DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Rondeau
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As you forgot I may forget,
When summer dews cease to be wet.
When whippoorwills disdain the night,
When sun and moon are no more bright,
And all the stars at midnight set.
When jay birds sing, and thrushes fret,
When snowfalls come in flakes of jet,
When hearts that shelter love are light,
I may forget.
When mortal life no cares beset,
When April brings no violet,
When wrong no longer wars with right,
When all hope's ships shall heave in sight,
And memory holds no least regret,
I may forget.
Despair. Song.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ask not the pallid stranger's woe,
With beating heart and throbbing breast,
Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,
As though the body needed rest. -
Whose 'wildered eye no object meets,
Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,
With silent grief his bosom beats, -
Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.
Who looks around with fearful eye,
And shuns all converse with man kind,
As though some one his griefs might spy,
And soothe them with a kindred mind.
A friend or foe to him the same,
He looks on each with equal eye;
The difference lies but in the name,
To none for comfort can he fly. -
'Twas deep despair, and sorrow's trace,
To him too keenly given,
Whose memory, time could not efface -
His peace was lodged in Heaven. -
He looks on all this world bestows,
The pride and pomp of power,
As trifles best for pageant shows
Which vanish in an hour.
When torn is dear affection's tie,
Sinks the soft heart full low;
It leaves without a parting sigh,
All that these realms bestow.
JUNE, 1810.
The Misanthrope.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

AT first awhile sits he,
With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously, 
An owl's they might be now.
What is it, askest thou?
Is't love, or is't ennui?
'Tis both at once, I vow.
On Something, That Walks Somewhere
by Ben Jonson

At court I met it, in clothes brave enough
To be a courtier, and looks grave enough
To seem a statesman: as I near it came,
It made me a great face. I asked the name.
"A lord," it cried, "buried in flesh and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none; and as little ill,
For I will dare none." Good lord, walk dead still.
At Eventide.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

At eventide, when glories lie
In crimson curtains hung on high,
And all the breast of heaven glows
With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows,
The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.
The pleasures in their soft robes fly
With angel wings adown the sky,
And rapture lulls to sweet repose,
At eventide.
Ah, well-a-day! Life's weary cry,
And all its curse and care shall die,
When Age on downy couches throws
His weary limbs and only knows
The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
At eventide!
Nursery Rhyme. CXIII. Scholastic.
by Unknown

[The dominical letters attached to the first days of the several months are remembered by the following lines.]
At Dover Dwells George Brown Esquire,
Good Christopher Finch, And David Friar.
[An ancient and graver example, fulfilling the same purpose, runs as follows.]
Astra Dabit Dominus, Gratisque Beabit Egenos,
Gratia Christicol' Feret Aurea Dona Fideli.
Ay And No; A Tale From Dublin.[1]
by Jonathan Swift

WRITTEN IN 1737
At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dress'd like divines, with band and face clean:
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, "The mob is grown bold."
"Ay, ay," quoth the Dean, "the cause is old gold."
"No, no," quoth the Primate, "if causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift."
The smart one replied, "There's no wit in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your grace.
Though with your state sieve your own notions you split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.
It's matter of weight, and a mere money job;
But the lower the coin the higher the mob.
Go tell your friend Bob and the other great folk,
That sinking the coin is a dangerous joke.
The Irish dear joys have enough common sense,
To treat gold reduced like Wood's copper pence.
It is a pity a prelate should die without law;
But if I say the word - take care of Armagh!"
At Dusk
by Henry Kendall

