DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Race.
by A. Hoatson

Has anyone heard of the wonderful race
Of the frogs and the greyhounds, the rabbits and cats?
They rode it on bicycles, sixteen in all,
And the umpires were pugs, with cigars and high hats.
And the number of each kind of racer was four--
Four frogs dressed in green, four rabbits in brown,
Four greyhounds well brushed and with spotless shirt-fronts,
Four pussies with tails hanging gracefully down.
The four solemn puggies inspected them all
And weighed them as gravely as if they were dead.
"The rabbits must carry the dinners for all;
It's a fair handicap, as they're quickest," they said.
(I've heard that the rabbits were angry at this;
And I think that it's true, for they never were seen
Any more by the umpires, although the cats say
They frequently meet them at night on the green.)
And now they are ready, and "Go!" cried the first
Of the four solemn pugs as he lit his cigar.
"I shall act for the rabbits; you choose from the rest,
And carefully watch who first passes the bar."
"The cats shall be mine," says the fourth with a wag
Of his tightly curled tail as he sat on the grass.
"I speak for the frogs," said the third, "for I'm sure
They're cunning enough to let nobody pass."
"So the greyhounds are mine, then," says pug Number Two,
And he put his blue spectacles on, and he sighed,
"I know they'll not win, though they'll all do their best,
For nobody ever has taught them to ride."
The frogs came up first, with their legs straddled wide
On the bicycle handles, their arms folded tight;
Their umpire, the third little pug, gave a shout,
And pushed his hat back in his joy at the sight.
Then up came the greyhounds, and pug Number Two,
Though dissatisfied, felt that he could not ask more.
"But where are the rabbits?" said One with a groan.
"And what has become of my pussies?" whined Four.
Well, the pussies were last, for they would not begin
With the others, but stayed to catch mice and to play;
And the rabbits rode off with the food to the woods,
So nobody got any dinner that day.
On Receiving A Curious Shell
by John Keats

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?
Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,
When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?
Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?
And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?
What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,
Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?
Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?
And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?
Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.
On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;
And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare
Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.
This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;
Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,
When lovely Titania was far, far away,
And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.
There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute
Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;
The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.
In this little dome, all those melodies strange,
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;
Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.
So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,
I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,
And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,
Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.
Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.
Epistle To A Friend
by Thomas Oldham

Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd?
Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend
Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles,
Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel
His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane
With sacred awe, repentant, to confess
The Son of Venus is indeed a God?
I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd
His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd
And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.
The great, creating Parent, when she breathed
Into thine earthly frame the breath of life,
Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul
Of finer essence, capable to trace,
To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good,
Wherever found, through all her various works.
And is not Woman, then, her fairest work,
Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts
Potent to captivate, and softly rule
The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou,
By partial Nature favour'd from the birth?
Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess
The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf
Through half thy genial season to the voice
Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste
Felicity congenial to thy soul?
This was the secret cause: inscrutable
To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd
To celibacy, for thyself alone
Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend
The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast
A visionary flame; for, while retired
In solitude, on classic lore intent,
Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss
Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid,
With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd,
Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope
Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length
She dared to stand on disappointment's verge,
Anticipating such thy future bride.
What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks
Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes,
So darkly bright, should innocently glance,
Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame?
That many a Fair should unregarded pass,
So far unlike the picture in thy mind?
At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld
Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien,
Of artless manners, affable, and gay,
Yet modestly reserved, with native taste
Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart
Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught,
Well-principled in things of prime concern.
Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue
The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd
Upon thy ravish'd view: 'twas She! 'twas She!
Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live;
And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love;
And Nature was obeyed.
Yet still suspense
Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand
Between the realms of happiness and pain,
Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend!
What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid
With virgin blushes and approving smile
Received thy vows, consented to be thine?
Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot,
Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope
That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill
Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times,
Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXIV.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!
Dian, Jove's immortal child,
Huntress of the savage wild!
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.
Turn, to Lethe's river turn,
There thy vanquished people mourn![2]
Come to Lethe's wavy shore,
Tell them they shall mourn no more.
Thine their hearts, their altars thine;
Must they, Dian--must they pine?
Achan
by Henry Kendall

