DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Lydia
by Eugene Field

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why,
By the gods that dwell above,
Sybaris makes haste to die
Through your cruel, fatal love.
Now he hates the sunny plain;
Once he loved its dust and heat.
Now no more he leads the train
Of his peers on coursers fleet.
Now he dreads the Tiber's touch,
And avoids the wrestling-rings,--
He who formerly was such
An expert with quoits and things.
Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say
Why your Sybaris lies hid,
Why he shuns the martial play,
As we're told Achilles did.
To Rome
by James Williams

Tell me, proud Rome, why dost these edicts read,
These many laws by prince or people made,
Or answers by the prudent duly weighed,
When now thou canst the world no longer lead?
Thou readest, sad one, of each ancient deed
Where thy unconquered sons their might displayed,
Afric and Egypt at thy feet were laid,
But slavery, not rule, is now thy meed.
What boots it that thou wast of old a queen,
And over foreign nations heldest rein,
If thou and all thy fame no more exist?
Forgive me, God, if all my days have been
Devoted to man's laws, unjust and vain
Unless Thy law within the heart be fixed.
Cino da Pistoia.
In Devonshire.
by John Carr (Sir)

Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen
Projecting plumes, and shades of deep'ning green, - 
While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall,
While all thy dewy drops forget to fall, - 
Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart,
And shed thy quiet o'er this beating heart?
Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell,
That on thy mirror'd plane dost mimic well
Each pendent tree and every distant hill,
Tipp'd with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still, - 
Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide,
Shed ev'ry grief upon thy rocky side?
Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear,
The only agitated object near?
Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!
Whose waters, falling thro' successive shade,
Unspangled by the brightness of the sky,
Awake each echo to a soft reply, - 
Say, canst thou not my bosom-grief befriend,
And bid one drop upon my heart descend?
When all thy songsters soothe themselves to sleep.
Ah! must these aching eyes for ever weep?
And must their frequent waters, like thine own,
Drop, idly drop, on unimpressive stone?
Or, when my beauteous fair shall deign to grace
The humid foliage of thy mossy base,
Canst thou not tell how many a rock below
Impedes to kiss thy waters as they flow?
In her mind canst thou not the feeling rear
To stop, or thus caress, each genuine tear?
Teach her, oh! teach her, then, thou cold cascade!
Pour all thy lessons for the lovely maid!
And thou, bless'd grotto! let thy silence prove
Her mute consenting answer to my love!
And thou, bright river! as thou roll'st along,
Bear on thy wand'ring wave a lover's song!
Strong as thy current, as thy waters pure,
Teach her to feel the passion I endure!
Reedy River
by Henry Lawson

Ten miles down Reedy River
A pool of water lies,
And all the year it mirrors
The changes in the skies.
Within that pool's broad bosom
Is room for all the stars:
It's bed of sand has drifted
O'er countless rocky bars.
Around the lower edges
There waves a bed of reeds,
Where water-rats are hidden
And where the wild duck breeds;
And grassy slopes rise gently
To ridges long and low,
Where groves of wattle flourish
And native bluebells grow.
Beneath the granite ridges
The eye may just discern
Where Rocky Creek emerges
From deep green banks of fern;
And standing tall between them,
The drooping she-oaks cool
The hard blue tinted waters
Before they reach the pool.
Ten miles down Reedy River
One Sunday afternoon
I rode with Mary Campbell
To that broad, bright lagoon,
We left our horses grazing
Till shadows climbed the peak,
And strolled beneath the she-oaks
On the banks of Rocky Creek.
Then home along the river
That night we rode a race,
And the moonlight lent a glory
To Mary Campbell's face;
I pleaded for my future
All through the moonlight ride,
Until our weary horses
Drew closer side by side.
Ten miles from Ryan's Crossing
And five below the peak,
I built a little homestead
On the banks of Rocky Creek;
I cleared the land and fenced it
And ploughed the rich red loam;
And my first crop was golden
When I brought Mary home.
Now still down Reedy River
The grassy she-oaks sigh;
The water holes still mirror
The pictures in the sky;
The golden sand is drifting
Across the rocky bars;
And over all for ever
Go sun and moon and stars.
But of the hut I builded
There are no traces now,
And many rains have levelled
The furrows of my plough
The glad bright days have vanished;
For sombre branches wave
Their wattle-blossom golden
Above my Mary's grave.
Lines To Miss Chinnery, Of Gillwell-House, Upon Her Appearing In A Dress With May-Flowers And Leaves Tastefully Displayed.
by John Carr (Sir)

