DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
At Michaelmas.
by Bliss Carman (William)

About the time of Michael's feast
And all his angels,
There comes a word to man and beast
By dark evangels.
Then hearing what the wild things say
To one another,
Those creatures first born of our gray
Mysterious Mother,
The greatness of the world's unrest
Steals through our pulses;
Our own life takes a meaning guessed
From the torn dulse's.
The draft and set of deep sea-tides
Swirling and flowing,
Bears every filmy flake that rides,
Grandly unknowing.
The sunlight listens; thin and fine
The crickets whistle;
And floating midges fill the shine
Like a seeding thistle.
The hawkbit flies his golden flag
From rocky pasture,
Bidding his legions never lag
Through morning's vasture.
Soon we shall see the red vines ramp
Through forest borders,
And Indian summer breaking camp
To silent orders.
The glossy chestnuts swell and burst
Their prickly houses
Agog at news which reached them first
In sap's carouses.
The long noons turn the ribstons red,
The pippins yellow;
The wild duck from his reedy bed
Summons his fellow.
The robins keep the underbrush
Songless and wary,
As though they feared some frostier hush
Might bid them tarry;
Perhaps in the great North they heard
Of silence falling
Upon the world without a word,
White and appalling.
The ash-tree and the lady-fern,
In russet frondage,
Proclaim 'tis time for our return
To vagabondage.
All summer idle have we kept;
But on a morning,
Where the blue hazy mountains slept,
A scarlet warning
Disturbs our day-dream with a start;
A leaf turns over;
And every earthling is at heart
Once more a rover.
All winter we shall toil and plod,
Eating and drinking;
But now's the little time when God
Sets folk to thinking.
"Consider," says the quiet sun,
"How far I wander;
Yet when had I not time on one
More flower to squander?"
"Consider," says the restless tide,
"My endless labor;
Yet when was I content beside
My nearest neighbor?"
So wander-lust to wander-lure,
As seed to season,
Must rise and wend, possessed and sure
In sweet unreason.
For doorstone and repose are good,
And kind is duty;
But joy is in the solitude
With shy-heart beauty.
And Truth is one whose ways are meek
Beyond foretelling;
And far his journey who would seek
Her lowly dwelling.
She leads him by a thousand heights,
Lonelily faring,
With sunrise and with eagle flights
To mate his daring.
For her he fronts a vaster fog
Than Leif of yore did,
Voyaging for continents no log
Has yet recorded.
He travels by a polar star,
Now bright, now hidden,
For a free land, though rest be far
And roads forbidden,
Till on a day with sweet coarse bread
And wine she stays him,
Then in a cool and narrow bed
To slumber lays him.
So we are hers. And, fellows mine
Of fin and feather,
By shady wood and shadowy brine,
When comes the weather
For migrants to be moving on,
By lost indenture
You flock and gather and are gone:
The old adventure!
I too have my unwritten date,
My gypsy presage;
And on the brink of fall I wait
The darkling message.
The sign, from prying eyes concealed,
Is yet how flagrant!
Here's ragged-robin in the field,
A simple vagrant.
Nursery Rhyme. XXXI. Literal
by Unknown

A, B, C, tumble down D,
The cat's in the cupboard and can't see me.
The Welcome Home. (From Gilbert)
by Charlotte Bronte

