DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Phantoms
by Madison Julius Cawein

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust
Above the cedars and the locust trees:
This was her home, whose beauty now is dust,
A lonely memory for melodies
The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.
Here every evening is a prayer: no boast
Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth;
Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost,
A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth;
And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.
In vagabond velvet, on the placid day,
A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly;
The south wind sows with ripple and with ray
The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky
Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.
Their melancholy quaver, lone and low,
When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat:
The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow,
Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat,
In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.
He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead,
And all the western glow is far withdrawn;
Not till, - a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red, - 
The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn,
Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn.
When in the shadows, like a rain of gold,
The fireflies stream steadily; and bright
Along the moss the glowworm, as of old,
A crawling sparkle - like a crooked light
In smoldering vellum - scrawls a square of night, - 
Then will he come; and she will lean to him, - 
She, - the sweet phantom, - memory of that place, - 
Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim
With suave control and soul-compelling grace,
He cannot help but speak her, face to face.
For A' That And A' That
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Tho' right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,
The true and leilfu' cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a' that.
For a' that an a' that,
Guns, guillotines, and a' that,
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is queen again for a' that!
We'll twine her in a friendly knot
With England's rose and a' that,
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made bra' that.
The Thistle, tho' her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we'll no misca' that,
She sheltered in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that!
The Austrian Vine, the Prussian pine.
(For Blucher's sake, hurra that,)
The Spanish olive too shall join,
And bloom in peace for a' that.
Stout Russia's hemp, so surely twin'd
Around our wreath we'll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!
Or if to chock sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thraw that,
The Devil's Elbo' be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might
In spite of brags and a' that,
The lads that battled for the right,
Have won the day, and a' that!
There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
They ca'd America that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that;
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loun, beware your croun,
There's kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land, or on the sea,
Where'er the breezes blaw that,
The British flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a' that!
The Dog That Dropped The Substance For The Shadow.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
This world is full of shadow-chasers,
Most easily deceived.
Should I enumerate these racers,
I should not be believed.
I send them all to Aesop's dog,
Which, crossing water on a log,
Espied the meat he bore, below;
To seize its image, let it go;
Plunged in; to reach the shore was glad,
With neither what he hoped, nor what he'd had.
Union.
by George Pope Morris

This word beyond all others,
Makes us love our country most,
Makes us feel that we are brothers,
And a heart-united host!--
With hosanna let our banner
From the house-tops be unfurled,
While the nation holds her station
With the mightiest of the world!
Take your harps from silent willows,
Shout the chorus of the free;
"States are all distinct as billows,
Union one--as is the sea!"
From the land of groves that bore us
He's a traitor who would swerve!
By the flag now waving o'er us
We the compact will preserve!
Those who gained it and sustained it,
Were unto each other true,
And the fable well is able
To instruct us what to do!
Take your harps from silent willows,
Shout the chorus of the free;
"States are all distinct as billows,
Union one--as is the sea!"
Tho' Humble The Banquet.
by Thomas Moore

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.
'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.
'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.
Mud
by Edward Dyson

This war's a waste of slurry, and its atmosphere is mud,
All is bog from here to sunset. Wadin' through
We're the victims of a thicker sort of universal flood,
With discomforts that old Noah never knew.
We have dubbed our trench The Cecil. There's a brass-plate and a dome,
And a quagmire where the doormat used to be,
If you're calling, second Tuesday is our reg'lar day at home,
So delighted if you'll toddle in to tea!
There is mud along the corridors enough to bog a cow;
In the air there hangs a musty kind of woof;
There's a frog-pond in the parlour, and the kitchen is a slough.
She has neither doors nor windows, nor a roof.
When they post our bald somnambulist as missing from his flat
We take soundings for the digger with a prop.
By the day the board is gratis, by the week it's half of that;
For the season there's a corresponding drop.
Opening off the spacious hallway is my natty little suite,
A commodious and accessible abode.
By judicious disposition, with exclusion of my feet,
There is sleeping room for Oliver the toad.
Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs the ceiling falls
Which with oral respiration disagrees
Though there comes a certain quantity of seepage from the walls,
There are some I knew in diggings worse than these.
On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's a spring above his head,
And his mattress is a special kind of clay.
He's a most punctilious bloke about the fashion of his bed,
And he makes it with a shovel every day.
Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has been puddled up a treat.
On domestic sanitation he's a toff,
For he lights a fire on Sunday, bakes his surface in the heat,
Then he takes a little maul, and cracks it off.
After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian hole
We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and tidy skins.
In the dark and deadly calm last night they took us on patrol.
Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins.
It was ours like blinded snails to prowl the soggy, slimy night,
With a feeler pricking out at every pore
For the death that stalks in darkness, or the blinking stab of light,
And the other trifling matters that are war.
That's the stuff to get your liver, that's the acid on a man,
For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow throngh.
You have got the thought to comfort you that life is but a span,
If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over you.
We got back again at daybreak. Cobber ducked to doss and said,
From the soft, embracing mud: 'No more I'll roam.
'Oh, thank Heaven, blokes,' he murmured, 'for the comforts of a bed!
Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a home!'
Columbus Cheney
by Edgar Lee Masters