Tell me what taught thee to display
A choice so sweet, and yet so rare,
To prize the modest buds of May
Beyond the diamond's prouder glare?
Say, was the grateful pref'rence paid
To Nature, since, with skill divine,
So many fairy charms she made,
To grace her fav'rite Caroline?
Or was it Taste that bade thee try
How soon the richest gem must yield,
In beauty and attractive die,
To this wild blossom of the field?
Whate'er the cause, in Nature's glow
Well does the choice thyself pourtray;
Thine innocence the blossoms show,
Thy youth the green leaves well display.
Casella
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove;
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore.
Foes.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear
As valued friends. He cannot know
The zest of life who runneth here
His earthly race without a foe.
I saw a prize. "Run," cried my friend;
"'Tis thine to claim without a doubt."
But ere I half-way reached the end,
I felt my strength was giving out.
My foe looked on the while I ran;
A scornful triumph lit his eyes.
With that perverseness born in man,
I nerved myself, and won the prize.
All blinded by the crimson glow
Of sin's disguise, I tempted Fate.
"I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe,
I saved myself, and balked his hate.
For half my blessings, half my gain,
I needs must thank my trusty foe;
Despite his envy and disdain,
He serves me well where'er I go.
So may I keep him to the end,
Nor may his enmity abate:
More faithful than the fondest friend,
He guards me ever with his hate.
To Avis Keene
by John Greenleaf Whittier

On receiving a basket of sea-mosses.
Thanks for thy gift
Of ocean flowers,
Born where the golden drift
Of the slant sunshine falls
Down the green, tremulous walls
Of water, to the cool, still coral bowers,
Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers,
God's gardens of the deep
His patient angels keep;
Gladdening the dim, strange solitude
With fairest forms and hues, and thus
Forever teaching us
The lesson which the many-colored skies,
The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies,
The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flings
The tropic sunshine from its golden wings,
The brightness of the human countenance,
Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance,
Forevermore repeat,
In varied tones and sweet,
That beauty, in and of itself, is good.
O kind and generous friend, o'er whom
The sunset hues of Time are cast,
Painting, upon the overpast
And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow
The promise of a fairer morrow,
An earnest of the better life to come;
The binding of the spirit broken,
The warning to the erring spoken,
The comfort of the sad,
The eye to see, the hand to cull
Of common things the beautiful,
The absent heart made glad
By simple gift or graceful token
Of love it needs as daily food,
All own one Source, and all are good
Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach,
Where spent waves glimmer up the beach,
And toss their gifts of weed and shell
From foamy curve and combing swell,
No unbefitting task was thine
To weave these flowers so soft and fair
In unison with His design
Who loveth beauty everywhere;
And makes in every zone and clime,
In ocean and in upper air,
All things beautiful in their time.
For not alone in tones of awe and power
He speaks to Inan;
The cloudy horror of the thunder-shower
His rainbows span;
And where the caravan
Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air
The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there,
He gives the weary eye
The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours,
And on its branches dry
Calls out the acacia's flowers;
And where the dark shaft pierces down
Beneath the mountain roots,
Seen by the miner's lamp alone,
The star-like crystal shoots;
So, where, the winds and waves below,
The coral-branched gardens grow,
His climbing weeds and mosses show,
Like foliage, on each stony bough,
Of varied hues more strangely gay
Than forest leaves in autumn's day;
Thus evermore,
On sky, and wave, and shore,
An all-pervading beauty seems to say
God's love and power are one; and they,
Who, like the thunder of a sultry day,
Smite to restore,
And they, who, like the gentle wind, uplift
The petals of the dew-wet flowers, and drift
Their perfume on the air,
Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift,
Making their lives a prayer
Another Written Upon A Window Where There Was No Writing Before (Epigrams On Windows)
by Jonathan Swift

Thanks to my stars, I once can see
A window here from scribbling free!
Here no conceited coxcombs pass,
To scratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party fool is calling names,
Or dealing crowns to George and James.
To M'cenas
by Eugene Field

