DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Noon
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As some contented bird doth coo
She trilled a song of fond delight,
The while she spread the cloth of white,
And set the cups and plates for two.
She leaned beyond the window sill,
And looked along the busy street,
And listened for his coming feet.
The skies were calm, the winds were still.
'O love, my love, why art thou late?
The kettle boils, the cloth is spread,
The clock points close to noon,' she said.
O clock of time!    O clock of fate!
She heard the moon's glad sound of cheer;
(The hiss, the whirl, the crash, the creak,
Of maddened wheels, the awful shriek
Of awestruck men -she did not hear.)
She lightly tripped about the room,
And near the window, where his eyes
Might greet it with a pleased surprise,
She placed a pot of fragrant bloom.
Strange nervous steps were at the gate.
Why grew her heart so cold, so numb?
The clock struck twelve, the noon had come.
Ah! noon of time!    O noon of fate!
A shattered vase beside the wall;
A young face grey with awful fear,
A rigid shape, a covered bier,
A shadowed life, and that is all.
City Visions.
by Emma Lazarus

I.
As the blind Milton's memory of light,
The deaf Beethoven's phantasy of tone,
Wrought joys for them surpassing all things known
In our restricted sphere of sound and sight, - 
So while the glaring streets of brick and stone
Vex with heat, noise, and dust from morn till night,
I will give rein to Fancy, taking flight
From dismal now and here, and dwell alone
With new-enfranchised senses.    All day long,
Think ye 't is I, who sit 'twixt darkened walls,
While ye chase beauty over land and sea?
Uplift on wings of some rare poet's song,
Where the wide billow laughs and leaps and falls,
I soar cloud-high, free as the the winds are free.
II.
Who grasps the substance? who 'mid shadows strays?
He who within some dark-bright wood reclines,
'Twixt sleep and waking, where the needled pines
Have cushioned all his couch with soft brown sprays?
He notes not how the living water shines,
Trembling along the cliff, a flickering haze,
Brimming a wine-bright pool, nor lifts his gaze
To read the ancient wonders and the signs.
Does he possess the actual, or do I,
Who paint on air more than his sense receives,
The glittering pine-tufts with closed eyes behold,
Breathe the strong resinous perfume, see the sky
Quiver like azure flame between the leaves,
And open unseen gates with key of gold?
A Glimpse Of Heaven
by Joseph Horatio Chant

As the caged eagle neared the mountain range,
O'er which he oft had soared on pinions strong,
He clapped his wings, moved by some impulse strange,
And then fell dead his prison floor along.
So Moses stood on Pisgah's heights alone,
With sight undimmed, and unabated strength;
He gazed with rapture on the vision shown,
Of the fair land in all its breadth and length;
He saw the vale of Eschol clad with vine,
Mount Libbanus adorned with lordly trees,
Gilead and Achor, with their lowing kine,
And verdant Sharon swept by the sea breeze;
He saw the spot where Jacob's ladder stood,
The oaks at Mamre where their father prayed,
Saw Bashan with its pastures and its wood,
And the rude cave where Abram Sarah laid.
Saw the whole land--its hills and vales and streams,
Its lakes and pools, its vineyards and its groves,
A wealth and glory far beyond his dreams;
Better, it seemed, than all earth's treasure troves.
God then revealed a glimpse of His own face,
Which Moses once desired, but God withheld,
But finished now the God-ordained race,
The battle fought, and every passion quelled.
As he beholds the glory of his Lord,
And looks within the pearly gates ajar,
Snaps, in an instant, life's frail brittle cord,
And he is where the holy angels are.
So is it, likewise, with most dying saints;
They see e'en here the beatific sight;
The spirit then breaks thro' this world's restraints,
And enters into heaven's effulgent light.
Not sorrow snaps the silver cord, but joy;
Not woe, but bliss, expands the golden bowl.
The pitcher breaks when free from earth's alloy,
And fails the wheel when heaven has filled the soul.
L'Envoi - The Poet And His Songs
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As the birds come in the Spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
As come the white sails of ships
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
The foam to the surge;
So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
To the vast unknown.
His, and not his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day,
And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: "Write!"
The Evening Of Life.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

