DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
How a Little Girl Danced
by Vachel Lindsay

Dedicated to Lucy Bates
(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.)
Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer,
Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain:
Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.
Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer,
Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain,
I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain,
A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel,
With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.
Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus,
Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain:
I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia,
A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein: - 
The music of God is her innermost brooding,
The whispering angels her footsteps sustain.
Oh, proud Russian dancer:    praise for your dancing.
No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign.
You dance for Apollo with noble devotion,
A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane.
But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit
More white than Apollo and all of his train.
I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead,
Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain:
Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Tornami a mente, anzi v' ' dentro quella.
SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH.
Oh! to my soul for ever she returns;
Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence,
Such as she was when first she struck my sense,
In that bright blushing age when beauty burns:
So still I see her, bashful as she turns
Retired into herself, as from offence:
I cry--"'Tis she! she still has life and sense:
Oh, speak to me, my love!"--Sometimes she spurns
My call; sometimes she seems to answer straight:
Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,--
"Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!
Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth day
Of April, the three hundred, forty eight,
And thousandth year,--when she her earthly mansion left?"
MOREHEAD.
My mind recalls her; nay, her home is there,
Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form,
I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm,
Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.
As thus my vision paints her charms so rare,
That none to such perfection may conform,
I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"
And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.
She now replies, and now doth mute appear,
Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;
I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;
The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,
The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,
Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"
WOLLASTON.
Way To Arcady, The
by Henry Cuyler Bunner

Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?
Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree,
The tree the wind is blowing through,
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.
Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.
Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.
And where away lies Arcady,
And how long yet may the journey be?
Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know
Across the clover and the snow
Across the frost, across the flowers
Through summer seconds and winter hours
I've trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.
But how shall I do who cannot sing?
I was wont to sing, once on a time,
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),
The folk all sing in Arcady.
But how may he find Arcady
Who hath not youth nor melody?
What, know you not, old man (quoth he)--
Your hair is white, your face is wise
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress
No fame that wit could ever win;
But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.
Ah, woe is me, through all my days
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men's praise;
But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new,
But far away, and half forgot,
I only know her eyes were blue;
But Love, I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),
My way's for Love and Arcady.
But you, you fare alone, like me;
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?
Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;
My true companion's Memory.
With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound
My song goes straight to one who stands,
Her face all gladdening at the sound,
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry.
The Fly-Away Horse
by Eugene Field

Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse -
Perhaps you have seen him before;
Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept
Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
For it's only at night, when the stars twinkle bright,
That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh
And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane,
Is up on his heels and away!
The Moon in the sky,
As he gallopeth by,
Cries: "Oh! what a marvelous sight!"
And the Stars in dismay
Hide their faces away
In the lap of old Grandmother Night.
It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse
Speedeth ever and ever away -
Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains,
Over streamlets that sing at their play;
And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he,
While the ships they go sailing below,
And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast
Adjudge him some portent of woe.
"What ho there!" they cry,
As he flourishes by
With a whisk of his beautiful tail;
And the fish in the sea
Are as scared as can be,
From the nautilus up to the whale!
And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands
You little folk dream of at night -
Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow,
And corn-fields with popcorn are white;
And the beasts in the wood are ever so good
To children who visit them there -
What glory astride of a lion to ride,
Or to wrestle around with a bear!
The monkeys, they say:
"Come on, let us play,"
And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees:
While the parrots, that cling
To the peanut-vines, sing
Or converse with comparative ease!
Off! scamper to bed - you shall ride him tonight!
For, as soon as you've fallen asleep,
With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away
Over forest and hillside and deep!
But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear
In those beautiful lands over there,
Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course
With the wee one consigned to his care.
Then grandma will cry
In amazement: "Oh, my!"
And she'll think it could never be so;
And only we two
Shall know it is true -
You and I, little precious! shall know!
To George, Earl Delawarr.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
2.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
3.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
4.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
5.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you - 
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
6.
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
7.
You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
8.
You knew, - but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.
9.
For the present, we part, - I will hope not for ever; [1]
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
L'Envoi.
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, awful Power whose works repel
The marvel of the earth's designs,--
I 'll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
Arcadia has trolley lines.
Oh, Boatman, Haste!
by George Pope Morris

