DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Saint Brandan
by Matthew Arnold

Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhood of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late! such storms! The Saint is mad!
He heard, across the howling seas,
Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;
He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,
Twinkle the monastery-lights;
But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd
And now no bells, no convents more!
The hurtling Polar lights are near'd,
The sea without a human shore.
At last (it was the Christmas night;
Stars shone after a day of storm)
He sees float past an iceberg white,
And on it Christ! a living form.
That furtive mien, that scowling eye,
Of hair that red and tufted fell
It is Oh, where shall Brandan fly?
The traitor Judas, out of hell!
Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;
The moon was bright, the iceberg near.
He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait!
By high permission I am here.
"One moment wait, thou holy man
On earth my crime, my death, they knew;
My name is under all men's ban
Ah, tell them of my respite too!
"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night
(It was the first after I came,
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,
To rue my guilt in endless flame)
"I felt, as I in torment lay
'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,
An angel touch my arm, and say:
Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!
"'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.
The Leper recollect, said he,
Who ask'd the passers-by for aid,
In Joppa, and thy charity.
"Then I remember'd how I went,
In Joppa, through the public street,
One morn when the sirocco spent
Its storms of dust with burning heat;
"And in the street a leper sate,
Shivering with fever, naked, old;
Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,
The hot wind fever'd him five-fold.
"He gazed upon me as I pass'd
And murmur'd: Help me, or I die!
To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,
Saw him look eased, and hurried by.
"Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine,
What blessing must full goodness shower,
When fragment of it small, like mine,
Hath such inestimable power!
"Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I
Did that chance act of good, that one!
Then went my way to kill and lie
Forgot my good as soon as done.
"That germ of kindness, in the womb
Of mercy caught, did not expire;
Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom,
And friends me in the pit of fire.
"Once every year, when carols wake,
On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,
Arising from the sinner's lake,
I journey to these healing snows.
"I stanch with ice my burning breast,
With silence balm my whirling brain.
Oh, Brandan! to this hour of rest
That Joppan leper's ease was pain."
Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;
He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer
Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies!
The iceberg, and no Judas there!
John And Jane.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Said Jane to John, "Come, let us wed,
For know, dear John, I love you,
And, by the bright stars overhead,
There's none I place above you."
"I doubt it not," said John, "and I
Reciprocate the feeling,
And here, with one despairing cry,
I kneel, and love you, kneeling."
"Then why, dear John, do you despair,
If you do love so madly?"
"Because," said John, "my pocket there
Is slim, and furnish'd badly."
"Oh, that is naught," said Jane, with glee,
"I'd marry you to-morrow,
And live on bread, and water free,
Without one grain of sorrow."
"All right," said John, "I'm with you there,
Old Logan's charming daughter,
You'll get the bread, the work to share,
And I will get the water."
St. Margaret's Eve
by William Allingham

Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I opened my gate; who there should stand,
The waves roll so gayly O,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly O,
"Drink," said the lady, "and I will be thine,"
Love me true!
"Enter my castle, lady fair,"
The waves roll so gayly O,
"You shall be queen of all that's there,"
Love me true!
A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly O,
"Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!"
Love me true!
In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
"I love thee deep, I love thee true,"
The waves roll so gayly O,
"But ah! I know not how to woo,"
Love me true!
Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly O,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
The Irish Colonel
by Arthur Conan Doyle

Said the king to the colonel,
'The complaints are eternal,
That you Irish give more trouble
Than any other corps.'
Said the colonel to the king,
'This complaint is no new thing,
For your foemen, sire, have made it
A hundred times before.'
Signs And Tokens
by Thomas Hardy

Said the red-cloaked crone
In a whispered moan:
"The dead man was limp
When laid in his chest;
Yea, limp; and why
But to signify
That the grave will crimp
Ere next year's sun
Yet another one
Of those in that house -
It may be the best -
For its endless drowse!"
Said the brown-shawled dame
To confirm the same:
"And the slothful flies
On the rotting fruit
Have been seen to wear
While crawling there
Crape scarves, by eyes
That were quick and acute;
As did those that had pitched
On the cows by the pails,
And with flaps of their tails
Were far away switched."
Said the third in plaid,
Each word being weighed:
"And trotting does
In the park, in the lane,
And just outside
The shuttered pane,
Have also been heard -
Quick feet as light
As the feet of a sprite -
And the wise mind knows
What things may betide
When such has occurred."
Cried the black-craped fourth,
Cold faced as the north:
"O, though giving such
Some head-room, I smile
At your falterings
When noting those things
Round your domicile!
For what, what can touch
One whom, riven of all
That makes life gay,
No hints can appal
Of more takings away!"
A Song of the Future.
by Sidney Lanier