Than you, O valued friend of mine,
A better patron non est!
Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,--
You'll find it poor but honest.
I put it up that famous day
You patronized the ballet,
And the public cheered you such a way
As shook your native valley.
C'cuban and the Calean brand
May elsewhere claim attention;
But I have none of these on hand,--
For reasons I'll not mention.
Jockey an Dolly.
by John Hartley

Th' sun shone breet at early morn,
Burds sang sweetly on the trees;
Larks wor springin from the corn,
Tender blossoms sowt the breeze.
Jockey whistled as he went
O'er rich meadows wet wi' dew;
In his breast wor sweet content,
For his wants an cares were few.
Dolly passed him on his way,
Fresh an sweet an fair wor she;
Jockey lost his heart that day,
To the maid ov Salterlee.
Jockey an Dolly
Had allus been jolly,
Till Love shot his arrow an wounded the twain;
Their days then pass sadly,
Yet man an maid madly,
In spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain.
Since that day did jockey pine,
Dolly shyly kept apart;
Still shoo milk'd her willin kine,
Tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart,
But one neet they met i'th' fold,
When a silv'ry mooin did shine;
Jockey then his true love told,
An he axt, "will't thou be mine?"
Tears ov joy filled Dolly's een,
As shoo answered modestly;
Dolly nah is Jockey's queen,
Th' bonniest wife i' Salterlee.
Jockey an Dolly,
Are livin an jolly,
May blessins for ivver attend i' ther train;
Ther days they pass gladly,
Noa moor they feel sadly,
For two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' Love's chain.
Benedicam Domino.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Thank God for life: life is not sweet always.
Hands may he heavy-laden, hearts care full,
Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days,
And dreams divine end in awakenings dull.
Still it is life, anil life is cause for praise.
This ache, this restlessness, this quickening sting,
Prove me no torpid and inanimate thing,
Prove me of Him who is of life the Spring.
I am alive!--and that is beautiful.
Thank God for Love: though Love may hurt and wound
Though set with sharpest thorns its rose may be,
Roses are not of winter, all attuned
Must be the earth, full of soft stir, and free
And warm ere dawns the rose upon its tree.
Fresh currents through my frozen pulses run;
My heart has tasted summer, tasted sun,
And I can thank Thee, Lord, although not one
Of all the many roses blooms for me.
High Roller
by Paul Cameron Brown

1
Terrorism - 
left-wing nerd (twin
grapefruits in his hand
gives it away)
winging a stiletto shoe,
spitting on an ashcan
to bring up a bruise or two.
2
Visions are steadier - 
I see in the shimmer
blue veins to target,
a silhouette of the rich,
fur wraps in their Bentleys
time to bring up tar,
kick ass in Knightsbridge
with my holiday bomb blast.
3
Bag snatching can be dangerous
let go if you don't want to be
dragged over cobbles behind a Vespa.
4
The Harrod's sign, "please keep
moving" meant business.
5
Pretoria calls as does Manila.
Later, perhaps, Jerusalem, Beirut,
Rawalpindi.
6
Closer to home (I am of the Red Army
faction) is the Bologna train station.
7
Counting hours down
my button line,
three less then
pay-off, squeakily clean.
8
London seems indifferent
to my destiny; even the
tube buskers and streeties
see not a harbinger
but another shuffling
cold-assed long hair.
9
The wired whisky bottle
in the airport locker
will make La Guardia look to
the Statue of Liberty for deliverance,
10
I'll send the Hotel Crillon
so far up the Eiffel
they'll have to sandblast
the sky.
11
My mentors
spic 'n span boys
no wild-eyed radicals
with socks that won't stay up,
rather gumless wizards
taking Confederate rain,
mainlining a little
to keep the nerves steady,
orders direct from Moscow
with money laundered a bit,
beats haphazard work and
petty contracts on local businessmen.
12
Cells (I like the word)
master-mind
co-ordinate and synchronize
revolutionary inter-cooperation.
A swine in Munich
is the same swine
without his leather jerkins
in Santiago.
13
Brains coming apart
on soles of shoes
a pantheon of causes to choose,
let's see, neo-revisionism
counter-revolutionary
criss-crosses with
degenerate bourgeoise
capitalist turncoat,
(both must die)
the urgency lies in
which commands my
holier dross.
14
Brothers in the struggle
need empathetic eyes
to square off
the titanic quarrel.
15
Cleanse the body politic,
reads one directive.
Rub not ointment but horse radish
over decomposed, societal skin,
a brisk cleansing with your strigal
but one revolutionary application.
16
"De-stabilize", the latest buzz word
flies to the manure heap
just kick in the door - 
those planter's peanuts
know the score.
17
"Property is theft"
I'm lisping in the burning sun,
Ethiopia done
Tigr' and Eritrea
key components
on the Horn's chessboard,
mere human paste
re-patched, re-worn.
18
Ditto, "take-out", liquidate.
Run a new poker thru the rubble. A good
anarchist's cathedral accomplishment
is the chicken coop's destruction.
19
Make the rich pay.
Squeeze the goose to the pips.
All power to the people;
a gun run
is a good itch,
works up a powerful thirst
for Justice;
good mercy disguised
brother Lenin
as a simple dock worker,
the plague-bacillus quickens.
20
Orange filaments of smoke
are better than the factory whistle,
a good arsonist recruits
his own flames,
fans his own fire.
The crackle of desire
over hearth stones
is reward enough in itself.
Epilogue
by John Collings Squire, Sir