Above the city hangs the moon,
Some clouds are boding rain;
Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,
To-night comes home again.
Ten years have passed above his head,
Each year has brought him gain;
His prosperous life has smoothly sped,
Without or tear or stain.
'Tis somewhat late, the city clocks
Twelve deep vibrations toll,
As Gilbert at the portal knocks,
Which is his journey's goal.
The street is still and desolate,
The moon hid by a cloud;
Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,
His second knock peals loud.
The clocks are hushed, there's not a light
In any window nigh,
And not a single planet bright
Looks from the clouded sky;
The air is raw, the rain descends,
A bitter north-wind blows;
His cloak the traveller scarce defends,
Will not the door unclose?
He knocks the third time, and the last
His summons now they hear,
Within, a footstep, hurrying fast,
Is heard approaching near.
The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain
Falls to the floor of stone;
And Gilbert to his heart will strain
His wife and children soon.
The hand that lifts the latchet, holds
A candle to his sight,
And Gilbert, on the step, beholds
A woman, clad in white.
Lo! water from her dripping dress
Runs on the streaming floor;
From every dark and clinging tress
The drops incessant pour.
There's none but her to welcome him;
She holds the candle high,
And, motionless in form and limb,
Stands cold and silent nigh;
There's sand and sea-weed on her robe,
Her hollow eyes are blind;
No pulse in such a frame can throb,
No life is there defined.
Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still
His lips vouchsafed no cry;
He spurred his strength and master-will
To pass the figure by,
But, moving slow, it faced him straight,
It would not flinch nor quail:
Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,
His stony firmness quail.
He sank upon his knees and prayed
The shape stood rigid there;
He called aloud for human aid,
No human aid was near.
An accent strange did thus repeat
Heaven's stern but just decree:
"The measure thou to her didst mete,
To thee shall measured be!"
Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,
By the pale spectre pushed,
And, wild as one whom demons seize,
Up the hall-staircase rushed;
Entered his chamber, near the bed
Sheathed steel and fire-arms hung,
Impelled by maniac purpose dread
He chose those stores among.
Across his throat a keen-edged knife
With vigorous hand he drew;
The wound was wide, his outraged life
Rushed rash and redly through.
And thus died, by a shameful death,
A wise and worldly man,
Who never drew but selfish breath
Since first his life began.
Constantinople - The Muezzin
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Above the city at his feet,
Above the dome, above the sea,
He rises unconfined and free
To break upon the noonday heat.
He turns around the parapet,
Black-robed against the marble tower;
His singing gains or loses power
In pacing round the minaret.
A brother to the singing birds
He never knew restraining walls,
But freely rises, freely falls
The rhythm of the sacred words.
I would that it to me were given
To climb each day the muezzin's stair
And in the warm and silent air
To sing my heart out into Heaven.
The Beaconsfield Alphabet.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

A's my new policy called Annexation;
B is the Bother it causes the nation.
C is Lord Chelmsford, engaged with Zulus;
D the Disasters which give me 'the blues.'
E is the Effort I make to look merry;
F is my Failure - deplorable very!
G is Sir Garnett, alas, not ubiquitous!
H stands for H -    - t, an M.P. iniquitous.
I stands for India, a source of vexation:
J are the Jews, a most excellent nation.
K is the Khedive, whose plan is to borrow
L L. s. d. - I'll annex him to-morrow!
M's the Majority, which I much prize;
N are the Non-contents whom I despise.
O's the Opposition, so often defeated;
P is P -    - ll, that Home-ruler conceited.
Q are the Questions put by noble Lords;
R my Responses, more cutting than swords.
S is the Sultan, my friend true and warm;
T are the Turks, whom I hope to reform.
U's my Utopia - Cyprus, I mean:
V is Victoria, my Empress and Queen.
W's the World, which ere long I shall own;
X is the sign of my power unknown.
Y is the Yacht I shall keep in the Red Sea:
Z the Zulus, whom I wish in the Dead Sea.
(1879).
Atlantis
by Clark Ashton Smith

Above its domes the gulfs accumulate
To where the sea-winds trumpet forth their screed;
But here the buried waters take no heed -
Deaf, and with clos'd lips from press of weight
Imposed by ocean. Dim, inanimate,
On temples of an unremembered creed
Involved in long, slow tentacles of weed,
The dead tide lies immovable as Fate.
From out the ponderous-vaulted ocean-dome,
A clouded light is questionably shed
On altars of a goddess garlanded
With blossoms of some weird and hueless vine;
And wing'd, fleet, through skies beneath the foam,
Like silent birds the sea-things dart and shine.
Paddy's Metamorphosis.
by Thomas Moore

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw material for settlers, abroad.
Some West-India island, whose name I forget,
Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;
And such the success the first colony met,
That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.
Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,
They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.
And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came--
"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"
While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name
Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!
Can it possibly be?--half amazement--half doubt,
Pat listens again--rubs his eyes and looks steady;
Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
"Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"
Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears,
Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,
And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!
MORAL.
'Tis thus,--but alas! by a marvel more true
Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,--
Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,
By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories.
And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise,
Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady,
I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,
"Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!"
The Picture
by Madison Julius Cawein

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay:
Around her, flowers flattered earth with gold,
Or down the path in insolence held sway - 
Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway - 
Scarlet and buff, within a garden old.
Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,
Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town:
Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed
The purple west as if, with God imbued,
Her mighty palette Nature there laid down.
Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,
Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,
She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,
Fair as a star that comes to emphasize
The mingled beauty of the earth and air.
Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,
Gray with its twinkling windows - like the face
Of calm old age that sits and dreams at ease - 
Porched with old roses, haunts of honeybees,
The homestead loomed within a lilied space.
For whom she waited in the afterglow,
Star-eyed and golden 'mid the poppy and rose,
I do not know; I do not care to know, - 
It is enough I keep her picture so,
Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.
A fragrant picture, where I still may find
Her face untouched of sorrow or regret,
Unspoiled of contact; ever young and kind;
The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,
She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.
Abide With Us
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

