DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Runner
by Walt Whitman

On a flat road runs the well-train'd runner;
He is lean and sinewy, with muscular legs;
He is thinly clothed he leans forward as he runs,
With lightly closed fists, and arms partially rais'd.
Upon Cupid.
by Robert Herrick

Old wives have often told how they
Saw Cupid bitten by a flea;
And thereupon, in tears half drown'd,
He cried aloud: Help, help the wound!
He wept, he sobb'd, he call'd to some
To bring him lint and balsamum,
To make a tent, and put it in
Where the stiletto pierced the skin;
Which, being done, the fretful pain
Assuaged, and he was well again.
Impromptu, On Mrs. R----'s Birthday.
by Robert Burns

Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;
'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
A Song.
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

On a summer's day as I sat by a stream,
A dainty maid came by,
And she blessed my sight like a rosy dream,
And left me there to sigh, to sigh,
And left me there to sigh, to sigh.
On another day as I sat by the stream,
This maiden paused a while,
Then I made me bold as I told my dream,
She heard it with a smile, a smile,
She heard it with a smile, a smile.
Oh, the months have fled and the autumn's red,
The maid no more goes by:
For my dream came true and the maid I wed,
And now no more I sigh, I sigh,
And now no more I sigh.
The Cunning Woman
by William Schwenck Gilbert

On all Arcadia's sunny plain,
On all Arcadia's hill,
None were so blithe as BILL and JANE,
So blithe as JANE and BILL.
No social earthquake e'er occurred
To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word 
A Crisis, empty wind.
No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
With overwhelming shocks 
BILL ploughed with all the shares he had,
JANE planted all her stocks.
And learn in what a simple way
Their pleasures they enhanced 
JANE danced like any lamb all day,
BILL piped as well as danced.
Surrounded by a twittling crew,
Of linnet, lark, and thrush,
BILL treated his young lady to
This sentimental gush:
"Oh, JANE, how true I am to you!
How true you are to me!
And how we woo, and how we coo!
So fond a pair are we!
"To think, dear JANE, that anyways.
Your chiefest end and aim
Is, one of these fine summer days,
To bear my humble name!"
Quoth JANE, "Well, as you put the case,
I'm true enough, no doubt,
But then, you see, in this here place
There's none to cut you out.
"But, oh! if anybody came 
A Lord or any such 
I do not think your humble name
Would fascinate me much.
"For though your mates, you often boast.
You distance out-and-out;
Still, in the abstract, you're a most
Uncompromising lout!"
Poor BILL, he gave a heavy sigh,
He tried in vain to speak 
A fat tear started to each eye
And coursed adown each cheek.
For, oh! right well in truth he knew
That very self-same day,
The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO
Was coming there to stay!
The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO
All proper maidens shun 
He loves all women, it is true,
But never marries one.
Now JANE, with all her mad self-will,
Was no coquette oh no!
She really loved her faithful BILL,
And thus she tuned her woe:
"Oh, willow, willow, o'er the lea!
And willow once again!
The Peer will fall in love with me!
Why wasn't I made plain?"
* * * * *
A cunning woman lived hard by,
A sorceressing dame,
MACCATACOMB DE SALMON-EYE
Was her uncommon name.
To her good JANE, with kindly yearn
For BILL'S increasing pain,
Repaired in secrecy to learn
How best to make her plain.
"Oh, JANE," the worthy woman said,
"This mystic phial keep,
And rub its liquor in your head
Before you go to sleep.
"When you awake next day, I trow,
You'll look in form and hue
To others just as you do now 
But not to PILLALOO!
"When you approach him, you will find
He'll think you coarse unkempt 
And rudely bid you get behind,
With undisguised contempt."
The LORD DE PILLALOO arrived
With his expensive train,
And when in state serenely hived,
He sent for BILL and JANE.
"Oh, spare her, LORD OF PILLALOO!
(Said BILL) if wed you be,
There's anything I'D rather do
Than flirt with LADY P."
The Lord he gazed in Jenny's eyes,
He looked her through and through:
The cunning woman's prophecies
Were clearly coming true.
LORD PILLALOO, the Rustic's Bane
(Bad person he, and proud),
HE LAUGHED HA! HA! AT PRETTY JANE,
AND SNEERED AT HER ALOUD!
He bade her get behind him then,
And seek her mother's stye 
Yet to her native countrymen
She was as fair as aye!
MACCATACOMB, continue green!
Grow, SALMON-EYE, in might,
Except for you, there might have been
The deuce's own delight
On Bancroft Height.
by Hattie Howard