Than farthest stars more distant,
A mile more,
A mile more,
A voice cries on insistent:
"You may smile more if you will;
"You may sing too and spring too;
But numb at last
And dumb at last,
Whatever port you cling to,
You must come at last to a hill.
"And never a man you'll find there
To take your hand
And shake your hand;
But when you go behind there
You must make your hand a sword
"To fence with a foeman swarthy,
And swink there
Nor shrink there,
Though cowardly and worthy
Must drink there one reward."
Lucy.
by George Pope Morris

Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,
My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies
With these sweet numbers throng,
Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,
Trip merrily along.
Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,
Your words will whirl around,
Like foam-beads on the water,
Or rose-leaves on the ground,
Or waltzers in the ball-room,
To music's airy sound.
There is, my gentle Lucy,
In all you say or do,
A bright poetic impulse,
Original and true,
Which Art can not acquire,
And Nature gave to you.
The olden fable, Lucy,
My muse to you would bring:
The bird that can but will not,
Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral
To modern memories cling.
Awake the harp, dear Lucy!
Like the electric wire
It will convey to millions
The heart-absorbing fire!
And those who lean to listen
Will linger to admire.
Tears
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing, at her marriage-bell
The bride weeps, and before the oracle
Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place
And touch but tombs, look up I those tears will run
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,
And leave the vision clear for stars and sun
Foes
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thank Fate for foes!    I hold mine dear
As valued friends.    He cannot know
The zest of life who runneth here
His earthly race without a foe.
I saw a prize.    "Run," cried my friend;
"'Tis thine to claim without a doubt."
But ere I half-way reached the end,
I felt my strength was giving out.
My foe looked on the while I ran;
A scornful triumph lit his eyes.
With that perverseness born in man,
I nerved myself, and won the prize.
All blinded by the crimson glow
Of sin's disguise, I tempted Fate.
"I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe,
I saved myself, and balked his hate.
For half my blessings, half my gain,
I needs must thank my trusty foe;
Despite his envy and disdain,
He serves me well where'er I go.
So may I keep him to the end,
Nor may his enmity abate:
More faithful than the fondest friend,
He guards me ever with his hate.
Cave Of Staffa - After The Crowd Had Departed
by William Wordsworth