At dusk, like flowers that shun the day,
Shy thoughts from dim recesses break,
And plead for words I dare not say
For your sweet sake.
My early love! my first, my last!
Mistakes have been that both must rue;
But all the passion of the past
Survives for you.
The tender message Hope might send
Sinks fainting at the lips of speech,
For, are you lover are you friend,
That I would reach?
How much to-night I'd give to win
A banished peace an old repose;
But here I sit, and sigh, and sin
When no one knows.
The stern, the steadfast reticence,
Which made the dearest phrases halt,
And checked a first and finest sense,
Was not my fault.
I held my words because there grew
About my life persistent pride;
And you were loved, who never knew
What love could hide!
This purpose filled my soul like flame:
To win you wealth and take the place
Where care is not, nor any shame
To vex your face.
I said 'Till then my heart must keep
Its secrets safe and unconfest;'
And days and nights unknown to sleep
The vow attest.
Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long
Since you were near; and fates retard
The sequel of a struggle strong,
And life is hard
Too hard, when one is left alone
To wrestle passion, never free
To turn and say to you, 'My own,
Come home to me!'
The Oblation
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Ask nothing more of me, sweet;
All I can give you I give.
Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet:
Love that should help you to live,
Song that should spur you to soar.
All things were nothing to give
Once to have sense of you more,
Touch you and taste of you sweet,
Think you and breathe you and live,
Swept of your wings as they soar,
Trodden by chance of your feet.
I that have love and no more
Give you but love of you, sweet:
He that hath more, let him give;
He that hath wings, let him soar;
Mine is the heart at your feet
Here, that must love you to live.
Gordale
by William Wordsworth

At early dawn, or rather when the air
Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy Eve
Is busiest to confer and to bereave;
Then, pensive Votary! let thy feet repair
To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair
Where the young lions couch; for so, by leave
Of the propitious hour, thou may'st perceive
The local Deity, with oozy hair
And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn,
Recumbent: Him thou may'st behold, who hides
His lineaments by day, yet there presides,
Teaching the docile waters how to turn,
Or (if need be) impediment to spurn,
And force their passage to the salt-see tides!
Cupid Turned Stroller. - From Anacreon
by Matthew Prior

At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear,
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigued with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there, says I? who knocks so late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He said; but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moonlight night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepared,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow:
In haste I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dried his hair;
Brought friendly cups of cheerful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this did I with kind intent;
Said, dearest Friend, this bow ye see,
This pretty bow, belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right,
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite:
He drew it then, and straight I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
'Tis done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
Kind host adieu, we now must part,
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.
The Visit
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
Devastator of the day!
Know, each substance and relation,
Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater,--
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,--
Say, what other metre is it
Than the meeting of the eyes?
Nature poureth into nature
Through the channels of that feature,
Riding on the ray of sight,
Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,
Or for service, or delight,
Hearts to hearts their meaning show,
Sum their long experience,
And import intelligence.
Single look has drained the breast;
Single moment years confessed.
The duration of a glance
Is the term of convenance,
And, though thy rede be church or state,
Frugal multiples of that.
Speeding Saturn cannot halt;
Linger,--thou shalt rue the fault:
If Love his moment overstay,
Hatred's swift repulsions play.
Mediated Strike (Prose)
by John Hartley

At a meeting of the tax-collectors of the W - - R - -g of - -shire, held in one of the cells beneath the Town Hall it was proposed, "That we, the tax gatherers and rate collectors of the W - - R - -g of - -shire do intend to throw up our offices, unless our wages are reduced or our labours increased, for being like unto other men, possessed of consciences, we are frequently tormented with the thought, that we are receiving more than what is our due, and by that means wronging the public." Mr. Christopher Delphian moved as an amendment, "that they should dispose of their consciences, that being a readier way of getting over the difficulty." The chairman put the amendment which was carried, and the consciences were sold in one lot, for 7 3/4 d., which was carried to the fund for the entertainment of Mr. Calcraft, the president, whenever he should visit the district on a professional tour.
The Angels Of Sleep
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

Asleep the child fell
When night cast its spell;
The angels came near
With laughter and cheer.
Her watch at its waking the mother was keeping:
"How sweet, my dear child, was your smile now while sleeping!"
To God mother went,
From home it was rent;
Asleep the child fell
'Neath tears' troublous spell.
But soon it heard laughter and mother-words tender;
The angels brought dreams full of childhood's rare splendor.
It grew with the years,
Till gone were the tears;
Asleep the child fell,
While thoughts cast their spell.
But faithful the angels their vigils were keeping,
The thoughts took and whispered: "Have peace now, while sleeping!"
Tom Merritt
by Edgar Lee Masters