As the shadows of evening around me are falling,
With its dark sombre curtain outspread,
And night's just at hand, chilly night so appalling,
And day's brilliant sunshine hath fled,
It is e'en so with me, for the eve of my day
Has arrived, yet I scarcely know how;
Bright morn hath departed, and noon passed away,
And 'tis evening, pale eve with me now.
Oh! where are the friends who in life's early morn,
With me did their journey commence;
Some are estranged, while some few still remain,
And others departed long since.
And when I too, like them, shall be summoned away,
And the shadows of death on me fall,
Be thou the Great Shepherd of Israel but near,
My Saviour, my God, and my all.
And though the "dark valley" we all must pass through,
Yet surely no evil can harm
The sheep, when the Shepherd is walking there too,
And supports them by his mighty arm.
Oh! my Redeemer, wilt thou be with me then,
And food for my journey provide,
Divide the dark waters of Jordan again,
And safe in thy bosom me hide.
Though wild beasts of the desert may roar long and loud,
And the billows of ocean rise high,
With thy rod and thy staff for my strength and support,
I shall pass them in safety all by.
And having crossed Jordan, on Canaan's bright shore
With what joy shall I take a survey,
And reflect that the dangers of life are all o'er,
And with unclouded vision enjoy evermore
The bright sun of an endless day.
Weston, Feb. 4, 1852.
Song Of The New Year.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

As the bright flowers start from their wintry tomb,
I've sprung from the depths of futurity's gloom;
With the glory of Hope on my unshadowed brow,
But a fear at my heart, earth welcomes me now.
I come and bear with me a measureless flow,
Of infinite joy and of infinite woe:
The banquet's light jest and the penitent prayer,
The sweet laugh of gladness, the wail of despair,
The warm words of welcome, and broken farewell,
The strains of rich music, the funeral knell,
The fair bridal wreath, and the robe for the dead,
O how will they meet in the path I shall tread!
O how will they mingle where'er I pass by,
As sunshine and storm in the rainbow on high!
Yet start not, nor shrink from the race I must run;
I've peace and repose for the heart-stricken one,
And strength for the weary who fail in the strife,
And falter before the great warfare of Life.
I've love for the friendless; a morrow of light
For him who is wrapped in adversity's night;
With trust for the doubting, a field for the soul,
That has dared from its loftier purpose to stroll,
To haste to the conflict, and blot out the shame
With the deeds of repentance, and resolute aim
To seek, 'mid the struggle with tempters and sin,
The high meed of virtue triumphant to win.
Unsullied and pure is the future's broad scroll,
And as leaf after leaf from its folds shall unroll,
The warp and the woof they are woven by me,
But the shadows and coloring rest, mortal, with thee.
'T is thine to cast over those leaves as they bloom,
The sunlight of morning or hues of the tomb;
Though moments of sorrow to all must be given,
There 's a vista of light that leads up to heaven;
Nor utterly starless the path thou hast trod,
Till thy heart prove a traitor to thee or to God.
Nursery Rhyme. C. Proverbs.
by Unknown

As the days lengthen,
So the storms strengthen.
Victory Day
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