Hath he not followed a star through the darkness,
Ye people who sit at the table of Jephthah?
Oh! turn with the face to a light in the mountains,
Behold it is further from Achan than ever!
'I know how it is with my brothers in Mizpeh,'
Said Achan, the swift-footed runner of Zorah,
'They look at the wood they have hewn for the altar;
And think of a shadow in sackcloth and ashes.
'I know how it is with the daughter of Jephthah,
(O Ada, my love, and the fairest of women!)
She wails in the time when her heart is so zealous
For God who hath stricken the children of Ammon.
'I said I would bring her the odours of Edom,
And armfuls of spices to set at the banquet!
Behold I have fronted the chieftain her father;
And strong men have wept for the leader of thousands!
'My love is a rose of the roses of Sharon,
All lonely and bright as the Moon in the myrtles!
Her lips, like to honeycombs, fill with the sweetness
That Achan the thirsty is hindered from drinking.
'Her women have wept for the love that is wasted
Like wine, which is spilt when the people are wanting,
And hot winds have dried all the cisterns of Elim!
For love that is wasted her women were wailing!
'The timbrels fall silent! And dost thou not hear it,
A voice, like the sound of a lute when we loiter,
And sit by the pools in the valleys of Arnon,
And suck the cool grapes that are growing in clusters?
'She glides, like a myrrh-scented wind, through the willows,
O Ada! behold it is Achan that speaketh:
I know thou art near me, but never can see thee,
Because of the horrible drouth in mine eyelids.'
Has She Forgotten?
by James Whitcomb Riley

I
Has she forgotten? On this very May
We were to meet here, with the birds and bees,
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray -
And yet indeed not grim enough were they
To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstasies,
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.
Has she forgotten - that the May has won
Its promise? - that the bird-songs from the tree
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?
Has she forgotten life - love - everyone -
Has she forgotten me - forgotten me?
II
Low, low down in the violets I press
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?
Has she forgotten thus the old caress
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
In memory of days that used to be, -
Has she forgotten these? And in her sleep,
Has she forgotten me - forgotten me?
III
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces - through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence, -
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses - drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we,
"To-day is ours!"... Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me - forgotten me!
Song. The Words Adapted To "The Cossaka," One Of The Most Ancient Of The Russ Airs.
by John Carr (Sir)

Has Time a changeling made of thee?
Oh! no; and thou art all to me:
He bares the forest, but his pow'rs
Impair not love like ours.
Tho' sever'd from each other's sight,
When once we meet we shall unite,
As dew-drops down the lily run,
And, touching, blend in one.
For thee this bosom learnt to grieve,
Another never made it heave;
When present, oh! it was thy throne,
And, absent, thine alone.
Then may my trembling pilgrim feet
In safety find thy lov'd retreat!
And, if I'm doom'd to drop with care,
Still let me perish there!
Love Fulfilled.
by William Morris

Hast thou longed through weary days
For the sight of one loved face?
Mast thou cried aloud for rest,
Mid the pain of sundering hours;
Cried aloud for sleep and death,
Since the sweet unhoped for best
Was a shadow and a breath?
O, long now, for no fear lowers
O'er these faint feet-kissing flowers.
O, rest now; and yet in sleep
All thy longing shalt thou keep.
Thou shalt rest and have no fear
Of a dull awaking near,
Of a life for ever blind,
Uncontent and waste and wide.
Thou shalt wake and think it sweet
That thy love is near and kind.
Sweeter still for lips to meet;
Sweetest that thine heart doth hide
Longing all unsatisfied
With all longing's answering
Howsoever close ye cling.
Thou rememberest how of old
E'en thy very pain grew cold,
How thou might'st not measure bliss
E'en when eyes and hands drew nigh.
Thou rememberest all regret
For the scarce remembered kiss,
The lost dream of how they met,
Mouths once parched with misery.
Then seemed Love born but to die,
Now unrest, pain, bliss are one,
Love, unhidden and alone.
Songs Set To Music: 27.
by Matthew Prior

