DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
As Lords Their Labourers' Hire Delay
by Walter Scott (Sir)

As lords their labourers' hire delay,
Fate quits our toil with hopes to come,
Which, if far short of present pay,
Still, owns a debt and names a sum.
Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,
Although a distant date be given;
Despair is treason towards man,
And blasphemy to Heaven.
In Mortem Meditare.
by Alfred Castner King

DYING THOUGHTS.
As Life's receding sunset fades
And night descends,
I calmly watch the gathering shades,
As darkness stealthily invades
And daylight ends.
Earth's span is drawing to its close,
With every breath;
My pain-racked brain no respite knows,
Yet shrinks it, from the grim repose
It feels in death.
The curtain falls on Life's last scene,
The end is neared;
At last I face death's somber screen,
The fleeting joys which intervene
Have disappeared.
And as a panoramic scroll
The past unreels;
The mocking past, beyond control,
Though buried, as a parchment roll,
Its tale reveals.
I stand before the dread, unknown,
Yet solemn fact;
I see the seeds of folly sown
In wayward years, maturely grown,
Nor can retract.
My weaknesses rise to my sight;
And now, too late,
I fain would former actions right,
Which years have buried in their flight;
Now sealed by fate.
My frailties and iniquities
I plainly see;
Committed acts accusive rise,
Omitted duties criticise
In mockery.
I feel I have offended oft,
E'en at my best
Have failed to guide my course aloft;
Perhaps in trival hour, have scoffed
With idle jest.
Prone to misgiving, prone to doubt,
And frail from birth;
More light and frivolous than devout;
With life's brief candle flickering out,
I speed from earth.
Can grief excuse indifference
With groan or tear?
Can deep remorse and penitence,
Or anguish mitigate offense
With pang sincere?
Ah! Tears can ne'er unlock the past
Which opens not;
And what is done is welded fast,
Through all eternity to last,
Nor change one jot.
Whate'er may lie beyond the veil
I calmly face,
And sink, as grievous tears bewail
My faults and imperfections frail,
In death's embrace.
And as I think the matter o'er,
Pensive and sad,
While its shortcomings I deplore,
The fruits which my existence bore
Were not all bad.
From all which can rejoice or grieve
I shortly go,
And now, in life's declining eve
I wonder, hope, try to believe--
Soon I shall know!
My spirit flees, as night enwraps,
To its reward;
The earth recedes, I feel it lapse;
I sink as dissolution snaps
The silver cord.
O, Thou whose presence I can feel
Each hour I live,
While passing through death's stern ordeal,
Wilt Thou Thy mercy still reveal,
And still forgive?
The Poet And The Caged Turtledove
by William Wordsworth

As often as I murmur here
My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near,
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?
I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have caroled, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale,
Had heart or voice for me.
If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere
The spirit of my song:
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,
Love animates my lyre
That coo again! 'tis not to chide,
I feel, but to inspire.
Those With Me
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 41)
As on I drive, in my heart joy dwells
Of Sabbath silence with sound of bells.
The sun lifts all that is living, growing,
God's love itself in its symbol showing.
To church pass people from near and far,
Soon psalms ascend from the door ajar.
- Good cheer! Your greeting hailed more than me,
But that in hastening you failed to see.
Here's goodly company with me riding,
Though oft they cunningly keep in hiding;
But when you saw me so Sunday-glad,
It was because of the mates I had.
And when you heard me so softly singing,
The tones attuned to their hearts were ringing.
One soul is here of such priceless worth,
For me she offered her all on earth;
Yes, she who smiled in my boat storm-driven,
And blanched not, braving the waves wind-riven,
In whose white arms that in love caressed me
Full warmth of life and of faith possessed me.
The snail in this I am like when faring, - 
My home I ever am with me bearing;
And who believes it is burdensome,
He ought to learn how it's good to come
And creep in under the roof thereafter,
Where she gives light amid children's laughter.
No poet paints nor can thinker tell
So vast a vault or so deep a well,
As where the glory of God's own love
On cradle-mirror falls from above.
Your soul is brighter, your heart more tender,
When by the cradle your thanks you render.
Who knows not love in the small and near,
The many in memory hold not dear.
Who cannot build him a house his own,
What towers he builds will be soon o'erthrown.
From Moscow victor to Carthagena,
He vanquished dies on his Saint Helena.
When such a stronghold you've reared with labor,
It often safely protects your neighbor;
Though work of woman's and children's hands,
Your soul finds strength where that fortress stands,
You go hence braver to battle-dangers,
Can courage give unto countless strangers.
One home bore often a whole land's fate,
And sent the hero who saved the state;
Thousands of homes, when the war was o'er,
The land delivered in safety bore.
So bear it onward in peace and beauty
The hearts of homes beating true to duty.
Though foreign perfumes be fine and rare,
Still pure alone is the home's sweet air.
Naught meets you there but the childlike, truthful,
And sin is kissed from your forehead ruthful.
To heaven's home leads its door ajar,
For thence it came and it lies not far.
Good cheer, to church on your way not staying!
For those we love we shall both be praying;
In prayer together the way we wander
That leads from this to the home up yonder.
You enter in; I must journey far,
While follow psalms from the door ajar.
Good cheer! Your greeting hailed more than me,
But that in hastening you failed to see.
Love Despoiled
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