(Music by Balfe.)
Twilight.
Oh, boatman, haste!--The twilight hour
Is closing gently o'er the lea!
The sun, whose setting shuts the flower.
Has looked his last upon the sea!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!--aha!--we've moon and star!
And our skiff with the stream is flowing.
Heigh-ho!--ah!--heigh-ho!--
Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho!
Midnight.
Oh, boatman, haste!--The sentry calls
The midnight hour on yonder shore,
And silvery sweet the echo falls
As music dripping from the oar!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!--afar fade moon and star!
While our skiff with the stream is flowing!
Heigh-ho!--ah!--heigh-ho!--
Echo responds to my sad heigh-ho.
Dawn.
Oh, boatman haste!--The morning beam
Glides through the fleecy clouds above:
So breaks on life's dark, murm'ring stream,
The rosy dawn of woman's love!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row, then, boatman, row!
Row!--'Tis day!--away--away!
To land with the stream we are flowing!
Heigh-ho!--dear one--ho!
Beauty responds to my glad heigh-ho!
To Anne. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;
But Woman is made to command and deceive us - 
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.
2.
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long;
When we met, I determined again to suspect you - 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.
3.
I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:
I saw you - my anger became admiration;
And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you.
4.
With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; - 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!
Time.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh! Time, as it fleets, dooms a joy to decay,
From the chaplet of hope steals a blossom away,
Throws a cloud o'er the lustre of life's fairy scene,
And leaves but a thorn where the rosebud had been.
It sullies a link in affection's young chain,
That, once slightly tarnished, ne'er sparkles again,
Spoils the sheaves that the heart in its summer would bind,
To guard 'gainst a bleak, leafless autumn of mind.
But a region there is where the buds never die,
Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,
Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,
And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;
Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,
And the full tide of rapture is free from control.
Oh, we've nothing to do in a bleak world like this,
But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.
(Added in 11th mo., 1861.)
"Nay, toil not," saith Jesus, "but come unto Me;"
There's rest for the weary, rest even for thee 
I have toiled, and have suffered, and died for thy sin;
Then only believe, and the crown thou shalt win,
The crown of Eternal Life, fadeless and bright,
Prepared for all nations who walk in the light.
Because
by Sara Teasdale

Oh, because you never tried
To bow my will or break my pride,
And nothing of the cave-man made
You want to keep me half afraid,
Nor ever with a conquering air
You thought to draw me unaware,
Take me, for I love you more
Than I ever loved before.
And since the body's maidenhood
Alone were neither rare nor good
Unless with it I gave to you
A spirit still untrammeled, too,
Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.
Evening.
by Friedrich Schiller

(AFTER A PICTURE.)
Oh! thou bright-beaming god, the plains are thirsting,
Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining;
Wearily move on thy horses
Let, then, thy chariot descend!
Seest thou her who, from ocean's crystal billows,
Lovingly nods and smiles? Thy heart must know her!
Joyously speed on thy horses,
Tethys, the goddess, 'tis nods!
Swiftly from out his flaming chariot leaping,
Into her arms he springs, the reins takes Cupid,
Quietly stand the horses,
Drinking the cooling flood.
Now from the heavens with gentle step descending,
Balmy night appears, by sweet love followed;
Mortals, rest ye, and love ye,
Phoebus, the loving one, rests!
Wind.
by Walter R. Cassels

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,
Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,
Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves,
Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,
With echoes of forgotten misery?
The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing
From the far waters of the stormy main,
Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,
Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,
And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.
Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart,
Till as of old the unseal'd waters run?
Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one,
To make still sorrows from their slumbers start,
And play again, unsought, their bitter part?
We are all one with Nature--every breeze
Stealeth about the chambers of the soul,
Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole;
And every cloud that creepeth from the seas,
Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.
Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent,
And starlight glimmer through the riven seams,
Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams,
Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent,
And the bright Future gem the firmament.
Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even now
Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass
Like the dim vapour from a burnish'd glass;
And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go,
Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.
How To Ask And Have
by Samuel Lover

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my mother says men are decaivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry to marry,
At leisure repent."
"Then, suppose I should talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my father he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go;
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No.'"
"Then how shall I get you, my jewel,
Sweet Mary?" says I;
"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see:
Since my parents are both so conthrairy,
You'd better ask me."
A Little Song
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, a great world, a fair world, a true world I find it;
A sun that never forgets to rise,
On the darkest night, a star in the skies,
And a God of love behind it.
Oh, a good life, a sweet life, a large life I take it,
Is what He offers to you, and me;
A chance to do, and a chance to be,
Whatever we chose to make it.
Oh, a far way, a high way, a sure way He leads us;
And if the journey at times seems long,
We must trudge ahead, with a trustful song,
And know at the end He needs us.
What's The Use?
by Edward Smyth Jones