Haste, my Nannette,
My lovely maid,
Haste to the bower
Thy swain has made.
For thee alone
I made the bower,
And strew'd the couch
With many a flower.
None but my sheep
Shall near us come;
Venus be praised
My sheep are dumb.
Great god of love
Take thou my crook,
To keep the wolf
From Nannette's flock.
Guard thou the sheep
To her so dear;
My own, alas!
Are less my care.
But of the wolf
If thou'rt afraid,
Come not to us
To call for aid;
For with her swain
My love shall stay,
Though the wolf stroll
And the sheep stray.
An Artist Of The Beautiful
by John Greenleaf Whittier

George Fuller
Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth
Who sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fair
Her shapes took color in thy homestead air!
How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth!
Magician! who from commonest elements
Called up divine ideals, clothed upon
By mystic lights soft blending into one
Womanly grace and child-like innocence.
Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain.
Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin;
Art's place is sacred: nothing foul therein
May crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.
If rightly choosing is the painter's test,
Thy choice, O master, ever was the best
Stanzas From Calderon's Cisma De Inglaterra.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Translated By Medwin And Corrected By Shelley.
[Published by Medwin, "Life of Shelley", 1847, with Shelley's corrections in ''.]
1.
Hast thou not seen, officious with delight,
Move through the illumined air about the flower
The Bee, that fears to drink its purple light,
Lest danger lurk within that Rose's bower?
Hast thou not marked the moth's enamoured flight
About the Taper's flame at evening hour;
'Till kindle in that monumental fire
His sunflower wings their own funereal pyre?
2.
My heart, its wishes trembling to unfold.
Thus round the Rose and Taper hovering came,
'And Passion's slave, Distrust, in ashes cold.
Smothered awhile, but could not quench the flame,' -
Till Love, that grows by disappointment bold,
And Opportunity, had conquered Shame;
And like the Bee and Moth, in act to close,
'I burned my wings, and settled on the Rose.'
Two Years Later
by William Butler Yeats

Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned?
I could have warned you; but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
Hateful Is The Dark-Blue Sky
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
And things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence, ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XLI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Hauing this day my horse, my hand, my launce
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the iudgement of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy Fraunce;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship aduaunce,
Towne folkes my strength; a daintier iudge applies
His praise to sleight which from good vse doth rise;
Some luckie wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I doe take
My blood from them who did excell in this,
Thinke Nature me a man-at-armes did make.
How farre they shot awrie! The true cause is,
Stella lookt on, and from her heau'nly face
Sent forth the beames which made so faire my race.
The Apple Tree.
by Hattie Howard