As lone I sat one summer's day,
With mien dejected, Love came by;
His face distraught, his locks astray,
So slow his gait, so sad his eye,
I hailed him with a pitying cry:
"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?"
Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft;
And see thy quiver hanging low,--
What, not a single arrow left?
Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"
Poor Love looked in my face and cried:
"No thief were ever yet so bold
To rob my quiver at my side.
But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,
And all my goodly shafts are sold."
How Long?
by Pat O'Cotter

As long as lure o' placer gold
Brings North the best ye breed,
As long as tales of camps and trails
Are planted with your seed,
As long as red blood courses thru
And warms adventure's sons,
They'll sally forth, bound for the North,
Misfortune's chosen ones.
As long as snow slides claim their toll
And glaciers split and rend,
And sweepers turn the flimsy craft
And trails come to an end;
As long as flashing Northern Lights
Flame in the Arctic sky,
Your boldest ones, your bravest sons
Come North to win or die.
As long as lust of wealth obtains
And gold will buy all things,
And bank accounts but mark the line
'Twixt shovel stiffs and kings;
As long as fancy rides free reined
And distant fields seem fair,
They'll seek the ship and make the trip
To the land of Do and Dare.
As long as birds mate in the spring
And moose run in the fall,
And widows win the college youth
And hold his heart in thrall;
As long as chance for fortune's smile
Can be centered in one throw,
This is the truth, the Nation's youth
Will hear the call and go.
As long as water runs down hill
And smoke goes up from fire;
As long as pleasure precedes pain
And women love for hire;
As long as Klondike widows
Trail thru Outside Caf's
Some one must stick on the lonesome creek
For there's ever the "him" that pays.
As long as "huskies" curse the moon
And creeks remain unnamed;
As long as quicksands mask the bar
And there's placer ground unclaimed;
As long as "pay" is found and staked
By some deep-sea-going Swede,
That gypsy trace that marks our race
Will out, then we stampede.
Associations
by William Lisle Bowles

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
On images I loved, alas, too well!
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I start, and find them not; then I could weep
To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!
Mysterious Doings
by Eugene Field

As once I rambled in the woods
I chanced to spy amid the brake
A huntsman ride his way beside
A fair and passing tranquil lake;
Though velvet bucks sped here and there,
He let them scamper through the green--
Not one smote he, but lustily
He blew his horn--what could it mean?
As on I strolled beside that lake,
A pretty maid I chanced to see
Fishing away for finny prey,
Yet not a single one caught she;
All round her boat the fishes leapt
And gambolled to their hearts' content,
Yet never a thing did the maid but sing--
I wonder what on earth it meant.
As later yet I roamed my way,
A lovely steed neighed loud and long,
And an empty boat sped all afloat
Where sang a fishermaid her song;
All underneath the prudent shade,
Which yonder kindly willows threw,
Together strayed a youth and maid--
I can't explain it all, can you?
Seed-Time And Harvest
by John Greenleaf Whittier

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes day by day the recompense;
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed,
The fountain and the noonday shade.
And were this life the utmost span,
The only end and aim of man,
Better the toil of fields like these
Than waking dream and slothful ease.
But life, though falling like our grain,
Like that revives and springs again;
And, early called, how blest are they
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day
Peggy Mitchell
by James Stephens

As lily grows up easily,
In modest, gentle dignity
To sweet perfection,
So grew she,
As easily.
Or as the rose that takes no care
Will open out on sunny air
Bloom after bloom, fair after fair,
Sweet after sweet;
Just so did she,
As carelessly.
She is our torment without end,
She is our enemy and friend,
Our joy, our woe;
And she will send
Madness or glee
To you and me,
And endlessly.
Sonnet 58 To Prouerbe
by Michael Drayton

As Loue and I, late harbour'd in one Inne,
With Prouerbs thus each other intertaine;
In loue there is no lacke, thus I beginne?
Faire words makes fooles, replieth he againe?
That spares to speake, doth spare to speed (quoth I)
As well (saith he) too forward as too slow.
Fortune assists the boldest, I replie?
A hasty man (quoth he) nere wanted woe.
Labour is light, where loue (quoth I) doth pay,
(Saith he) light burthens heauy, if farre borne?
(Quoth I) the maine lost, cast the by away:
You haue spunne a faire thred, he replies in scorne.
And hauing thus a while each other thwarted,
Fooles as we met, so fooles againe we parted.
Sonnet LXXX.
by Anna Seward

