DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Golden Days
by Robert William Service

Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.
The Old Lowe House, Staten Island
by Alan Seeger

Another prospect pleased the builder's eye,
And Fashion tenanted (where Fashion wanes)
Here in the sorrowful suburban lanes
When first these gables rose against the sky.
Relic of a romantic taste gone by,
This stately monument alone remains,
Vacant, with lichened walls and window-panes
Blank as the windows of a skull. But I,
On evenings when autumnal winds have stirred
In the porch-vines, to this gray oracle
Have laid a wondering ear and oft-times heard,
As from the hollow of a stranded shell,
Old voices echoing (or my fancy erred)
Things indistinct, but not insensible.
Another Babby.
by John Hartley

Another! - well, my bonny lad,
Aw wodn't send thee back;
Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam,
Tha's fun some in a crack.
It maks me feel as pleased as punch
To see thi pratty face;
Ther's net another child i'th' bunch
Moor welcome to a place.
Aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee,
I' some nook o' mi cage;
But if another comes, raylee!
Aw'st want a bigger wage.
But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want - 
We'll try to pool thee throo,
For Him who has mi laddie sent,
He'll send his baggin too.
He hears the little sparrows chirp,
An answers th' raven's call;
He'll nivver see one want for owt,
'At's worth aboon 'em all.
But if one on us mun goa short,
(Altho' it's hard to pine,)
Thy little belly shall be fill'd
Whativver comes o' mine.
A chap con nobbut do his best,
An that aw'll do for thee,
Leavin to providence all th' rest,
An we'st get help'd, tha'll see.
An if thi lot's as bright an fair
As aw could wish it, lad,
Tha'll come in for a better share
Nor ivver blessed thi dad.
Aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt,
If, when deeath comes, aw find
Aw leeav some virtuous lasses
An some honest lads behind.
An tho' noa coat ov arms may grace
For me, a sculptor'd stooan,
Aw hooap to leeav a noble race,
Wi' arms o' flesh an booan.
Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black,
Wi' health, we'll persevere,
An try to find a brighter track - 
We'll conquer, nivver fear!
An may God shield thee wi' his wing,
Along life's stormy way,
An keep thi heart as free throo sin,
As what it is to-day.
Angel Or Demon.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Tu domines notre 'ge; ange ou d'mon, qu'importe!")
[I. vii.]
Angel or demon! thou, - whether of light
The minister, or darkness - still dost sway
This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight
Bears us, all breathless, after it away.
The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,
Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown
Rests on all pictures of the living day,
And on the threshold of our time alone,
Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!
Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore
The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be,
Whether he wind along the enchanting shore
To Portici from fair Parthenope,
Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,
O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray,
Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea
Seems like some languishing sultana's lay,
A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.
Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain,
Shrouding his soul with meditation's power;
Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain
Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower,
Listening, he while away the evening hour;
Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep,
Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower
By the volcano seized, where mansions keep
The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;
Or be his bark at Posillippo laid,
While as the swarthy boatman at his side
Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade,
Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide,
From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied,
From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore,
From sea, and spreading mead alike descried,
The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er,
And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore!
Fraser's Magazine
Upon Irene.
by Robert Herrick

Angry if Irene be
But a minute's life with me:
Such a fire I espy
Walking in and out her eye,
As at once I freeze and fry.
Amalia.
by Friedrich Schiller

Angel-fair, Walhalla's charms displaying,
Fairer than all mortal youths was he;
Mild his look, as May-day sunbeams straying
Gently o'er the blue and glassy sea.
And his kisses! what ecstatic feeling!
Like two flames that lovingly entwine,
Like the harp's soft tones together stealing
Into one sweet harmony divine,
Soul and soul embraced, commingled, blended,
Lips and cheeks with trembling passion burned,
Heaven and earth, in pristine chaos ended,
Round the blissful lovers madly turn'd.
He is gone and, ah! with bitter anguish
Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs;
He is gone in hopeless grief I languish
Earthly joys I ne'er again can prize!
Annie She's Dowie
by George MacDonald

Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae:
What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae,
For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day,
And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?
Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud,
And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '.
They lo'ed are anither, and said their say,
But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!
November, 1806
by William Wordsworth

Another year! another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
Reversibility
by Charles Baudelaire

Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?
Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite,
And the vague terrors of the fearful night
That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf?
Angel of gaiety, have you tasted grief?
Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?
With hands clenched in the shade and tears of gall,
When Vengeance beats her hellish battle-call,
And makes herself the captain of our fate,
Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate?
Angel of health, did you ever know pain,
Which like an exile trails his tired footfalls
The cold length of the white infirmary walls,
With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain?
Angel of health, did ever you know pain?
Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?
Know you the fear of age, the torment vile
Of reading secret horror in the smile
Of eyes your eyes have loved since long ago?
Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know?
Angle of happiness, and joy, and light,
Old David would have asked for youth afresh
From the pure touch of your enchanted flesh;
I but implore your prayers to aid my plight,
Angel of happiness, and joy, and light.
Alas, Alack!
by Walter De La Mare

Ann, Ann!
Come! Quick as you can!
There's a fish that talks
In the frying-pan.
Out of the fat,
As clear as glass,
He put up his mouth
And moaned 'Alas!'
Oh, most mournful,
'Alas, alack!'
Then turned to his sizzling,
And sank him back.
The Angel Of Thought
by Ethel Allen Murphy

(Suggested by a Fra Angelico Angel)
Angel of Thought, meseems God winged thee so,
And crowned thine head with passion fine as flame,
And made thy lifted face too pure for shame,
With eyes and brow a mirror to His glow;--
And gave thy lips a golden trump, that, though
Long years have passed since other angels came
To work the mighty wonders of His name,--
In God's own name and man's, thyself shalt go
Forever on strong pinions to and fro,
And round the earth reverberating blow
The mute, world-shaking music of the mind;
That thou might'st make as naught all space and time,
And thrill in mystic oneness through mankind,
Yet dwell in each, inviolate, sublime.
The Sisters
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain,
Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
The rush of wind, the ramp and roar
Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.
Annie rose up in her bed-gown white,
And looked out into the storm and night.
"Hush, and hearken!" she cried in fear,
"Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?"
"I hear the sea, and the plash of rain,
And roar of the northeast hurricane.
"Get thee back to the bed so warm,
No good comes of watching a storm.
"What is it to thee, I fain would know,
That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?
"No lover of thine's afloat to miss
The harbor-lights on a night like this."
"But I heard a voice cry out my name,
Up from the sea on the wind it came.
"Twice and thrice have I heard it call,
And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"
On her pillow the sister tossed her head.
"Hall of the Heron is safe," she said.
"In the tautest schooner that ever swam
He rides at anchor in Anisquam.
"And, if in peril from swamping sea
Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?"
But the girl heard only the wind and tide,
And wringing her small white hands she cried,
"O sister Rhoda, there's something wrong;
I hear it again, so loud and long.
"'Annie! Annie!' I hear it call,
And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!"
Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame,
"Thou liest! He never would call thy name!
"If he did, I would pray the wind and sea
To keep him forever from thee and me!"
Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast;
Like the cry of a dying man it passed.
The young girl hushed on her lips a groan,
But through her tears a strange light shone,
The solemn joy of her heart's release
To own and cherish its love in peace.
"Dearest!" she whispered, under breath,
"Life was a lie, but true is death.
"The love I hid from myself away
Shall crown me now in the light of day.
"My ears shall never to wooer list,
Never by lover my lips be kissed.
"Sacred to thee am I henceforth,
Thou in heaven and I on earth!"
She came and stood by her sister's bed
"Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said.
"The wind and the waves their work have done,
We shall see him no more beneath the sun.
"Little will reek that heart of thine,
It loved him not with a love like mine.
"I, for his sake, were he but here,
Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear,
"Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet,
And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.
"But now my soul with his soul I wed;
Thine the living, and mine the dead!
The Peace Angel
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Angel of Peace, the hounds of war,
Unleashed, are all abroad,
And war's foul trade again is made
Man's leading aim in life.
Blood dyes the billow and the sod;
The very winds are rife
With tales of slaughter.    Angel, pray,
What can we do or think or say
In times like these?
'Child, think of God!'
'Before this little speck in space
Called Earth with light was shod,
Great chains and tiers of splendid spheres
Were fashioned by His hand.
Be thine the part to love and laud,
Nor seek to understand.
Go lift thine eyes from death-charged guns
To one who made a billion suns;
And trust and wait.
Child, dwell on God!'
Died January 26Th, 1864, The Hon. James B. Clay, Of Ashlands, Kentucky, Eldest Son Of The Illustrious Henry Clay.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation's heart,
And dear to undying fame.
The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot's holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people's mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.
Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth, - 
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.
No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest
But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life's career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.
And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore'er
'Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.
Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864
On The Death Of Dr. Abel,[1]
by Thomas Gent

Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826.
Another awful warning voice of death
To human dignity, and human pride;
'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life--
How brief was thine! Thy day is done,
And all its complicated hopes and fears
Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave.
The unavailing tear for thee shall flow,
And love and friendship faithful record keep
Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife
For fame and years, now gone for ever!
Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning
Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims
Thy just inheritance an honour'd name!
Lamented most by those who knew thee best,
Accept this humble, tributary lay,
From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime
Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped
When last we parted, many years were thine
And joys in store--that thy elastic mind
Might long have gladden'd life's monotony.
Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul,
The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit
Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe,
Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne,
And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind!
Alas! that in thy prime, when time began
To make thee nearly all the World could wish,
The spoiler Death should unrelenting come
(As though in envy of thy wondrous skill)
And stop the fountain of a noble heart.
Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream,
From all its sad realities and cares:
Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast--
Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved!
Sonnet: - IX.
by Charles Sangster

Another day of rest, and I sit here
Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere
As my own blasted hopes. There was a time
When Love and perfect Happiness did chime
Like two sweet sounds upon this blessed day;
But one has flown forever, far away
From this poor Earth's unsatisfied desires
To love eternal, and the sacred fires
With which the other lighted up my mind
Have faded out and left no trace behind,
But dust and bitter ashes. Like a bark
Becalmed, I anchor through the midnight dark,
Still hoping for another dawn of Love.
Bring back my olive branch of Happiness, O dove!
Another to the Same. (To Leonora)
by William Cowper

Another Leonora[1] once inspir'd
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of Thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute[2] of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus'[3] tho' his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing thro' his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
To Leonora (2)
by John Milton

Another Leonora1 once inspir'd
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of Thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute2 of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus'3 tho' his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing thro' his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
Anna, Thy Charms.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Bonnie Mary."
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv'n;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of Heav'n.
West Wind In Winter
by Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Another day awakes. And who--
Changing the world--is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
Surprises of his kiss.
Vigilant, I make haste to close
With him who comes my way.
I go to meet him as he goes;
I know his note, his lay,
His colour and his morning rose;
And I confess his day.
My window waits; at dawn I hark
His call; at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
And down the softened street;
The gentler light is his; the dark,
The grey--he turns it sweet.
So too, so too, do I confess
My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess
With his immortal things.
I feel, I know him. On I press--
He finds me 'twixt his wings.
A Baby's Epitaph
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

April made me: winter laid me here away asleep.
Bright as Maytime was my daytime; night is soft and deep:
Though the morrow bring forth sorrow, well are ye that weep.
Ye that held me dear beheld me not a twelvemonth long:
All the while ye saw me smile, ye knew not whence the song
Came that made me smile, and laid me here, and wrought you wrong.
Angels, calling from your brawling world one undefiled,
Homeward bade me, and forbade me here to rest beguiled:
Here I sleep not: pass, and weep not here upon your child.
Apollo; Or, A Problem Solved
by Jonathan Swift

Apollo, god of light and wit,
Could verse inspire, but seldom writ,
Refined all metals with his looks,
As well as chemists by their books;
As handsome as my lady's page;
Sweet five-and-twenty was his age.
His wig was made of sunny rays,
He crown'd his youthful head with bays;
Not all the court of Heaven could show
So nice and so complete a beau.
No heir upon his first appearance,
With twenty thousand pounds a-year rents,
E'er drove, before he sold his land,
So fine a coach along the Strand;
The spokes, we are by Ovid told,
Were silver, and the axle gold:
I own, 'twas but a coach-and-four,
For Jupiter allows no more.
Yet, with his beauty, wealth, and parts,
Enough to win ten thousand hearts,
No vulgar deity above
Was so unfortunate in love.
Three weighty causes were assign'd,
That moved the nymphs to be unkind.
Nine Muses always waiting round him,
He left them virgins as he found them.
His singing was another fault;
For he could reach to B in alt:
And, by the sentiments of Pliny,[1]
Such singers are like Nicolini.
At last, the point was fully clear'd;
In short, Apollo had no beard.
The Black Bordered Letter
by Henry Lawson