Has ever a tree from the earth upsprung
Around whose body have children clung,
Whose bounteous branches the birds among
Have pecked the fruit, and chirped and sung - 
Was ever a tree, or shall there be,
So hardy, so sturdy, so good to see,
So welcome a boon to the family,
Like the pride of the farmer, the apple tree?
How he loves to be digging about its root,
Or grafting the bud in the tender shoot,
The daintiest palate that he may suit
With the fairest and finest selected fruit.
How he boasts of his Sweetings, so big for size;
His delicate Greenings - made for pies;
His Golden Pippins that take the prize,
The Astrachans tempting, that tell no lies.
How he learns of the squirrel a thing or two
That the wise little rodents always knew,
And never forget or fail to do,
Of laying up store for the winter through;
So he hollows a space in the mellow ground
Where leaves for lining and straw abound,
And well remembers his apple mound
When a day of scarcity comes around.
By many a token may we suppose
That the knowledge apple no longer grows,
That broke up Adam and Eve's repose
And set the fashion of fig-leaf clothes;
The story's simple and terse and crude,
But still with a morsel of truth imbued:
For of trees and trees by the multitude
Are some that are evil, and some that are good.
The more I muse on those stories old
The more philosophy they unfold
Of husbands docile and women bold,
And Satan's purposes manifold;
Ah, many a couple halve their fare
With that mistaken and misfit air
That the world and all are ready to swear
To a mighty unapple-y mated pair.
The apple's an old-fashioned tree I know,
All gnarled and bored by the curculio,
And loves to stand in a zigzag row;
And doesn't make half so much of a show
As the lovely almond that blooms like a ball,
And spreads out wide like a pink parasol
Set on its stem by the garden-wall;
But I love the apple tree, after all.
"A little more cider" - sings the bard;
And who this juiciness would discard,
Though holding the apple in high regard,
Must be like the cider itself - very hard;
For the spirit within it, as all must know,
Is utterly harmless - unless we go
Like the fool in his folly, and overflow
By drinking a couple of barrels or so.
What of that apple beyond the seas,
Fruit of the famed Hesperides?
But dust and ashes compared to these
That grow on Columbia's apple trees;
And I sigh for the apples of years agone:
For Rambos streaked like the morning dawn,
For Russets brown with their jackets on,
And aromatic as cinnamon.
Oh, the peach and cherry may have their place,
And the pear is fine in its stately grace;
The plum belongs to a puckery race
And maketh awry the mouth and face;
But I long to roam in the orchard free,
The dear old orchard that used to be,
And gather the beauties that dropped for me
From the bending boughs of the apple tree.
Forbearance
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.
by Thomas Moore

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2]
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting.
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear:--
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
The First Black Flag.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Avez-vous oui dire?")
[LES BURGRAVES, Part I., March, 1843.]
JOB. Hast thou ne'er heard men say
That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire,
Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains,
A castle stands, renowned among all castles?
And in this fort, on piles of lava built,
A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed?
Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws - 
Charged with a thousand crimes - for warlike deeds
Renowned - and placed under the Empire's ban
By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council
Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church;
Reprobate, isolated, cursed - yet still
Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will;
The bitter foe of the Count Palatine
And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned
For sixty years the ladder which the Empire
Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he
Shelters the brave - the flaunting rich man strips - 
Of master makes a slave? That here, above
All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors - in the eyes
Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey,
He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance,
A signal of appeal to the crushed people,
A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue,
Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath,
So that kings quiver as the jades at whips?
Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year - 
And that, defying fate, in face of heaven,
On his invincible peak, no force of war
Uprooting other holds - nor powerful C'sar - 
Nor Rome - nor age, that bows the pride of man - 
Nor aught on earth - hath vanquished, or subdued,
Or bent this ancient Titan of the Rhine,
The excommunicated Job?
Democratic Review.
To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs
by John Milton

Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas' ears, committing short and long,
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Ph'bus' quire,
That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
Hast Never Come To Thee An Hour
by Walt Whitman

Hast never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims--books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?
Sonnet I*.
by Edmund Spenser

To the right worshipfull, my singular good frend, M. Gabriell Harvey, Doctor of the Lawes.
Harvey, the happy above happiest men
I read**; that, sitting like a looker-on
Of this worldes stage, doest note with critique pen
The sharpe dislikes of each condition:
And, as one carelesse of suspition,
Ne fawnest for the favour of the great,
Ne fearest foolish reprehension
Of faulty men, which daunger to thee threat:
But freely doest of what thee list entreat,@
Like a great lord of peerelesse liberty,
Lifting the good up to high Honours seat,
And the evill damning evermore to dy:
For life and death is in thy doomeful writing;
So thy renowme lives ever by endighting.
Dublin, this xviij. of July, 1586.
Your devoted friend, during life,
EDMUND SPENCER.