Sail fast, sail fast,
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;
Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past,
Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;
Sail fast, sail fast.
Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea
With news about the Future scent the sea:
My brain is beating like the heart of Haste:
I'll loose me a bird upon this Present waste;
Go, trembling song,
And stay not long; oh, stay not long:
Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove,
But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love.
St. Anthony's Sermon To The Fishes
by Abraham a Sancta-Clara

Saint Anthony at church
Was left in the lurch,
So he went to the ditches
And preached to the fishes.
They wriggled their tails,
In the sun glanced their scales.
The carps, with their spawn,
Are all thither drawn;
Have opened their jaws,
Eager for each clause.
No sermon beside
Had the carps so edified.
Sharp-snouted pikes,
Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam up harmonious
To hear Saint Antonius.
No sermon beside
Had the pikes so edified.
And that very odd fish,
Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,
The stock-fish, I mean,
At the sermon was seen.
No sermon beside
Had the cods so edified.
Good eels and sturgeon,
Which aldermen gorge on,
Went out of their way
To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside
Had the eels so edified.
Crabs and turtles also,
Who always move low,
Made haste from the bottom
As if the devil had got 'em.
No sermon beside
The crabs so edified.
Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher
Like a reasonable creature.
At God's word,
They Anthony heard.
The sermon now ended,
Each turned and descended;
The pikes went on stealing,
The eels went on eeling.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.
The crabs are backsliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set,
All the sermon forget.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.
On The Death Of Dr Burgess, The Late Bishop Of Salisbury.
by William Lisle Bowles

Sainted old man, for more than eighty years,
Thee - tranquilly and stilly-creeping - age,
Led to the confines of the sepulchre,
And thy last day on earth - but "Father - Lord - 
Which art in heaven" - how pure a faith, and heart
Unmoved, amid the changes of this life,
And tumult of the world, - and oh! what hope, - 
What love and constancy of the calm mind,
And tears to misery from the inmost heart
Flowing - at times, a brief sweet smile and voice
How bland, and studies, various and profound,
Of learned languages - but, ever first,
That learning which the oracles of God
Unfolds, even to the close of life's long day
Thy course accompanies!
But, thou, farewell,
And live - this mortal veil removed - in bliss;
Live with the saints in light, whom Christ had loved.
But pardon us, left in this vale of tears,
For one last tear upon thy cold remains - 
Pardon, beloved and venerated shade!
No Master
by William Morris

Saith man to man, We've heard and known
That we no master need
To live upon this earth, our own,
In fair and manly deed.
The grief of slaves long passed away
For us hath forged the chain,
Till now each worker's patient day
Builds up the House of Pain.
And we, shall we too, crouch and quail,
Ashamed, afraid of strife,
And lest our lives untimely fail
Embrace the Death in Life?
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear,
We few against the world;
Awake, arise! the hope we bear
Against the curse is hurled.
It grows and grows--are we the same,
The feeble band, the few?
Or what are these with eyes aflame,
And hands to deal and do?
This is the host that bears the word,
No MASTER HIGH OR LOW -
A lightning flame, a shearing sword,
A storm to overthrow.
The Fox & The Crow
by Walter Crane

Said sly Fox to the Crow with the cheese,
"Let me hear your sweet voice, now do please!"
And this Crow, being weak,
Cawed the bit from her beak--
"Music charms," said the Fox, "and here's cheese!"
Beware Of Flatterers
Jupiter And The Thunderbolts.
by Jean de La Fontaine

Said Jupiter, one day,
As on a cloud he lay,
'Observing all our crimes,
Come, let us change the times,
By leasing out anew
A world whose wicked crew
Have wearied out our grace,
And cursed us to our face.
Hie hellward, Mercury;
A Fury bring to me,
The direst of the three.
Race nursed too tenderly,
This day your doom shall be!'
E'en while he spoke their fate,
His wrath began to moderate.
O kings, with whom His will
Hath lodged our good and ill,
Your wrath and storm between
One night should intervene!
The god of rapid wing,
And lip unfaltering,
To sunless regions sped,
And met the sisters dread.
To grim Tisiphone,
And pale Megaera, he
Preferr'd, as murderess,
Alecto, pitiless.
This choice so roused the fiend,
By Pluto's beard she swore
The human race no more
Should be by handfuls glean'd,
But in one solid mass
Th' infernal gates should pass.
But Jove, displeased with both
The Fury and her oath,
Despatched her back to hell.
And then a bolt he hurl'd,
Down on a faithless world,
Which in a desert fell.
Aim'd by a father's arm,
It caused more fear than harm.
(All fathers strike aside.)
What did from this betide?
Our evil race grew bold,
Resumed their wicked tricks,
Increased them manifold,
Till, all Olympus through,
Indignant murmurs flew.
When, swearing by the Styx,
The sire that rules the air
Storms promised to prepare
More terrible and dark,
Which should not miss their mark.
'A father's wrath it is!'
The other deities
All in one voice exclaim'd;
'And, might the thing be named,
Some other god would make
Bolts better for our sake.'
This Vulcan undertook.
His rumbling forges shook,
And glow'd with fervent heat,
While Cyclops blew and beat.
Forth, from the plastic flame
Two sorts of bolts there came.
Of these, one misses not:
'Tis by Olympus shot, - 
That is, the gods at large.
The other, bearing wide,
Hits mountain-top or side,
Or makes a cloud its targe.
And this it is alone
Which leaves the father's throne.
The Frog & The Bull
by Walter Crane