An Anticipation
As sure as God's in His Heaven,
As sure as He stands for Right,
As sure as the hun this wrong hath done,
So surely we win this fight!
Then!--
Then, the visioned eye shall see
The great and noble company,
That gathers there from land and sea,
From over-land and over-sea,
From under-land and under-sea,
To celebrate right royally
The Day of Victory.
Not alone on that great day,
Will the war-worn victors come,
To meet our great glad "Welcome Home!"
And a whole world's deep "Well done!"
Not alone!    Not alone will they come,
To the sound of the pipe and the drum;
They will come to their own
With the pipe and the drum,
With the merry merry tune
Of the pipe and the drum;--
But--they--will--not--come--alone!
In their unseen myriads there,
Unperceived, but no less there,
In the vast of God's own air,
They will come!--
With never a pipe or a drum,
All the flower of Christendom,
In a silence more majestic,--
They will come!    They will come!
The unknown and the known,
To meet our deep "Well done!"
And the world-resounding thunders
Of our great glad "Welcome Home!"
With their faces all alight,
And their brave eyes shining bright,
From their glorious martyrdom,
They will come!
They will once more all unite
With their comrades of the fight,
To share the world's delight
In the Victory of Right,
And the doom--the final doom--
The final, full, and everlasting doom
Of brutal Might,
They will come!
At the world-convulsing boom
Of the treacherous Austrian gun,--
At the all-compelling "Come!"
Of that deadly signal-gun,--
They gauged the peril, and they came.
--Of many a race, and many a name,
But all ablaze with one white flame,
They tarried not to count the cost,
But came.
They came from many a clime and coast,--
The slim of limb, the dark of face,
They shouldered eager in the race
The sturdy giants of the frost,
And the stalwarts of the sun,--
Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
Britons, every one!
It shall be their life-long boast,
That they counted not the cost,
But, at the Mother-Country's call, they came.
They came a wrong to right,
They came to end the blight
Of a vast ungodly might;
And by their gallant coming overcame.
Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
Britons, every one!
It shall be their nobler boast,--
It shall spell their endless fame,--
That, regardless of the cost,
They won the world for Righteousness,
And cleansed it of its shame.
Britons, Britons, Britons are they!
Britons, every one!
And now,--again they come,
With merry pipe and drum,
Amid the storming cheers,
And the grateful-streaming tears,
Of this our great, glad, sorrowing Welcome-Home.
They shall every one be there,
On the earth or in the air,
From the land and from the sea,
And from under-land and sea,
Not a man shall missing be
From the past and present fighting-strength
Of that great company.
Those who lived, and those who died,
They were one in noble pride
Of desperate endeavour and of duty nobly done;
For their lives they risked and gave
Very Soul of Life to save,
And by their own great valour, and the Grace of God, they won.
Britons, Britons, Britons are they!--
Britons, every one!
New Year Resolve
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As the dead year is clasped by a dead December,
So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.
A new life is yours and a new hope.    Remember
We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.
Stand out in the sunlight of promise, forgetting
Whatever the past held of sorrow and wrong.
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.
Have you missed in your aim?    Well, the mark is still shining.
Did you faint in the race?    Well, take breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back?    But see yonder their lining.
Were you tempted and fell?    Let it serve for a text.
As each year hurries by, let it join that procession
Of skeleton shapes that march down to the past,
While you take your place in the line of progression,
With your eyes to the heavens, your face to the blast.
I tell you the future can hold no terrors
For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting - resolve, resolve!
It is never too late to begin rebuilding,
Though all into ruins your life seems hurled;
For see! how the light of the New Year is gilding
The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.
Epistle To Mrs Teresa Blount. On Her Leaving The Town After The Coronation.[1]
by Alexander Pope

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caused her discontent,
She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day:
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; 
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words!
Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things--but his horse. 
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,
See coronations rise on every green;
Before you pass the imaginary sights
Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now.
Love's Humility
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth,
Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far,
So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth
Look longing up to thee as to a star.
Marsyas
by Matthew Arnold