An' SO 'e's dead in London,
An' answered to the call,
An' trotted through the Long Street,
With 'earse an' plumes an' all?
We was village boys an' brothers,
We was warm as we could be,
In the milk-walk an' the fried fish,
Up in London, 'im an' me.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As we 'ad always been;
We never 'ad a dry word
Till she come between.
I lived round Windsor Terrace,
An' 'im across the wye,
An' when I sailed a emigrant
We never said good-bye!
He wos better than a brother,
Wot you Bushmen call a mate.
(Did he reach the rylwye stytion,
As they told me, just too late!)
We was warm,
We was warm,
As pals was ever seen;
We never 'ad a dry word
Till she come between.
I meant to go back 'ome again,
I meant to write to-night;
I meant to write by every mail,
But I thought 'e oughter write.
An' now 'e's left North London,
For a better place, perhaps,
She's flauntin' in 'er widder weeds,
With eyes on other chaps.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As we 'ad always been;
We never 'ad a dry word
Till she come between.
Oh! tongues is bad in wimmin,
When wimmin's tongues is bad!
For they'll part men an' brothers
World oceans wide, my lad!
There was seven years between us,
An' fifteen thousand mile,
An' now there's death an' sorrer
For ever an' awhile.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As two was ever seen;
We never 'ad a dry word
Till she come between.
The Wood Nymph
by Mark Akenside

Approach in silence. 'tis no vulgar tale
Which I, the Dryad of this hoary oak,
Pronounce to mortal ears. The second age
Now hasteneth to its period, since I rose
On this fair lawn. The groves of yonder vale
Are, all, my offspring: and each Nymph, who guards
The copses and the furrow'd fields beyond,
Obeys me. Many changes have I seen
In human things, and many awful deeds
Of justice, when the ruling hand of Jove
Against the tyrants of the land, against
The unhallow'd sons of luxury and guile,
Was arm'd for retribution. Thus at length
Expert in laws divine, I know the paths
Of wisdom, and erroneous folly's end
Have oft presag'd: and now well-pleas'd I wait
Each evening till a noble youth, who loves
My shade, awhile releas'd from public cares,
Yon peaceful gate shall enter, and sit down
Beneath my branches. Then his musing mind
I prompt, unseen; and place before his view
Sincerest forms of good; and move his heart
With the dread bounties of the sire supreme
Of gods and men, with freedom's generous deeds,
The lofty voice of glory and the faith
Of sacred friendship. Stranger, I have told
My function. If within thy bosom dwell
Aught which may challenge praise, thou wilt not leave
Unhonor'd my abode, nor shall I hear
A sparing benediction from thy tongue.
Friends.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Are friends delight or pain?
Could bounty but remain
Riches were good.
But if they only stay
Bolder to fly away,
Riches are sad.
Another Acrostic ( In The Style Of Father William )
by Lewis Carroll

"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?"
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head"
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!"
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,"
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:"
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down"
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove."
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside"
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."
The Empty House
by Theodosia Garrison

April will come to the quiet town
That I left long ago,
Scattering primroses up and down--
Row upon happy row.
(Oh, little green lane, will she come your way,
To a certain path I know?)
April will pause by cottage and gate
In the wild, sweet evening rain,
Where the garden borders run brown and straight,
To coax them to bloom again.
(Oh, little sad garden that once was gay,
Must she call to you all in vain?)
April will come to cottage and hill,
Laughing her lovers awake.
(Oh, little closed house, so cold and still,
Will she find you for old joy's sake,
And leave one primrose beside your door,
Lest the heart of your garden break?)
Choice
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 33)
April for me I choose!
In it the old things tumble,
In it things new refresh us;
It makes a mighty rumble, - 
But peace is not so precious
As that his will man shows.
April for me I choose,
Because it storms and scourges,
Because it smiles and blesses,
Because its power purges,
Because it strength possesses, - 
In it the summer grows.
A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People
by Vachel Lindsay

Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven?
Are these your hands upon my wounded soul?
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,
Fly by my path till you have made me whole!