This weeping willow!
Why do you not plant a few
For the millions of children not yet born,
As well as for us?
Are they not non-existent, or cells asleep
Without mind?
Or do they come to earth, their birth
Rupturing the memory of previous being?
Answer!
The field of unexplored intuition is yours.
But in any case why not plant willows for them,
As well as for us?
Marie Bateson
You observe the carven hand
With the index finger pointing heavenward.
That is the direction, no doubt.
But how shall one follow it?
It is well to abstain from murder and lust,
To forgive, do good to others, worship God
Without graven images.
But these are external means after all
By which you chiefly do good to yourself.
The inner kernel is freedom,
It is light, purity - 
I can no more,
Find the goal or lose it, according to your vision.
An Ode Written In The Peake
by Michael Drayton

This while we are abroad,
Shall we not touch our Lyre?
Shall we not sing an ODE?
Shall that holy Fire,
In vs that strongly glow'd,
In this cold Ayre expire?
Long since the Summer layd
Her lustie Brau'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
And BOREAS 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
Great BRVTES first builded Towne.
Though in the vtmost Peake,
A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
To exercise our Vaine.
What though bright PHOEBVS Beames
Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
Be many Wonders found;
Yet many Riuers cleare
Here glide in Siluer Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
T' asswage breeme Winters scathes.
Those grim and horrid Caues,
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saues,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craues,
And doth inuite our Lay.
In places farre or neere,
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
Or where the most impure,
All times, and euery-where,
The Muse is still in vre.
The Wolf, The Mother, And Her Child.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
This wolf another brings to mind,
Who found dame Fortune more unkind,
In that the greedy, pirate sinner,
Was balk'd of life as well as dinner.
As saith our tale, a villager
Dwelt in a by, unguarded place;
There, hungry, watch'd our pillager
For luck and chance to mend his case.
For there his thievish eyes had seen
All sorts of game go out and in - 
Nice sucking calves, and lambs and sheep;
And turkeys by the regiment,
With steps so proud, and necks so bent,
They'd make a daintier glutton weep.
The thief at length began to tire
Of being gnaw'd by vain desire.
Just then a child set up a cry:
'Be still,' the mother said, 'or I
Will throw you to the wolf, you brat!'
'Ha, ha!' thought he, 'what talk is that!
The gods be thank'd for luck so good!'
And ready at the door he stood,
When soothingly the mother said,
'Now cry no more, my little dear;
That naughty wolf, if he comes here,
Your dear papa shall kill him dead.'
'Humph!' cried the veteran mutton-eater.
'Now this, now that! Now hot, now cool!
Is this the way they change their metre?
And do they take me for a fool?
Some day, a nutting in the wood,
That young one yet shall be my food.'
But little time has he to dote
On such a feast; the dogs rush out
And seize the caitiff by the throat;
And country ditchers, thick and stout,
With rustic spears and forks of iron,
The hapless animal environ.
'What brought you here, old head?' cried one.
He told it all, as I have done.
'Why, bless my soul!' the frantic mother said, - 
'You, villain, eat my little son!
And did I nurse the darling boy,
Your fiendish appetite to cloy?'
With that they knock'd him on the head.
His feet and scalp they bore to town,
To grace the seigneur's hall,
Where, pinn'd against the wall,
This verse completed his renown: - 
"Ye honest wolves, believe not all
That mothers say, when children squall!"
Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer.
by Robert Burns

This wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.
I've been at druken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken:
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi' a Lord, stand out, my shin!
A Lord, a Peer, an Earl's son!
Up higher yet, my bonnet!
And sic a Lord! lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.
But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,
And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.
I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.
I watch'd the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.
Then from his lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.
Nicholas Nye
by Walter De La Mare

Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said,
"Poor Nicholas Nye!"
Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray, - 
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he'd smile: - 
Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may, - 
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.
The Mad Tory And The Comet.
by Thomas Moore

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.
1832-3.
'mutantem regna cometem."
LUCAN.[1]
"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail,
"Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us,
"We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;--
"Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?
"No--'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh;
"Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters;
"One whisk from that tail as it passes us by
"Will settle at once all political matters;--
"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,
"(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;--
"Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours
"Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!
"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock,
"Meet planets and suns in one general hustle!
"While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock
"That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."
Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised,
His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set:
And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed,
Much hoped that there would before Parliament met.
And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass,
"Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries;
While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas!
From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:--
"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big!
"Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:--
"And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig,
"In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.
"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind,
"Londonderry, in vacuo, flaring about;--
"While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,
"Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.
"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet;
"So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale;
"The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it,
"And plenty of vapor, but--where is the tail?"
Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated--
For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed,
Which he took to be Cumberland, upwards translated,
Instead of his natural course, t'other road!
But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,--
Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and    grimaces,
Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken,
And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXV. - The Last Supper
by William Wordsworth