Oh! What is living but moving about,
Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?
What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?
Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife - 
What's the use?
What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?
Naught but a span of space where one may roam:
Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;
Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head - 
What's the use?
Now, what is loving but acting a fool?
And what is quitting? - Producing a rule:
Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,
Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!
What's the use?
Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?
Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?
What, then, is your state my friend, after you've wed?
Naught but a vial of wrath poured upon your head!
What's the use?
Ah! what is batching but living a man;
Sporting and sleeping - just running his plan?
Come when he's ready, and go when he please - 
Brain's full of joy, his heart is at ease - 
See, that's the use!
In The House Of Idiedaily.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
There were always throats to sing
Down the river-banks with spring,
When the stir of heart's desire
Set the sapling's heart on fire.
Bobolincolns in the meadows,
Leisure in the purple shadows,
Till the poppies without number
Bowed their heads in crimson slumber,
And the twilight came to cover
Every unreluctant lover.
Not a night but some brown maiden
Bettered all the dusk she strayed in,
While the roses in her hair
Bankrupted oblivion there.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
But this hostelry, The Barrow,
With its chambers, bare and narrow,
Mean, ill-windowed, damp, and wormy,
Where the silence makes you squirmy,
And the guests are never seen to,
Is a vile place, a mere lean-to,
Not a traveller speaks well of,
Even worse than I heard tell of,
Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul.
What a dwelling for a soul!
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
There the hearth was always warm,
From the slander of the storm.
There your comrade was your neighbor,
Living on to-morrow's labor.
And the board was always steaming,
Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming.
Not a plate but scoffed at porridge,
Not a cup but floated borage.
There were always jugs of sherry
Waiting for the makers merry,
And the dark Burgundian wine
That would make a fool divine.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly
In the house of Idiedaily!
The Lover's Wish.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Si j''tais la feuille.")
[XXII., September, 1828.]
Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,
His course through the forest uncaring;
To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast
In a pendulous cradle is bearing.
All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,
As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;
When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,
And round her the breezes are dancing.
On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush
Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;
Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,
And the murmuring fall of the river.
By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,
To catch the sweet breath of the roses;
Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain
'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.
Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,
Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;
Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,
And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.
On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,
A charm that would lead to the bower;
Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,
At the dawn and the vesper hour.
Then hovering down on her brow would I light,
'Midst her golden tresses entwining;
That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,
And the sunbeams upon it shining.
A single frail gem on her beautiful head,
I should sit in the golden glory;
And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread
Round the brow of kings famous in story.
V., Eton Observer.
The Word
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
Or a drop of gall, is a word.
You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
And polish it up with art,
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Is the word that comes from the heart.
You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
But it will not glow like one
That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
When the fountains of feeling run.
You may hammer away on the anvil of thought,
And fashion your word with care,
But unless you are stirred to the depths, that word
Shall die on the empty air.
For the word that comes from the brain alone,
Alone to the brain will speed;
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Oh! that is the word men heed.
Sally Simpkin's Lament; Or, John Jones's Kit-Cat-Astrophe.
by Thomas Hood

"He left his body to the sea,
And made a shark his legatee."
BRYAN AND PERENNE.
"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
"It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trowsers blue?
Oh Jones, my dear! - Oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?"
"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true, - 
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place soems enough,
But I've been bit in two.
"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass - for now, to you
I'm neither here nor there."
"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!
"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without a 'quarter's notice.'
"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
"But now, adieu - a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"
Song. Translated From The Italian.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Oh! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambitious treasure?
And what are the joys that the modish share,
In their sickly haunts of pleasure?
My husband's repast with delight I spread,
What though 'tis but rustic fare,
May each guardian angel protect his shed,
May contentment and quiet be there.
And may I support my husband's years,
May I soothe his dying pain,
And then may I dry my fast falling tears,
And meet him in Heaven again.
JULY, 1810.
Come When I Sleep.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Oh, quand je dors.")
[XXVII.]
Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place,
As Laura came to bless her poet's heart,
And let thy breath in passing touch my face - 
At once a space
My lips will part.
And on my brow where too long weighed supreme
A vision - haply spent now - black as night,
Let thy look as a star arise and beam - 
At once my dream
Will seem of light.
Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss - 
A pure and holy love-light - and forsake
The angel for the woman in a kiss - 
At once, I wis,
My soul will wake!
WM. W. TOMLINSON.