At first I suspected something - 
She acted so calm and absent-minded.
And one day I heard the back door shut
As I entered the front, and I saw him slink
Back of the smokehouse into the lot
And run across the field.
And I meant to kill him on sight.
But that day, walking near Fourth Bridge
Without a stick or a stone at hand,
All of a sudden I saw him standing
Scared to death, holding his rabbits,
And all I could say was, "Don't, Don't, Don't,"
As he aimed and fired at my heart.
Faith Matheny
by Edgar Lee Masters

At first you will know not what they mean,
And you may never know,
And we may never tell you: - 
These sudden flashes in your soul,
Like lambent lightning on snowy clouds
At midnight when the moon is full.
They come in solitude, or perhaps
You sit with your friend, and all at once
A silence falls on speech, and his eyes
Without a flicker glow at you: - 
You two have seen the secret together,
He sees it in you, and you in him.
And there you sit thrilling lest the
Mystery Stand before you and strike you dead
With a splendor like the sun's.
Be brave, all souls who have such visions
As your body's alive as mine is dead,
You're catching a little whiff of the ether
Reserved for God Himself.
To ---
by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols

Asleep within the deadest hour of night
And turning with the earth, I was aware
How suddenly the eastern curve was bright,
As when the sun arises from his lair.
But not the sun arose: it was thy hair
Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.
Since then I know that neither night nor day
May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell!
Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay;
And should I dare to die, I know full well
Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell,
Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.
The Man Who Forgot
by Thomas Hardy

At a lonely cross where bye-roads met
I sat upon a gate;
I saw the sun decline and set,
And still was fain to wait.
A trotting boy passed up the way
And roused me from my thought;
I called to him, and showed where lay
A spot I shyly sought.
"A summer-house fair stands hidden where
You see the moonlight thrown;
Go, tell me if within it there
A lady sits alone."
He half demurred, but took the track,
And silence held the scene;
I saw his figure rambling back;
I asked him if he had been.
"I went just where you said, but found
No summer-house was there:
Beyond the slope 'tis all bare ground;
Nothing stands anywhere.
"A man asked what my brains were worth;
The house, he said, grew rotten,
And was pulled down before my birth,
And is almost forgotten!"
My right mind woke, and I stood dumb;
Forty years' frost and flower
Had fleeted since I'd used to come
To meet her in that bower.
Attack
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glowering sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesu, make it stop!
The Cumberland
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies;
"It is better to sink than to yield!"
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
At Crow's Nest Pass
by Emily Pauline Johnson

At Crow's Nest Pass the mountains rend
Themselves apart, the rivers wend
A lawless course about their feet,
And breaking into torrents beat
In useless fury where they blend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
The nesting eagle, wise, discreet,
Wings up the gorge's lone retreat
And makes some barren crag her friend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspend
Their shifting vapours, and contend
With rocks that suffer not defeat;
And snows, and suns, and mad winds meet
To battle where the cliffs defend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
Variety.
by Thomas Moore

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
He'll tell you, 'tis variety.
Look Nature round; her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.
For me, ye gracious powers above!
Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,--but the nymph I love
I'll change, and taste variety.
But, Patty, not a world of charms
Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;--
No, let me ever seek those arms.
There still I'll find variety.
Nursery Rhyme. DCIII. Local.
by Unknown

At Brill on the Hill,
The wind blows shrill,
The cook no meat can dress;
At Stow in the Wold
The wind blows cold, - 
I know no more than this.
Forgiveness
by George William Russell