On Bancroft height Aurora's face
Shines brighter than a star,
As stepping forth in dewy grace,
The gates of day unbar;
And lo! the firmament, the hills,
And the vales that intervene - 
Creation's self with gladness thrills
To greet the matin queen.
On Bancroft height the atmosphere
Is but an endless waft
Of life's elixir, pure and clear
As mortal ever quaffed;
And such the sweet salubrity
Of air and altitude,
Is banished many a malady
And suffering subdued.
On Bancroft height the sunset glow
When day departing dies
Outrivals all that tourists know
Of famed Italian skies;
And happy dwellers round about
Who view the scene aright
In admiration grow devout
And laud the Lord of light.
Round Bancroft height rich memories
Commingle earth's affairs,
Among the world's celebrities,
Of him whose name it bears;
The scholar-wise compatriot
Who left to later men
The grand achievements unforgot
Of that historic pen.
Fair Bancroft height revisited
When all the land is white,
A halo crowns its noble head
Impelling fresh delight;
The daring wish in winter-time
The blizzard to defy
Those shining slippery slopes to climb
Up nearer to the sky.
Though Boreas abrade the cheek
With buffetings of snow,
He gives a vigor that the weak
And languid never know;
And with rejuvenescent thrill,
Like children everywhere,
Bestirs the rhapsody, the will
To make a snow-man there.
On Bancroft height and Bancroft tower
Such vistas charm the eye
'Twere life's consummate, glorious hour
But to behold - and die;
Yet in the sparkle and the glow
Is earth so very fair
The spirit lingers, loath to go,
And dreams of heaven - up there.
Upon Shopter.
by Robert Herrick

Old Widow Shopter, whensoe'er she cries,
Lets drip a certain gravy from her eyes.
The Lion & The Statve
by Walter Crane

On a Statue--king Lion dethroned,
Showing conqueror Man,--Lion frowned.
"If a Lion, you know,
Had been sculptor, he'd show
Lion rampant, and Man on the ground."
The Story Depends On The Teller
She Slumbers Still.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,
Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;
How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,
'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.
Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved
In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;
The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,
But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.
Day followed day until summer was gone,
And autumn still found her alone and asleep;
Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill,
Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.
Again spring returns, and all nature revives,
And birds fill the groves with their music again;
But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed,
And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.
Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,
Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain;
Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,
But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.
There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,
'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"
At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,
And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.
Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,
Her mortal put on immortality then;
And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet
In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.
Weston, May 29, 1852.
The Jessamine And The Morning-Glory.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
On a sheet of silver the morning-star lay
Fresh, white as a baby child,
And laughed and leaped in his lissome way,
On my parterre of flowers smiled.
For a morning-glory's spiral bud
Of shell-coned tallness slim
Stood ready to burst her delicate hood
And bloom on the dawning dim:
A princess royal in purple born
To beauty and pride in the balmy morn.
II.
And she shook her locks at the morning-star
And her raiment scattered wide;
Low laughed at a hollyhock's scimetar,
Its jewels of buds to deride.
The pomegranate near, with fingers of flame,
The hot-faced geraniums nigh,
Their proud heads bowed to the queenly dame
For they knew her state was high:
The fuchsia like a bead of blood
Bashfully blushed in her silvery hood.
III.
All wit that this child of the morning light
Was queen of the morn and them,
That the orient star in his beams of white
Was her prince in a diadem;
For lavish he showered those pearls that flash
And cluster the front of her smock;
From his lordly fingers of rays did dash
Down zephyrs her crib to rock.
But a jessamine pale 'neath the arbor grew,
Meek, selfless, and sweet, and a virgin true.
IV.
But the morning-glory disdained her birth,
Of her chastity made a scorn:
"I marvel," she said, "if thy mother earth
Was not sick when thou wast born!
Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead - 
Wan thing, dost weary our eye!"
And she weakly laughed and stiffened her head
And turned to her love i' the sky.
But the jessamine turned to the rose beside
With a heavy glance and but sadly sighed.
V.
And the orient grew to a wealth of bars
'Neath which foam-fires churned,
And the princess proud saw her lord of stars
In a torrid furnace burned;
And the giant of life with his breath of flame
Glared down with one red eye,
And 'neath his breath this gorgeous dame
In her diamonds did wilt and die;
But the jessamine fragrant waxed purer with light;
For my lady's bosom I culled it that night.
The Tears Of Amynta, For The Death Of Damon.
by John Dryden