Said the Frog, quite puffed up to the eyes,
"Was this Bull about me as to size?"
"Rather bigger, frog-brother."
"Puff, puff," said the other,
"A Frog is a Bull if he tries!"
Brag Is Not Always Belief
Fowk Next Door.
by John Hartley

Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green,
Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit;
Twelve year i' this same haase we've been,
An should be stoppin yet,
I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend
If need be twelve year mooar;
But all awr comfort's at an end,
Sin th' fowk moved in next door.
Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea,
All th' years at aw've been here;
An fowk's affairs are nowt to me, - 
Aw nivver interfere.
We've had gooid naybors all this while, - 
All honest fowk tho' poor;
But aw can't tolerate sich style
As they put on next door.
Aw dooant know whear they get ther brass,
It's little wark they do; - 
Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass
Is gaddin raand th' day throo.
They dress as if they owned a mint,
Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat,
Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint,
But aw've nowt to do wi' that.
Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat,
An sometimes smooks cigars! - 
An owd clay pipe or sich as that
Is gooid enuff for awrs.
When th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride
I' cabs or else i'th' buss;
But aw mun walk or caar inside;
Ov coorse that's nowt to us.
Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent?
Awr landlord's same as theirs;
If we should chonce to owe a cent,
He'll put th' bums in he swears.
An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait,
Noa, net if we'd to pine,
Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight,
But it's noa affair o' mine.
One can't help havin thowts yo know,
When one meets sich a case;
An nivver sin we lived i'th' row
Did such like things tak place.
Wi' business when it isn't mine,
Aw nivver try to mell,
An if they want to cut a shine
They're like to pleas thersel.
But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide, - 
An pride will have a fall.
Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried,
Aw wish aw could, that's all!
Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit,
Aw'm quite content, tho' poor,
But one on us will ha to flit,
Us or them fowk next door.
Said And Did
by George MacDonald

Said the boy as he read, "I too will be bold,
I will fight for the truth and its glory!"
He went to the playground, and soon had told
A very cowardly story!
Said the girl as she read, "That was grand, I declare!
What a true, what a lovely, sweet soul!"
In half-an-hour she went up the stair,
Looking as black as a coal!
"The mean little wretch, I wish I could fling
This book at his head!" said another;
Then he went and did the same ugly thing
To his own little trusting brother!
Alas for him who sees a thing grand
And does not fit himself to it!
But the meanest act, on sea or on land,
Is to find a fault, and then do it!
Sonnets - VII. - Said Secrecy To Cowardice And Fraud
by William Wordsworth

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud,
Falsehood and Treachery, in close council met,
Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet,
"The frost of England's pride will soon be thawed;
"Hooded the open brow that overawed
"Our schemes; the faith and honour, never yet
"By us with hope encountered, be upset;
"For once I burst my bands, and cry, applaud!"
Then whispered she, "The Bill is carrying out!"
They heard, and, starting up, the Brood of Night
Clapped hands, and shook with glee their matted locks;
All Powers and Places that abhor the light
Joined in the transport, echoed back their shout,
Hurrah for, hugging his Ballot-box!
The Ladder Of St. Augustine
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another's virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will;--
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern--unseen before--
A path to higher destinies.
Nor deem the irrevocable Past,
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
Saint Charles
by Richard Le Gallienne

'"Saint Charles," said Thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of Charles Lamb's letters to his forehead.' - LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD.
Saint Charles! ah yes, let other men
Love Elia for his antic pen,
And watch with dilettante eyes
His page for every quaint surprise,
Curious of caviare phrase.
Yea; these who will not also praise?
We surely must, but which is more
The motley that his sorrow wore,
Or the great heart whose valorous beat
Upheld his brave unfaltering feet
Along the narrow path he chose,
And followed faithful to the close?
Yea, Elia, thank thee for thy wit,
How poor our laughter, lacking it!
For all thy gillyflowers of speech
Gramercy, Elia; but most rich
Are we, most holpen, when we meet
Thee and thy Bridget in the street,
Upon that tearful errand set -
So often trod, so patient yet!
The Storming Party
by Arthur Conan Doyle