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid green
When juvenescent April's showery Sun
Looks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon;
So on the gloom of Life's now faded scene
Shines the dear image of those days serene,
From Memory's consecrated treasures won;
The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown,
Soft as the morn of May; - and well I ween
If they had clouds, in Time's alembic clear
They vanish'd all, and their gay vision glows
In brightness unobscur'd; and now they wear
A more than pristine sunniness, which throws
Those mild reflected lights that soften care,
Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.
Lofty Actors Withdraw.
by James McIntyre

As one by one the lofty actors of the age
Withdraw from changing play on history's page,
The act of war and peace of old and new contending
For it is long 'ere there's harmonious blending.
And many a noble actor brave and bold
Hath perished in the fight between the new and old,
The victor and the vanquished Lincoln and Lee,
The former he four million slaves set free.
The latter General fought with bravery and science,
The first he on the Lord placed strong reliance,
And in the justice of his cause he bade the North
As grand emancipators they should issue forth.
And o'er great North the conquering name of Grant
His mighty deeds of valour they 'ere more will chant,
And now doth pass from stage this last named actor,
In crushing Southern slavery potent factor.
Cuba.
by Hattie Howard

As one long struggling to be free,
O suffering isle! we look to thee
In sympathy and deep desire
That thy fair borders yet shall hold
A people happy, self-controlled,
Saved and exalted - as by fire.
Burning like thine own tropic heat
Thousands of lips afar repeat
The story of thy wrongs and woes;
While argosies to thee shall bear,
Of men and money everywhere,
Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.
Hispaniola waves her plume
Defiant over many a tomb
Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave;
But, lo! an army coming on
The places fill of heroes gone,
For liberty their lives who gave.
The nations wait to hear thy shout
Of "Independence!" ringing out,
Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou?
Buffets and gyves from your effete
Old monarchy dilapidate,
Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?
In man's extremity it is
That Heaven's opportunities
Shine forth like jewels from the mine;
Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need,
With vision clear the tokens read
And trust for aid that power divine.
To God, His Gift.
by Robert Herrick

As my little pot doth boil,
We will keep this level-coil,
That a wave and I will bring
To my God a heave-offering.
Rhymes And Rhythms - IX
by William Ernest Henley

'As like the Woman as you can',
(Thus the New Adam was beguiled)
'So shall you touch the Perfect Man',
(God in the Garden heard and smiled).
'Your father perished with his day:
'A clot of passions fierce and blind
'He fought, he slew, he hacked his way:
'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.
'The Brute that lurks and irks within,
'How, till you have him gagged and bound,
'Escape the foullest form of Sin?'
(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
'So vile, so rank, the bestial mood
'In which the race is bid to be,
'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:
'Live, therefore, you, for Purity!
'Take for your mate no buxom croup,
'No girl all grace and natural will:
'To make her happy were to stoop
'From light to dark, from Good to Ill.
'Choose one of whom your grosser make',
(God in the Garden laughed outright)
'The true refining touch may take
'Till both attain Life's highest height.
'There, equal, purged of soul and sense,
'Beneficent, high-thinking, just,
'Beyond the appeal of Violence,
'Incapable of common Lust,
'In mental Marriage still prevail',
(God in the Garden hid His face)
'Till you achieve that Female-Male,
'In Which shall culminate the race.
Sonnet CXXXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Come 'l candido pi' per l' erba fresca.
HER WALK, LOOKS, WORDS, AND AIR.
As o'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweet
And graceful passage makes at evening hours,
Seems as around the newly-wakening flowers
Found virtue issue from her delicate feet.
Love, which in true hearts only has his seat,
Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers,
So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers,
No other bliss I ask, no better meat.
And with her soft look and light step agree
Her mild and modest, never eager air,
And sweetest words in constant union rare.
From these four sparks--nor only these we see--
Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn,
Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.
MACGREGOR.
Prologue To Amboyna.[1]
by John Dryden

As needy gallants in the scrivener's hands,
Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands,
The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With those who of the same religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:
What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
Yet, still the same religion answers all:
Religion wheedled you to civil war,
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare:
Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith--than you;
Interest's the god they worship in their state;
And you, I take it, have not much of that.
Well, monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheists in their very frame.
They share a sin, and such proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
How they love England, you shall see this day;
No map shows Holland truer than our play:
Their pictures and inscriptions well we know;
We may be bold one medal sure to show.
View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty;
And think what once they were, they still would he:
But hope not either language, plot, or art;
'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart:
And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be
As much improper, as would honesty.
A Dedication. To Charlotte Cushman.
by Sidney Lanier