By Leonardo Da Vinci, In The Refectory Of The Convent Of Maria Della Grazia - Milan.
Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the Beholder and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!
Poem: Le Jardin Des Tuileries
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
The Mongoos.
by Oliver Herford

THIS, Chil-dren, is the famed Mon-goos.
He has an ap-pe-tite ab-struse;
Strange to re-late, this crea-ture takes
A cu-ri-ous joy in eat-ing snakes - 
All kinds, though, it must be con-fessed,
He likes the poi-son-ous ones the best.
From him we learn how ve-ry small
A thing can bring a-bout a Fall.
Oh, Mon-goos, where were you that day
When Mis-tress Eve was led a-stray?
If you'd but seen the ser-pent first,
Our Parents would not have been cursed,
And so there would be no ex-cuse
For MIL-TON, but for you - Mon-goos!
The Nettles
by Thomas Hardy

This, then, is the grave of my son,
Whose heart she won! And nettles grow
Upon his mound; and she lives just below.
How he upbraided me, and left,
And our lives were cleft, because I said
She was hard, unfeeling, caring but to wed.
Well, to see this sight I have fared these miles,
And her firelight smiles from her window there,
Whom he left his mother to cherish with tender care!
It is enough. I'll turn and go;
Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he,
Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.
In Memoriam. - Mrs. Margaret Walbridge,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.
WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
This was her birth-day here,
When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
In these terrestrial bowers.
She hath a birth-day now
No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
Nor chill of wintry snows.
She hath no pain or fear,
But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.
They sorrow, who were called
From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
Around their inmost heart.
Tears are upon the cheeks
Of little ones this day,
God of the motherless,--whose eye
Notes even the ravens when they cry
Wipe Thou their tears away:
Oh, comfort all who grieve
Beside the sacred urn,--
For brief our space to wail or sigh,
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,
And rest with those we mourn.
Witchcraft
by Madison Julius Cawein

This world is made a witchcraft place
With gazing on a woman's face.
Now 'tis her smile, whose sorcery
Turns all my thoughts to melody.
Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,
That makes my day a page of prose.
And now her laugh, or but a word,
That in my heart frees wild a bird.
Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,
Will lift from my dumb life the curse
Of longing, inarticulate,
That keeps me sad and celibate.
This World Is All A Fleeting Show. (Air.--Stevenson.)
by Thomas Moore

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
There's nothing calm but Heaven!
A World Redeemed
by Joseph Horatio Chant

This world is but the shadow
Of the world that is to be,
A ripple on the surface
Of a deep, unfathomed sea.
God's plans are always perfect,
But long ages intervene
From the planning of the temple
To the glow upon its sheen;
But we can be co-workers
In accomplishing his plan;
For in God's purpose is a place
For every son of man.
The germ may be developed
In a more salubrious clime,
All obstacles surmounted
In the onward march of time,
And nature's forces harnessed
Will their destiny fulfil,
And things now deemed supernal
Respond to human will;
For God has so adjusted
The laws of this earthly sphere,
That by man's help his plans unfold,
And order doth appear.
The words of God's own prophets
Concerning these latter days
Of mighty transformations,
To our great Redeemer's praise;
When wastes shall glow in beauty,
And the savage beast be kind,
Though they have prior fulfilment
In the realm of soul and mind;
Will then be more than figure,
Though that we all count sublime;
The earth will wear its regal robes
In every land and clime.
This life is but a sample
Of the life that is to be;
There we know the perfect lesson,
Here we learn the a--b--c;
And the life beyond is fashioned
By the thoughts and deeds of this;
Fitting it for realms of darkness,
Or for never-ending bliss;
For those alone will sorrow
Who receive His grace in vain,
But those who wrought with God will prove
That godliness is gain.
Hope.
by John Clare

This world has suns, but they are overcast;
This world has sweets, but they're of ling'ring bloom;
Life still expects, and empty falls at last;
Warm Hope on tiptoe drops into the tomb.
Life's journey's rough--Hope seeks a smoother way,
And dwells on fancies which to-morrow see,--
To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day,
And empty shadow of what is to be;
Yet cheated Hope on future still depends,
And ends but only when our being ends.
I long have hoped, and still shall hope the best
Till heedless weeds are scrambling over me,
And hopes and ashes both together rest
At journey's end, with them that cease to be.