"Abide with us!" Where could we go?
Thou art our strength, thou art our tower,
Our refuge from the ills below,
In darkness light, in weakness power.
"Abide with us!" We would prevail,
And plead that thou be ever near
To banish doubts when they assail,
And give deliverance from fear.
"Abide with us" in words of love,
For thou dost say, "Come unto me."
Oh, guide us to thy home above
To dwell in joy and peace with thee!
With A Volume Of Verse.
by Henry Austin Dobson

About the ending of the Ramad'n,
When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,
A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,
At the tenth hour to Caliph OMAR came.
"Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last
The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;
Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,
Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!"
"Hast thou no calling, Friend?"--the Caliph said.
"Sir, I make verses for my daily bread."
"Verse!"--answered OMAR. "'Tis a dish, indeed,
Whereof but scantily a man may feed.
Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,--
Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."
I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;
But this I know--he must have versified,
For, with his race, from better still to worse,
The plague of writing follows like a curse;
And men will scribble though they fail to dine,
Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.
Gronfayther's Days.
by John Hartley

'A, Johnny! A'a, Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee;
For it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says; - 
Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days.
When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then;
But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;
For they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways;
Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit, - 
An walked aght thi gronny; - aw'st nivver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze; - 
It wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days,
Ther's noa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;
They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead;
They're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays, - 
But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.
At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,
But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door;
He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah,
But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah;
An ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.
We're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent,
An aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content;
Tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.
Nursery Rhyme. XXXVI. Literal
by Unknown

A, B, C, and D,
Pray, playmates, agree,
E, F, and G,
Well so it shall be.
J, K, and L,
In peace we will dwell
M, N, and O,
To play let us go.
P, Q, R, and S,
Love may we possess,
W, X, and Y,
Will not quarrel or die.
Z, and amperse-and,
Go to school at command.
Willie's Weddin.
by John Hartley

A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear
Tha's won a wife at last;
Tha'll have a happier time next year,
Nor what tha's had i'th' past.
If owt can lend this life a charm,
Or mak existence sweet,
It is a lovin woman's arm
Curled raand yor neck at neet.
An if shoo's net an angel,
Dooant grummel an find fault,
For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find
Are seldom worth ther salt.
They're far too apt to flee away,
To spreead ther bonny wings;
They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day
Nor th' duties wifehood brings.
A wife should be a woman,
An if tha's lucky been;
Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass,
Is equal to a Queen.
For if her heart is true to thee,
An thine to her proves true, - 
Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies,
An tha need nivver rue.
Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes,
When mooar inclined to sware;
But recollect, no precious things
Bring joy unmixed wi' care.
An when her snarlin turns to smiles,
An bitterness to bliss,
Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles,
An mak up wi' a kiss.
Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil,
An thy superior wit
Will allus win, an keepin cooil
Tha'll triumph in a bit.
Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee
An holds thi in Love's tether,
Well, nivver heed, - they best agree
When two fooils mate together.
Provision
by George MacDonald

Above my head the great pine-branches tower;
Backwards and forwards each to the other bends,
Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends
Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power:
Hark to the patter of the coming shower!
Let me be silent while the Almighty sends
His thunder-word along--but when it ends
I will arise and fashion from the hour
Words of stupendous import, fit to guard
High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave,
When the temptation cometh close and hard,
Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave
Of meaner things--to which I am a slave,
If evermore I keep not watch and ward.
Preface
by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

This book is not about heroes.    English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them.    Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, dominion or power,
except War.
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
Yet these elegies are not to this generation,
This is in no sense consolatory.
They may be to the next.
All the poet can do to-day is to warn.
That is why the true Poets must be truthful.
If I thought the letter of this book would last,
I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives Prussia,--my ambition and those names will be content; for they will have achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders.
The Bag Of The Bee
by Robert Herrick