As Love will carve dear names upon a tree,
Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,
So thought I thine with loving text to set
In the growth and substance of my canzonet;
But, writing it, my tears begin to fall -
This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!
Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain
Cut the good letters though they lap again;
Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain
Will say, `It was the beating of the rain;'
Or, haply these o'er-woundings of the stem
May loose some little balm, to plead for them.
1876.
A Prognostic.
by Robert Herrick

As many laws and lawyers do express
Nought but a kingdom's ill-affectedness;
Even so, those streets and houses do but show
Store of diseases where physicians flow.
Translations of the Italian Poems II
by John Milton

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day
Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,
That scarcely can its tender bud display
Borne from its native genial airs away,
So, on my tongue these accents new and rare
Are flow'rs exotic, which Love waters there,
While thus, o sweetly scornful! I essay
Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown,
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;
So Love has will'd, and oftimes Love has shown
That what He wills he never wills in vain.
Oh that this hard and steril breast might be
To Him who plants from heav'n, a soil as free.
The First Lover
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

As o'er the vessel's side she leant,
She saw the swimmer in the sea
With eager eyes on her intent,
"Come down, come down and swim with me."
So weary was she of her lot,
Tired of the ship's monotony,
She straightway all the world forgot
Save the young swimmer in the sea
So when the dusky, dying light
Left all the water dark and dim,
She softly, in the friendly night,
Slipped down the vessel's side to him.
Intent and brilliant, brightly dark,
She saw his burning, eager eyes,
And many a phosphorescent spark
About his shoulders fall and rise.
As through the hushed and Eastern night
They swam together, hand in hand,
Or lay and laughed in sheer delight
Full length upon the level sand.
"Ah, soft, delusive, purple night
Whose darkness knew no vexing moon!
Ah, cruel, needless, dawning light
That trembled in the sky too soon!"
Dangers Wait On Kings.
by Robert Herrick

As oft as night is banish'd by the morn,
So oft we'll think we see a king new born.
The Criminal's Betrothed.
by Marietta Holley

As on a waveless sea, a vessel strikes
Upon a treacherous rock;
Waking the sailors from their happy dreams
By the swift, terrible shock.
Dreaming of shaded village streets, and home,
Forgetting the cruel sea
Till the shock came - so woke I, yet I know
'Twas Love, I loved, not he.
'Tis not the star the wave so wildly clasps,
Only its form reflected in the stream;
'Tis not a broken heart I mourn,
Only a broken dream.
I should have died when he was brought so low,
Had it been him I loved,
Died clinging to him, as to the blasted oak
The ivy clings unmoved.
'Twas Love that looked on me with strange, sweet eyes
Burning with marvellous flame;
Love was the idol that I worshipped, though
I gave to it his name.
I gave to Love his name, his glance, his brow,
His low-toned voice, his smile,
Oh, soul be patient; I can sever them
But yet a little while - 
Before I put away these outward forms
Deceiving, sweet disguises, which Love wore
Let my heart break into regretful tears
Just once, and then no more.
Just once, as fond friends watch the fading sail
Bearing away a guest of truest worth,
They give this little time to grief, and then
Return to their desolate hearth,
And build new fires, and gather dewy flowers,
Let the pure air into the vacant room,
So light, and bloom, and sweetness, all
Shall penetrate its gloom.
I will be patient, in a little time
Quiet, and full of rest,
Gods's peace will come, and, like a soft-winged bird,
Settle upon my breast.
Not always thus shall beat my restless heart
Like a wild eagle 'gainst its prison-bars;
In some calm twilight of the future time
I will sit, calm-browed, underneath the stars.
As Like The Woman As You Can
by William Ernest Henley

'As like the Woman as you can' -
(Thus the New Adam was beguiled) -
'So shall you touch the Perfect Man' -
(God in the Garden heard and smiled).
'Your father perished with his day:
'A clot of passions fierce and blind,
'He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:
'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.
'The Brute that lurks and irks within,
'How, till you have him gagged and bound,
'Escape the foullest form of Sin?'
(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
'So vile, so rank, the bestial mood
'In which the race is bid to be,
'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:
'Live, therefore, you, for Purity!
'Take for your mate no gallant croup,
'No girl all grace and natural will:
'To work her mission were to stoop,
'Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.
'Choose one of whom your grosser make' -
(God in the Garden laughed outright) -
'The true refining touch may take,
'Till both attain to Life's last height.
'There, equal, purged of soul and sense.
'Beneficent, high-thinking, just,
'Beyond the appeal of Violence,
'Incapable of common Lust,
'In mental Marriage still prevail' -
(God in the Garden hid His face) -
'Till you achieve that Female-Male
'In Which shall culminate the race.'
Silentium Amoris
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.