On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sigh'd alone:
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:
Hope is banish'd,
Joys are vanish'd,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me;
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses:
Who so lived and loved as we?
Never shall we curse the morning.
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, Love supplying
All the joys he drain'd before:
Death come end me,
To befriend me:
Love and Damon are no more.
Our Banker
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Old time, in whose bank we deposit our notes,
Is a miser who always wants guineas for groats;
He keeps all his customers still in arrears
By lending them minutes and charging them years.
The twelvemonth rolls round and we never forget
On the counter before us to pay him our debt.
We reckon the marks he has chalked on the door,
Pay up and shake hands and begin a new score.
How long he will lend us, how much we may owe,
No angel will tell us, no mortal may know.
At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore and ten,
He may close the account with a stroke of his pen.
This only we know, - amid sorrows and joys
Old Time has been easy and kind with "The Boys."
Though he must have and will have and does have his pay,
We have found him good-natured enough in his way.
He never forgets us, as others will do, - 
I am sure he knows me, and I think he knows you,
For I see on your foreheads a mark that he lends
As a sign he remembers to visit his friends.
In the shape of a classmate (a wig on his crown, - 
His day-book and ledger laid carefully down)
He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in his hand,
And pledged the good health of our brotherly band.
He 's a thief, we must own, but how many there be
That rob us less gently and fairly than he
He has stripped the green leaves that were over us all,
But they let in the sunshine as fast as they fall.
Young beauties may ravish the world with a glance
As they languish in song, as they float in the dance, - 
They are grandmothers now we remember as girls,
And the comely white cap takes the place of the curls.
But the sighing and moaning and groaning are o'er,
We are pining and moping and sleepless no more,
And the hearts that were thumping like ships on the rocks
Beat as quiet and steady as meeting-house clocks.
The trump of ambition, loud sounding and shrill,
May blow its long blast, but the echoes are still,
The spring-tides are past, but no billow may reach
The spoils they have landed far up on the beach.
We see that Time robs us, we know that he cheats,
But we still find a charm in his pleasant deceits,
While he leaves the remembrance of all that was best,
Love, friendship, and hope, and the promise of rest.
Sweet shadows of twilight! how calm their repose,
While the dewdrops fall soft in the breast of the rose!
How blest to the toiler his hour of release
When the vesper is heard with its whisper of peace!
Then here's to the wrinkled old miser, our friend;
May he send us his bills to the century's end,
And lend us the moments no sorrow alloys,
Till he squares his account with the last of "The Boys."
Blooming Nelly.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "On a bank of flowers."
I.
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;
When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued,
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
And trembled where he stood.
II.
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd,
Were seal'd in soft repose;
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd,
It richer dy'd the rose.
The springing lilies sweetly prest,
Wild. wanton, kiss'd her rival breast;
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
His bosom ill at rest.
III.
Her robes light waving in the breeze
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace:
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
And sigh'd his very soul.
IV.
As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting, half awake,
Away affrighted springs:
But Willie follow'd, as he should,
He overtook her in a wood;
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.
Life
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

On a bleak, bald hill with a dull world under,
The dreary world of the Commonplace,
I have stood when the whole world seemed a blunder
Of dotard Time, in an aimless race.
With worry about me and want before me - 
Yet deep in my soul was a rapture spring
That made me cry to the grey sky o'er me:
'Oh, I know this life is a goodly thing!'
I have given sweet years to a thankless duty
While cold and starving, though clothed and fed,
For a young heart's hunger for joy and beauty
Is harder to bear than the need of bread.
I have watched the wane of a sodden season,
Which let hope wither, and made care thrive,
And through it all, without earthly reason,
I have thrilled with the glory of being alive.
And now I stand by the great sea's splendour,
Where love and beauty feed heart and eye.
The brilliant light of the sun grows tender
As it slants to the shore of the by and by.
I prize each hour as a golden treasure - 
A pearl Time drops from a broken string:
And all my ways are the ways of pleasure,
And I know this life is a goodly thing.
And I know, too, that not in the seeing,
Or having, or doing the things we would,
Lies that deep rapture that comes from being
AT ONE WITH THE PURPOSE WHICH MADE ALL GOOD.
And not from Pleasure the heart may borrow
That rare contentment for which we strive,
Unless through trouble, and want, and sorrow
It has thrilled with the glory of being alive.
Aphrodite
by Victor James Daley

On a golden dawn in the dawn sublime
Of years ere the stars had ceased to sing,
Beautiful out of the sea-deeps cold
Aphrodite arose, the Flower of Time,
That, dear till the day of her blossoming,
The old, old Sea had borne in his heart.
Around her worshipping waves did part
Tremulous, glowing in rose and gold.
And the birds broke forth into singing sweet,
And flowers born scentless breathed perfume:
Softly she smiled upon Man forlorn,
And the music of love in his wild heart beat,
And down to the pit went his gods of gloom,
And earth grew bright and fair as a bride,
And folk in star-worlds wondering cried,
'Lo in the skies a new star is born!'
O Beloved, thus on my small world you
Rose, flushing it all with rosy flame!
Changing sad thoughts to a singing throng,
And creating the earth and the sky anew!
As Love you appeared, and, lo, you are Fame,
And, all my follies and sins despite,
You yet, Beloved, may see my light,
Small, but a star, mid the stars of song.
The Two Ages
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