CALLICLES (from below)
As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day,
And makes the mass'd clouds roll,
The music of the lyre blows away
The clouds that wrap the soul.
Oh, that Fate had let me see
That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre!
That famous, final victory
When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!
When, from far Parnassus' side,
Young Apollo, all the pride
Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,
To the Phrygian highlands came!
Where the long green reed-beds sway
In the rippled waters grey
Of that solitary lake
Where Maeander's springs are born;
Where the ridg'd pine-wooded roots
Of Messogis westward break,
Mounting westward, high and higher.
There was held the famous strife;
There the Phrygian brought his flutes,
And Apollo brought his lyre;
And, when now the westering sun
Touch'd the hills, the strife was done,
And the attentive Muses said
'Marsyas! thou art vanquish'd.'
Then Apollo's minister
Hang'd upon a branching fir
Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,
And began to whet his knife.
But the Maenads, who were there,
Left their friend, and with robes flowing
In the wind, and loose dark hair
O'er their polish'd bosoms blowing,
Each her ribbon'd tambourine
Flinging on the mountain sod,
With a lovely frighten'd mien
Came about the youthful God.
But he turn'd his beauteous face
Haughtily another way,
From the grassy sun-warm'd place,
Where in proud repose he lay,
With one arm over his head,
Watching how the whetting sped.
But aloof on the lake strand,
Did the young Olympus stand,
Weeping at his master's end;
For the Faun had been his friend.
For he taught him how to sing.
And he taught him flute-playing.
Many a morning had they gone
To the glimmering mountain lakes,
And had torn up by the roots
The tall crested water-reeds
With long plumes, and soft brown seeds,
And had carved them into flutes,
Sitting on a tabled stone
Where the shoreward ripple breaks.
And he taught him how to please
The red-snooded Phrygian girls,
Whom the summer evening sees
Flashing in the dance's whirls
Underneath the starlit trees
In the mountain villages.
Therefore now Olympus stands,
At his master's piteous cries
Pressing fast with both his hands
His white garment to his eyes,
Not to see Apollo's scorn;
Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!
Night.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.
The day is full of gladness, and the light
So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
And only hear the great world's voice which rings
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what is - no longer what doth seem.
The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
Revealed, as are the visions to my sight,
The voices known as "Beautiful" come near
And whisper of the vastly Infinite.
Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity,
Their brother Honor, all converse with me,
And kiss my brow, and say, "Be brave of heart!"
O holy three! how beautiful thou art!
The Night says, "Child, sleep that thou may'st arise
Strong for to-morrow's struggle." And I feel
Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes:
Like thistledown I float to the Ideal - 
The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright
As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight,
O food for soul's, sweet dreams of pure delight,
How beautiful the holy hours of Night!
The Poet Sings To Her Poet - The Moon To The Sun
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

As the full moon shining there
To the sun that lighteth her
Am I unto thee for ever,
O my secret glory-giver!
O my light, I am dark but fair,
Black but fair.
Shine, Earth loves thee! And then shine
And be loved through thoughts of mine.
All thy secrets that I treasure
I translate them at my pleasure.
I am crowned with glory of thine.
Thine, not thine.
I make pensive thy delight,
And thy strong gold silver-white.
Though all beauty of nine thou makest,
Yet to earth which thou forsakest
I have made thee fair all night,
Day all night.
Grief
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As the funeral train with its honoured dead
On its mournful way went sweeping,
While a sorrowful nation bowed its head
And the whole world joined in weeping,
I thought, as I looked on the solemn sight,
Of the one fond heart despairing,
And I said to myself, as in truth I might,
"How sad must be this SHARING."
To share the living with even Fame,
For a heart that is only human,
Is hard, when Glory asserts her claim
Like a bold, insistent woman;
Yet a great, grand passion can put aside
Or stay each selfish emotion,
And watch, with a pleasure that springs from pride,
Its rival - the world's devotion.
But Death should render to love its own,
And my heart bowed down and sorrowed
For the stricken woman who wept alone
While even her DEAD was borrowed;
Borrowed from her, the bride - the wife - 
For the world's last martial honour,
As she sat in the gloom of her darkened life,
With her widow's grief fresh upon her.
He had shed the glory of Love and Fame
In a golden halo about her;
She had shared his triumphs and worn his name:
But, alas! he had died without her.
He had wandered in many a distant realm,
And never had left her behind him,
But now, with a spectral shape at the helm,
He had sailed where she could not find him.
It was only a thought, that came that day
In the midst of the muffled drumming
And funeral music and sad display,
That I knew was right and becoming
Only a thought as the mourning train
Moved, column after column,
Bearing the dead to the burial plain
With a reverence grand as solemn.
Night
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.
The day is full of gladness, and the light
So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
And only hear the great world's voice which rings.
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what IS - no longer what doth seem.
The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
Revealed, as are the visions to my sight,
The voices known as "Beautiful" come near
And whisper of the vastly Infinite.
Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity,
Their brother Honour, all converse with me,
And kiss my brow, and say, "Be brave of heart!"
O holy three! how beautiful thou art!
The Night says, "Child, sleep that thou may'st arise
Strong for to-morrow's struggle."    And I feel
Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes:
Like thistledown I float to the Ideal - 
The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright
As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight,
O food for souls, sweet dreams of pure delight,
How beautiful the holy hours of Night!
Tam, The Chapman.
by Robert Burns

As Tam the Chapman on a day,
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way,
Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack;
His social, friendly, honest heart,
Sae tickled Death they could na part:
Sac after viewing knives and garters,
Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.