale with anguish is his cheek,
His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim,
Thy name is struggling ere he speak,
Weak is each trembling limb;
In mercy let him not endure
The misery of a fatal cure.
Oh, trust for once no erring guide!
Bid the remorseless feeling flee;
'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,
'Tis anything but thee;
Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,
And pity if thou canst not love.
Two Rivers
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain;
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain.
Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes
Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows.
I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the stream
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.
Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.
So forth and brighter fares my stream,--
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness stains its equal gleam.
And ages drop in it like rain.
Spirits Of The Dead
by Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night tho' clear shall frown 
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given 
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish 
Now are visions ne'er to vanish 
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze the breath of God is still 
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy shadowy yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token 
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
I Miei Saluti. (Italian Poems)
by Eric Mackay

I.
Ti saluto, Margherita
Fior di vita, ... ti saluto!
Sei la speme del mattino,
Sei la gioja del giardino.
II.
Ti saluto, Rosignolo
Nel tuo duolo, ... ti saluto!
Sei l' amante della rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa.
III.
Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio
Col tuo raggio, ... ti saluto!
Sei l' Apollo del passato,
Sei l' amore incoronato.
IV.
Ti saluto, Donna mia,
Casta e pia, ... ti saluto!
Sei la diva dei desiri,
Sei la Santa dei Sospiri.
God's Plan Is Best
by Joseph Horatio Chant

Thy plan is best, though it may not agree
With my conceptions of my needs and rights,
And faith may fail to scale its azure heights;
Yet still I trust, and leave my cause with Thee.
With single eye I sought to do Thy will.
I felt Thy smile and left results with Thee;
If they have failed, then that is naught to me--
I did my part, and am Thy servant still.
The hearts of men are in Thy mighty hand;
Naught is concealed from Thy all-searching sight;
Canst Thou not turn them to the left or right?
The raging ocean calms at Thy command.
The aching clay may circumscribe my sphere;
Yet in confinement I may labor still
In work which harmonizes with Thy will,
And e'er rejoice to have my Master near.
Thoughts of Thy love will yet remain with me,
And in my silent hours may shape assume,
And by their measures help to lift the gloom
Of this dark world, and bring men nearer Thee.
Whate'er may come, I will not, Lord, complain;
My plan is Thine, I have no other choice.
In work or rest 'tis meet I should rejoice;
Contentment in my lot is blessed gain.
Visit Of The Dead
by Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
Alone of all on earth, unknown
The cause, but none are near to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness, for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall then o'ershadow thee, be still
For the night, tho' clear, shall frown:
And the stars shall look not down
From their thrones, in the dark heav'n;
With light like Hope to mortals giv'n,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy withering heart shall seem
As a burning, and a ferver
Which would cling to thee forever.
But 'twill leave thee, as each star
In the morning light afar
Will fly thee, and vanish:
But its thought thou can'st not banish.
The breath of God will be still;
And the wish upon the hill
By that summer breeze unbrok'n
Shall charm thee, as a token,
And a symbol which shall be
Secrecy in thee
Farewell.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,
Then I am ready to go!
Just a look at the horses --
Rapid! That will do!
Put me in on the firmest side,
So I shall never fall;
For we must ride to the Judgment,
And it's partly down hill.
But never I mind the bridges,
And never I mind the sea;
Held fast in everlasting race
By my own choice and thee.
Good-by to the life I used to live,
And the world I used to know;
And kiss the hills for me, just once;
Now I am ready to go!
A Medley: Thy Voice Is Heard (The Princess)
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
A Song Of Truce
by Robert Fuller Murray

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon's mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
At The Gate
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you."
Thy kingdom here?
Lord, can it be?
Searching and seeking everywhere
For many a year,
"Thy kingdom come" has been my prayer.
Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?
Blinded and dull
With selfish sin,
Have I been sitting at the gates
Called Beautiful,
Where Thy fair angel stands and waits,
With hand upon the lock to let me in?
Was I the wall
Which barred the way,
Darkening the glory of Thy grace,
Hiding the ray
Which, shining out as from Thy very face,
Had shown to other men the perfect day?
Was I the bar
Which shut me out
From the full joyance which they taste
Whose spirits are
Within Thy Paradise embraced,--
Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?
The vision swells:
I seem to catch
Celestial breezes, rustling low,
The asphodels,
Where, singing softly ever to and fro,
Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.
Let me not sit
Another hour,
Idly awaiting what is mine to win,
Blinded in wit,
Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin;
Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.
To Carthy (Epigram Against Carthy)
by Jonathan Swift

Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light,
Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight,
But forced from their retirement into day,
The tender embryos half unknown decay;
Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare,
Expire when first exposed to open air.