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'Though the breach is steep and narrow,
If we only gain the summit
Then it's odds we hold the fort.
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
And McDermott in support.'
Said Barrow to Leroy,
'It's a solid job, my boy,
For they've flanked it, and they've banked it,
And they've bored it with a mine.
But it's only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
With their toes upon the line.'
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'See that first ray, like an arrow,
How it tinges all the fringes
Of the sullen drifting skies.
They told me to begin it
At five-thirty to the minute,
And at thirty-one I'm in it,
Or my sub will get his rise.
'So we'll wait the signal rocket,
Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,
That turquoise-studded locket,
Which you slipped from out your pocket
And are pressing with a kiss!
Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,
It is hers! And I had missed it
From her chain; and you have kissed it:
Barrow, villain, what is this?'
'Leroy, I had a warning,
That my time has come this morning,
So I speak with frankness, scorning
To deny the thing that's true.
Yes, it's Amy's, is the trinket,
Little turquoise-studded trinket,
Not her gift--oh, never think it!
For her thoughts were all for you.
'As we danced I gently drew it
From her chain--she never knew it
But I love her--yes, I love her:
I am candid, I confess.
But I never told her, never,
For I knew 'twas vain endeavour,
And she loved you--loved you ever,
Would to God she loved you less!'
'Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!
Me, your comrade, to betray me!
Well I know that little Amy
Is as true as wife can be.
She to give this love-badged locket!
She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!
Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle!
Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!'
* * *
Said Paul Leroy to Amy,
'Well, wifie, you may blame me,
For my passion overcame me,
When he told me of his shame;
But when I saw him lying,
Dead amid a ring of dying,
Why, poor devil, I was trying
To forget, and not to blame.
'And this locket, I unclasped it
From the fingers that still grasped it:
He told me how he got it,
How he stole it in a valse.'
And she listened leaden-hearted:
Oh, the weary day they parted!
For she loved him--yes, she loved him -
For his youth and for his truth,
And for those dying words, so false.
The Proclamation
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds
Of Ballymena, wakened with these words
'Arise, and flee
Out from the land of bondage, and be free!'
Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
The angels singing of his sins forgiven,
And, wondering, sees
His prison opening to their golden keys,
He rose a man who laid him down a slave,
Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,
And outward trod
Into the glorious liberty of God.
He cast the symbols of his shame away;
And, passing where the sleeping Milcho lay,
Though back and limb
Smarted with wrong, he prayed, 'God pardon him!'
So went he forth; but in God's time he came
To light on Uilline's hills a holy flame;
And, dying, gave
The land a saint that lost him as a slave.
O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb
Waiting for God, your hour at last has come,
And freedom's song
Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong!
Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint
Of ages; but, like Ballymena's saint,
The oppressor spare,
Heap only on his head the coals of prayer.
Go forth, like him! like him return again,
To bless the land whereon in bitter pain
Ye toiled at first,
And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed.
Holiday Songs
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I
Sailing away on a summer sea,
Out of the bleak March weather;
Drifting away for a loaf and play,
Just you and I together;
And it's good-bye worry and good-bye hurry
And never a care have we;
With the sea below and the sun above
And nothing to do but dream and love,
Sailing away together.
Sailing away from the grim old town
And tasks the town calls duty;
Sailing away from walls of grey
To a land of bloom and beauty,
And it's good-bye to letters from our lessers and our betters,
To the cold world's smile or its frown.
We sail away on a sunny track
To find the summer and bring it back
And love is our only duty.
II
Afloat on a sea of passion
Without a compass or chart,
But the glow of your eye shows the sun is high,
By the sextant of my heart.
I know we are nearing the tropics
By the languor that round us lies,
And the smile on your mouth says the course is south
And the port is Paradise.
We have left grey skies behind us,
We sail under skies of blue;
You are off with me on lovers' sea,
And I am away with you.
We have not a single sorrow,
And I have but one fear - 
That my lips may miss one offered kiss
From the mouth that is smiling near.
There is no land of winter;
There is no world of care;
There is bloom and mirth all over the earth,
And love, love everywhere.
Our boat is the barque of Pleasure,
And whatever port we sight
The touch of your hand will make the land
The Harbour of Pure Delight.
Epigram. Dialogue Between A Catholic Delegate And His Royal Highness The Duke Of Cumberland.
by Thomas Moore

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,
"Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?"
"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
"You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"