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot fit school
For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign
Mechanic laws to agency divine;
And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule
Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule,
Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed,
Might seem designed to humble man, when proud
Of his best workmanship by plan and tool.
Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight
Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base,
And flashing to that Structure's topmost height,
Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace
In calms is conscious, finding for his freight
Of softest music some reponsive place.
Dreams.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thank God for dreams! I, desolate and lone,
In the dark curtained night, did seem to be
The centre where all golden sun-rays shone,
And, sitting there, held converse sweet with thee.
No shadow lurked between us; all was bright
And beautiful as in the hours gone by,
I smiled, and was rewarded by the light
Of olden days soft beaming from thine eye.
Thank God, thank God for dreams!
I thought the birds all listened; for thy voice
Pulsed through the air, like beat of silver wings.
It made each chamber of my soul rejoice
And thrilled along my heart's tear-rusted strings.
As some devout and ever-prayerful nun
Tells her bright beads, and counts them o'er and o'er,
Thy golden words I gathered, one by one,
And slipped them into memory's precious store.
Thank God, thank God for dreams!
My lips met thine in one ecstatic kiss.
Hand pressed in hand, and heart to heart we sat.
Why even now I am surcharged with bliss - 
With joy supreme, if I but think of that.
No fear of separation or of change
Crept in to mar our sweet serene content.
In that blest vision, nothing could estrange
Our wedded souls, in perfect union blent.
Thank God, thank God for dreams!
Thank God for dreams! when nothing else is left.
When the sick soul, all tortured with its pain,
Knowing itself forever more bereft,
Finds waiting hopeless and all watching vain,
When empty arms grow rigid with their ache,
When eyes are blinded with sad tides of tears,
When stricken hearts do suffer, yet not break,
For loss of those who come not with the years - 
Thank God, thank God for dreams!
Sonnet XXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Pi' di me lieta non si vede a terra.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Than me more joyful never reach'd the shore
A vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,
Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,
To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;
Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,
Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,
More glad than me, that weapon laid aside
Which to my lord hostility long bore.
All ye who honour love in poet strain,
To the good minstrel of the amorous lay
Return due praise, though once he went astray;
For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,
Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,
Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.
MACGREGOR.
Stop at Hooam.
by John Hartley

"Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim,
All lonely by mysel?
My een at th' varry thowts grow dim - 
Aw connot say farewell.
Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless
Tha saw me every day,
An' said tha knew noa happiness
When aw wor foorced away.
An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel,
Wor true as gospel then;
What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel
Soa strange - unlike thisen?
Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find,
I'th taan whear tha wor born,
To mak a livin, if tha'll mind
To ha' faith i' to-morn.
Aw've mony a time goan to mi wark
Throo claads o' rain and sleet;
All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark,
It ommust mud be neet.
But then, when braikfast time's come raand,
Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray,
An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk
Like skulkin lads away.
An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet
Aw've sowt some shade to rest,
An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet,
Glorious it's sunk i'th west.
An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee,
(An' trouble's hard to bide),
Have patience, lad, an' wait an' see
What's hid o'th' tother side.
If aw wor free to please mi mind,
Aw'st niver mak this stur;
But aw've a mother ommust blind,
What mud become o' her?
Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik
An' helpless ivery limb,
Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik
If aw'd to leave her, Jim.
Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees
'At tower up to th' sky,
An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze,
Lie glitterin' jewels fly.
Woll th' music of a shepherd's reed
May gently float along,
Lendin its tender notes to lead
Some fair maid's simple song;
An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side,
Such as we niver see;
But here at hooam, at ivery stride,
There's flaars for thee an' me.
Aw care net for ther suns soa breet,
Nor warblin melody;
Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet
Saands sweeter, lad, to me.
An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan,
A claat is noa disgrace;
Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm
Beat under silk or lace.
Then settle daan, tak my advice,
Give up this wish to rooam!
An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice
Worth stoppin' for at hooam."
"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e,
An' gi'e us howd thi hand!
For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,
What mortal could withstand!
It isn't mich o'th' world aw know,
But aw con truly say,
A faithful heart's too rich to throw
Withaat a thowt away.
So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan,
Aw'll tew for thine and thee,
An' seek for comfort when cast daan,
I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."
Flowers.
by Charles Sangster

Thank God I love the Flowers!
Mute voices of the Spring,
That gladden all her bowers
With their varied blossoming;
They weave a charm around them
On each summer dale and bough,
For a Fairy train has bound them
In wreaths upon her brow.
Far up along the mountain,
And in the valleys green,
In the field, and by the fountain,
The smiling ones are seen;
Some looking up to heaven,
With eyes of deepest blue;
Some stooping down at even
To quaff the sparkling dew.
And from them all there speaketh
A language sweet and pure,
Fitted for him who seeketh
A God's nomenclature.
As tidal pulses thrill the seas,
And moments build the hours,
Heaven breathes her unvoiced mysteries
In sermons from the Flowers.
Impromptu In The Assize Court, Nottingham,
by Horace Smith

On seeing BRET HARTE come upon the Bench.
Thanks for an hour of laughing
In a world that is growing old;
Thanks for an hour of weeping
In a world that is growing cold;
For we who have wept with Dickens,
And we who have laughed with Boz,
Have renewed the days of our childhood
With his American Coz.