About the sweet bag of a bee
Two cupids fell at odds,
And whose the pretty prize should be
They vowed to ask the gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stripped them,
And, taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipped them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kissed, and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.
The Whippoorwill
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Above lone woodland ways that led
To dells the stealthy twilights tread
The west was hot geranium red;
And still, and still,
Along old lanes the locusts sow
With clustered pearls the Maytimes know,
Deep in the crimson afterglow,
We heard the homeward cattle low,
And then the far-off, far-off woe
Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"
II
Beneath the idle beechen boughs
We heard the far bells of the cows
Come slowly jangling towards the house;
And still, and still,
Beyond the light that would not die
Out of the scarlet-haunted sky;
Beyond the evening-star's white eye
Of glittering chalcedony,
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry
Of "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill."
III
And in the city oft, when swims
The pale moon o'er the smoke that dims
Its disc, I dream of wildwood limbs;
And still, and still,
I seem to hear, where shadows grope
Mid ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope, - 
Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope
Above the clover-sweetened slope, - 
Retreat, despairing, past all hope,
The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.
A B C
by Walter Crane

A, B, C, die Katze lief im Schnee,
Und wie sie wieder 'raus kam,
Da hatt' sie weisse Stieflein an:
O jemine, O jemine, O jemine, O je!
A, B, C, die Katze lief zur Hoh',
Sie lecket ihr kalt Pf'tchen rein
Und putzt sich auch das Stiefelein
Und ging nicht mehr im Schnee.
Penury. A Quatrain.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Above his misered embers, gnarled and gray,
With toil-twitched limbs he bends; around his hut,
Want, like a hobbling hag, goes night and day,
Scolding at windows and at doors tight-shut.
Abe Martin
by James Whitcomb Riley

Abe Martin! - dad-burn his old picture!
P'tends he's a Brown County fixture -
A kind of a comical mixture
Of hoss-sense and no sense at all!
His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin',
And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin',
And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin' -
From Genesis clean to baseball!
The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless
He draws Abe 'most eyeless and earless,
But he's never yet pictured him cheerless
Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal, -
Whuther on to the fence er clean over
A-rootin' up ragweed er clover,
Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover"
Er newfangled automobeel!
It's a purty steep climate old Brown's in;
And the rains there his ducks nearly drowns in
The old man hisse'f wades his rounds in
As ca'm and serene, mighty nigh
As the old handsaw-hawg, er the mottled
Milch cow, er the old rooster wattled
Like the mumps had him 'most so well throttled
That it was a pleasure to die.
But best of 'em all's the fool-breaks 'at
Abe don't see at all, and yit makes 'at
Both me and you lays back and shakes at
His comic, miraculous cracks
Which makes him - clean back of the power
Of genius itse'f in its flower -
This Notable Man of the Hour,
Abe Martin, The Joker on Facts.
Nursery Rhyme. CXL. Songs.
by Unknown

About the bush, Willy,
About the bee-hive,
About the bush, Willy,
I'll meet thee alive.
Then to my ten shillings,
Add you but a groat,
I'll go to Newcastle,
And buy a new coat.
Five and five shillings,
Five and a crown;
Five and five shillings,
Will buy a new gown.
Five and five shillings,
Five and a groat;
Five and five shillings,
Will buy a new coat.
Rome
by Madison Julius Cawein

Above the circus of the world she sat,
Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride:
Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat,
Shrieked at her feet and for her pastime died.
My Napoleon.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Toujours lui! lui partout!")
[XL., December, 1828.]
Above all others, everywhere I see
His image cold or burning!
My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free
The thoughts within me yearning.
My quivering lips pour forth the words
That cluster in his name of glory - 
The star gigantic with its rays of swords
Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.
I see his finger pointing where the shell
Should fall to slay most rabble,
And save foul regicides; or strike the knell
Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.
A Consul then, o'er young but proud,
With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,
But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,
And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.
And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame
Whole nations' contact urging
To gain his soldiers gold and fame
Oh, Sun on high emerging,
Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells
Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose
To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,
Into his host of half-a-million heroes!
What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.
No weight of arms enfolded
Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart
Which Nature - not her journeymen - self-moulded.
Let sordid jailers vex their prize;
But only bends that brow to lightning,
As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs
Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.
Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!
Yet lingers still some power - 
In tears of woe man's metal may renew
The temper of high hour;
For, bating breath, e'er list the kings
The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle
May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings
And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!
And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here
Eternal brightness coming!
The eye so weary's freshened with a tear
As rises distant drumming,
And wailing cheer - they pass the pale
His army mourns though still's the end hid;
And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!"
And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!
H.L. WILLIAMS.
The Maldive Shark
by Herman Melville

About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw
They have nothing of harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before his Gorgonian head:
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril's abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat--
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
Pale ravener of horrible meat.