DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Mrs. Merdle Suggesteth That Dinner Being Finished, The Gentlement Will Smoke. In The Meantime, She Discourseth.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

"Now Merdle--now Colonel--I know you are waiting.
And thinking my talking to eating's a bar,
Still hoping, by tasting, my appetite sating,
Will give you the license to smoke a cigar.
Well then, I've done now, and hope too you've dined,
As well as down town where you dine for a shilling,
At Taylor's, or Thompson's, or one of the kind,
Where mortals are flocking each day for their filling;
Or else at the Astor where bachelors quarter,
Where port holes for windows give light to the room,
Far out of the region of Eve's every daughter,
So high they are stuck up away toward the moon.
Though as for the 'stuck up' no walls built of brick,
Or granite, or marble, or dirty red sand,
Could stick up a man who himself's but a stick,
An inch above where he would naturally stand.
To witness the truth of this final assertion,
I call you to witness the sticks at the door,
Where they make it a daily, a 'manly' diversion,
To ogle each woman, and sometimes do more,
Who passes the hotel that's named by a saint,
Where boorish bad manners give room for complaint.
Where idlers and loafers, with gamblers a few,
Make up for the nonce the St. Nicholas crew.
The 'outside barbarians,' I freely confess,
Who ogle our faces and ogle our dress,
Who spit where we walk as dirty a puddle
As bipeds can make when their brains are 'a muddle,'
Do not prove the inside is as dirty as they are,
Or else the gods help all the ladies who stay there.
Why any prefer in a hotel to stay,
Instead of a house of their choosing to own,
Is just to avoid all the trouble, they say,
That servants to give us are certainly prone,
I'm sure if a tyranny more terrible prevails,
In Austria or other despotic domain,
My memory where most certainly fails,
That servants and milliners over us gain,
Just here in New York, and the more is the pity,
Where Wood is the Mogul that governs the city.
Isabel.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

Now o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades,
And the shut lily cradles not the bee;
The red deer couches in the forest glades,
And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:
And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee,
The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:
Lady, forgive, that ever upon me
Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams
Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams.
On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray,
And watch far off the glimmering roselight break
O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray
Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.
Oh! who felt not new life within him wake,
And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn -
(Save one we wot of, whom the cold DID make
Feel "shooting pains in every joint in turn,")
When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?
And years have past, and I have gazed once more
On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue;
And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before -
For all awakened memories of you.
Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu
Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry,
(Flies in those parts unfortunately do,)
Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry,
And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!
O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme
That ere drew dreamer on to poesy,
Since "Peggy's locks" made Burns neglect his team,
And Stella's smile lured Johnson from his tea -
I may not tell thee what thou art to me!
But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear,
Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be,
Would he but "do the duty that lies near,"
And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer.
At Evening's Hush
by John Frederick Freeman

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd,
Your joys from this fair hill
Through golden eves and still:
There sounds from yon dense quarry
A burden harsh and sorry.
No piping now, poor Shepherd.
Men strive with violent hand,
And anger stirs the bland
Blithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled,
Save with great spirits assembled.
No more, no more, sad Shepherd,
Let thy bright fingers stray
Idly in the old way;
No more their nimble glancing
Set gleeful spirits a-dancing.
Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd!
There needs no note of thine
For men deaf, undivine....
And lest brute hands should take it,
O sorrowful Shepherd, break it!
Imitation Of Spenser
by John Keats

Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By many streams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;
Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
And oar'd himself along with majesty;
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
That in that fairest lake had placed been,
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
For sure so fair a place was never seen,
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the c'rulean sky.
And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
Haply it was the workings of its pride,
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outviewing all the buds in Flora's diadem.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVIII.
by Thomas Moore

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!
Repression Of War Experience
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame - 
No, no, not that, - it's bad to think of war,
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand,
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking, count fifteen,
And you're as right as rain...
Why won't it rain? ...
I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they're so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees, - 
Not people killed in battle, - they're in France, - 
But horrible shapes in shrouds - old men who died
Slow, natural deaths, - old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
*        *        *        *        *
You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ...
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud, - quite soft ... they never cease - 
Those whispering guns - O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop - I'm going crazy;
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.
A Song Of French Roads
by Rudyard Kipling