At dusk the window panes grew grey;
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.
And all my sins were told; I said
Such things to her who knew not sin--
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.
I touched with pain her purity;
Sin's darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me:
To her I was a wounded thing.
I needed love no words could say;
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.
She sat with hands as if to bless,
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.
Written On A Pane Of Glass, In The Inn At Moffat.
by Robert Burns

Ask why God made the gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.
Asleep! O Sleep A Little While, White Pearl!
by John Keats

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air,
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
My sudden adoration, my great love!
In Darkest Africa
by Oliver Herford

At evening when the lamp is lit,
The tired Human People sit
And doze, or turn with solemn looks
The speckled pages of their books.
Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl
And in the Shadows softly growl,
And roam about the farthest floor
Where Kitten never trod before.
And, crouching in the jungle damp,
I watch the Human Hunter's camp,
Ready to spring with fearful roar
As soon as I shall hear them snore.
And then with stealthy tread I crawl
Into the dark and trackless hall,
Where 'neath the Hat-tree's shadows deep
Umbrellas fold their wings and sleep.
A cuckoo calls--and to their dens
The People climb like frightened hens,
And I'm alone--and no one cares
In Darkest Africa--down stairs.
Hong-Kong Lyrics.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

I.
At anchor in that harbour of the island,
The Chinese gate,
We lay where, terraced under green-clad highland,
The sea-town sate.
Ships, steamers, sailors, many a flag and nation,
A motley crew,
Junks, sampans, all East's swarming jubilation,
I watched and knew.
Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling
On the boon breeze,
The church-bells' chiming echoes rang out, telling
Of inland peace.
O English chimes, your music rising and falling
I cannot praise,
Although to me it come sweet-sad recalling
Dear childish days.
Yet, English chimes, - last links of chains that sever,
Worn out and done,
That land and creed that I have left for ever, - 
Ring on, ring on!
II.
There is much in this sea-way city
I have not met with before,
But one or two things I notice
That I seem to have known of yore.
In the lovely tropical verdure,
In the streets, behold I can
The hideous English buildings
And the brutal English man!
III.
I stand and watch the soldiers
Marching up and down,
Above the fresh green cricket-ground
Just outside the town.
I stand and watch and wonder
When in the English land
This poor fool Tommy Atkins
Will learn and understand?
Zulus, and Boers, and Arabs,
All fighting to be free,
Men and women and children,
Murdered and maimed has he.
In India and in Ireland
He's held the People down,
While the robber English gentleman
Took pound and penny and crown.
To make him false to his order,
What was it that they gave - 
To make him his brother's oppressor?
The clothes and pay of a slave!
O thou poor fool, Tommy Atkins,
Thou wilt be wise that day
When, with eager eyes and clenched teeth,
Thou risest up to say:
"This is our well-loved England,
And I'll free it, if I can,
From every rotten bourgeois
And played-out gentleman!"
Draw-Gloves
by Robert Herrick

At draw-gloves we'll play,
And prithee let's lay
A wager, and let it be this:
Who first to the sum
Of twenty shall come,
Shall have for his winning a kiss.
Gold
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(AFTER GIOVANNI PASCOLI)
At bedtime, when the sunset fire was red
One cypress turned to gold beneath its touch.
"Sleep now, my little son," the mother said;
"In God's high garden all the trees are such."
Then did the child in his bright dream behold
Branches of gold, trees, forests all of gold.
At A Country Fair
by Thomas Hardy

At a bygone Western country fair
I saw a giant led by a dwarf
With a red string like a long thin scarf;
How much he was the stronger there
The giant seemed unaware.
And then I saw that the giant was blind,
And the dwarf a shrewd-eyed little thing;
The giant, mild, timid, obeyed the string
As if he had no independent mind,
Or will of any kind.
Wherever the dwarf decided to go
At his heels the other trotted meekly,
(Perhaps - I know not - reproaching weakly)
Like one Fate bade that it must be so,
Whether he wished or no.
Various sights in various climes
I have seen, and more I may see yet,
But that sight never shall I forget,
And have thought it the sorriest of pantomimes,
If once, a hundred times!