On a great cathedral window I have seen
A Summer sunset swoon and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gale.
Sculpture and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That speak of beauty to the centuries - 
All these have fed me with divine repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste of blood that stained that age of art.
Those glorious windows shine upon the black
And hideous structure of the guillotine;
Beside the haloed countenance of saints
There hangs the multiple and knotted lash.
The Christ of love, benign and beautiful,
Looks at the torture-rack, by hate conceived
And bigotry sustained.    The prison cell,
With blood-stained walls, where starving men went mad,
Lies under turrets matchless in their grace.
God, what an age!    How was it that You let
Colossal genius and colossal crime
Walk for a hundred years across the earth,
Like giant twins?    How was it then that men,
Conceiving such vast beauty for the world,
And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain
Such hellish projects for their human kin?
How could the hand that, with consummate skill
And loving patience, limned the luminous page,
Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod,
To scourge a brother for his differing faith?
Not great this age in beauty or in art;
Nothing is wrought to-day that shall endure
For earth's adornment, through long centuries;
Not ours the fervid worship of a God
That wastes its splendid opulence on glass,
Leaving but hate for hungry human hearts.
Yet great this age; its mighty work is man
Knowing himself the universal life.
And great our faith, which shows itself in works
For human freedom and for racial good.
The true religion lies in being kind.
No age is greater than its faith is broad.
Through liberty and love men climb to God.
The Maniac.
by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

On a tall cliff that overhung the deep,
A maniac stood. He heeded not the sweep
Of the swift gale that lashed the troubled main,
And spread with showery foam the watery plain.
His reckless foot was on the dizzy line
That edged the rock, impending o'er the brine;
His form was bent, and leaning from the height,
Like the light gull whose wing is stretched for flight.
Far down beneath his feet, the surges broke;
Above his head the pealing thunders spoke;
Around him flashed the lightning's ruddy glare,
And rushing torrents swept along the air.
But nought he heeded, save a gallant sail
That on the sea was wrestling with the gale.
Far on the ocean's billowy verge she hung,
And strove to shun the storm that landward swung.
With many a tack she turned her bending side
To the rude blast, and bravely stemmed the tide.
In vain! the bootless strife with fate is o'er 
And the doomed vessel nears the iron shore.
A mighty bird, she seems, whose wing is rent
By the red shaft from heaven's fierce quiver sent.
Her mast is shivered and her helm is lashed,
Around her prow the kindled waves are dashed 
And as an eagle swooping in its might,
Toward the dark cliff she speeds her headlong flight.
She comes, she strikes! the trembling wave withdraws,
And the hushed elements a moment pause;
Then swelling high above their helpless prey,
The billows burst, and bear the wreck away!
One look to heaven the raptured Maniac cast,
One low breathed murmur from his bosom passed:
'God of the soul and sea! I read thy choice 
Told by the shipwreck and the whirlwind's voice.
In this dread omen I can trace my doom,
And hear thee bid me seek an ocean-tomb.
Like the lost ship my weary mind hath striven
With the wild tempest o'er my spirit driven;
That strife is done and the dim caverned sea
Of this wrecked bosom must the mansion be.
Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll,
Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul 
Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep,
And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'
Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed,
And his pale hands beseechingly upraised;
Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung,
And far below his senseless form was flung;
A thin white spray told where he met the wave,
And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!
Horatian Echo
by Matthew Arnold

Omit, omit, my simple friend,
Still to inquire how parties tend,
Or what we fix with foreign powers.
If France and we are really friends,
And what the Russian Czar intends,
Is no concern of ours.
Us not the daily quickening race
Of the invading populace
Shall draw to swell that shouldering herd.
Mourn will we not your closing hour,
Ye imbeciles in present power,
Doom'd, pompous, and absurd!
And let us bear, that they debate
Of all the engine-work of state,
Of commerce, laws, and policy,
The secrets of the world's machine,
And what the rights of man may mean,
With readier tongue than we.
Only, that with no finer art
They cloak the troubles of the heart
With pleasant smile, let us take care;
Nor with a lighter hand dispose
Fresh garlands of this dewy rose,
To crown Eugenia's hair.
Of little threads our life is spun,
And he spins ill, who misses one.
But is thy fair Eugenia cold?
Yet Helen had an equal grace,
And Juliet's was as fair a face,
And now their years are told.
The day approaches, when we must
Be crumbling bones and windy dust;
And scorn us as our mistress may,
Her beauty will no better be
Than the poor face she slights in thee,
When dawns that day, that day.
Booh!
by Eugene Field

On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!
Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame" -
But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"
He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
And I - of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
And it is, oh, such fun I and sure that we shall rue
The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"