Now praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That bring a heart's desire,
And lay the joyous roads of France
Once more beneath the tyre,
So numbered by Napoleon,
The veriest ass can spy
How Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame
And Ten is for Hendaye.
Sixteen hath fed our fighting-line
From Dunkirk to P'ronne,
And Thirty-nine and Twenty-nine
Can show where it has gone,
Which slant through Arras and Bapaume,
And join outside Cambrai,
While Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
The crops and houses spring once more
Where Thirty-seven ran,
And even ghostly Forty-four
Is all restored to man.
Oh, swift as shell-hole poppies pass
The blurring years go by,
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!
And you desire that sheeted snow
Where chill Mont Louis stands?
And we the rounder gales that blow
Full-lunged across the Landes,
So you will use the Orleans Gate,
While we slip through Versailles;
Since Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
Sou'-West by South, and South by West,
On every vine appear
Those four first cautious leaves that test
The temper of the year;
The dust is white at Angoul'me,
The sun is warm at Blaye;
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
Broad and unbridled, mile on mile,
The highway drops her line
Past Langon down that grey-walled aisle
Of resin-scented pine;
And ninety to the lawless hour
The kilometres fly,
What was your pace to Bourg-Madame?
We sauntered to Hendaye.
Now Fontarabia marks our goal,
And Bidassoa shows,
At issue with each whispering shoal
In violet, pearl and rose,
Ere crimson over ocean's edge
The sunset banners die . . .
Yes, Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
But Ten is for Hendaye!
Oh, praise the Gods of Time and Chance
That ease the long control,
And bring the glorious soul of France
Once more to cheer our soul
With beauty, change and valiancy
Of sun and soil and sky,
Where Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!
Friends
by William Butler Yeats

Now must I these three praise,
Three women that have wrought
What joy is in my days;
One that no passing thought,
Nor those unpassing cares,
No, not in these fifteen
Many times troubled years,
Could ever come between
Heart and delighted heart;
And one because her hand
Had strength that could unbind
What none can understand,
What none can have and thrive,
Youth's dreamy load, till she
So changed me that I live
Labouring in ecstasy.
And what of her that took
All till my youth was gone
With scarce a pitying look?
How could I praise that one?
When day begins to break
I count my good and bad,
Being wakeful for her sake,
Remembering what she had,
What eagle look still shows,
While up from my heart's root
So great a sweetness flows
I shake from head to foot.
Merdle The Banker.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Now Merdle this day having toss'd with his horns
The bears that were pulling so hard at the stocks,
And gored every bull that was treading his corns,
Had lined all his pockets with "plenty of rocks,"
And home now was driving at "two forty" speed,
Where dinner was waiting--"a jolly good feed."
Himself feeling happy, he knew by my looks,
A case full of sadness and deep destitution
Was present in person, not read of in books,
Appealing in pity for an alms institution.
A Song For Old Age.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Now nights grow cold and colder,
And North the wild vane swings,
And round each tree and boulder
The driving snow-storm sings - 
Come, make my old heart older,
O memory of lost things!
Of Hope, when promise sung her
Brave songs and I was young,
That banquets now on hunger
Since all youth's songs are sung;
Of Love, who walks with younger
Sweethearts the flowers among.
Ah, well! while Life holds levee,
Death's ceaseless dance goes on.
So let the curtains, heavy
About my couch, be drawn - 
The curtains, sad and heavy,
Where all shall sleep anon.
Olton Pools
by John Drinkwater

Now June walks on the waters,
And the cuckoo's last enchantment
Passes from Olton pools.
Now dawn comes to my window
Breathing midsummer roses,
And scythes are wet with dew.
Is it not strange for ever
That, bowered in this wonder,
Man keeps a jealous heart?...
That June and the June waters,
And birds and dawn-lit roses,
Are gospels in the wind,
Fading upon the deserts,
Poor pilgrim revelations?...
Hist ... over Olton pools!
Now of course
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Now of course I put on my straw hat.
Rain has washed the evening blue.
How the world glows!    I look up piously,
My hands deep in my trouser pockets.
If the morning drives me home with screams and stones,
Half dead, stripped of my skin,
Yet I'm ready for the night!    I shall soon be happy!
Street lamps blaze.    Kitchen maids screech!
Now Listen To Me And I'll Tell You My Views
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Now listen to me and I'll tell you my views concerning the African war,
And the man who upholds any different views, the same is a ritten Pro-Boer!
(Though I'm getting a little bit doubtful myself, as it drags on week after week:
But it's better not ask any questions at all, let us silence all doubts with a shriek!)
And first let us shriek the unstinted abuse that the Tory Press prefer,
De Wet is a madman, and Steyn is a liar, and Kruger a pitiful cur!
(Though I think if Oom Paul, as old as he is, were to walk down the Strand with his gun,
A lot of these heroes would hide in the sewers or take to their heels and run!
For Paul he has fought like a man in his day, but now that he's feeble and weak
And tired, and lonely, and old and grey, of course it's quite safe to shriek!)
And next let us join in the bloodthirsty shriek, Hooray for Lord Kitchener's "bag"!
For the fireman's torch and the hangman's cord, they are hung on the English Flag!
In the front of our brave old army! Whoop! the farmhouse blazes bright.
And the women weep and their children die, how dare they presume to fight!
For none of them dress in a uniform, the same as by rights they ought.
They're fighting in rags and in naked feet, like Wallace's Scotchmen fought!
(And they clothe themselves from our captured troops, and they're catching them every week;
And they don't hand them, and the shame is ours, but we cover the shame with a shriek!)
And, lastly, we'll shriek the political shriek as we sit in the dark and doubt;
Where the Birmingham Judas* led us in, and there's no one to lead us out.
And Rosebery**, whom we depended upon! Would only the Oracle speak!
"You go to the Grocers," says he, "for your laws!" By Heavens! it's time to shriek!
Oisin After The Fenians
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

Now my strength is gone from me, I that was adviser to the Fenians, my whole body is tired to-night, my hands, my feet, and my head; tired, tired, tired.
It is bad the way I am after Finn of the Fenians; since he is gone away, every good is behind me.
Without great people, without mannerly ways; it is sorrowful I am after our king that is gone.
I am a shaking tree, my leaves gone from me; an empty nut, a horse without a bridle; a people without a dwelling-place, I Oisin, son of Finn.
It is long the clouds are over me to-night! it is long last night was; although this day is long, yesterday was longer again to me; every day that comes is long to me.
That is not the way I used to be, without fighting, without battles, without learning feats, without young girls, without music, without harps, without bruising bones, without great deeds; without increase of learning, without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without courting, without hunting, the two trades I was used to; without going out to battle. Ochone! the want of them is sorrowful to me.
No hunting of deer or stag, it is not like that I would wish to be; no leashes for our hounds, no hounds; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
There is no one at all in the world the way I am; it is a pity the way I am; an old man dragging stones.    It is long the clouds are over me to-night!
I am the last of the Fenians, great Oisin, son of Finn, listening to the voice of bells; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Inis F'l
by James Stephens

Now may we turn aside and dry our tears,
And comfort us, and lay aside our fears,
For all is gone, all comely quality,
All gentleness and hospitality,
All courtesy and merriment is gone;
Our virtues all are withered every one,
Our music vanished and our skill to sing:
Now may we quiet us and quit our moan,
Nothing is whole that could be broke; no thing
Remains to us of all that was our own.
Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Dana' to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
Survival Of The Fittest.
by James McIntyre

Now let the hero of our song,
Be he who gentle treats the throng,
And would not cruel treat another,
But to each be as to a brother.
And he must have both sense and wit,
And be possessed of strength and grit,
Then strong as proof of holy writ,
For to survive he is most fit.
And according to our test,
The fittest only is the best,
These have a right for to survive,
And well they do deserve to thrive.
And this kind of evolution
It will bring no revolution,
But revolve in Christian sphere,
Where scripture truths are prized and dear.
Give us the man doth persevere,
And presses on in his career,
Undaunted struggling for the right,
Though all mankind 'gainst him unite.
Though now on top of highest mount,
Where he has found true honour's fount,
Yet those below he don't despise,
But strives to aid them for to rise.
By An Autumn Stream
by Archibald Lampman

Now overhead,
Where the rivulet loiters and stops,
The bittersweet hangs from the tops
Of the alders and cherries
Its bunches of beautiful berries,
Orange and red.
And the snowbirds flee,
Tossing up on the far brown field,
Now flashing and now concealed,
Like fringes of spray
That vanish and gleam on the gray
Field of the sea.
Flickering light,
Come the last of the leaves down borne,
And patches of pale white corn
In the wind complain,
Like the slow rustle of rain
Noticed by night.
Withered and thinned,
The sentinel mullein looms,
With the pale gray shadowy plumes
Of the goldenrod;
And the milkweed opens its pod,
Tempting the wind.
Aloft on the hill,
A cloudrift opens and shines
Through a break in its gorget of pines,
And it dreams at my feet
In a sad, silvery sheet,
Utterly still.
All things that be
Seem plunged into silence, distraught,
By some stern, some necessitous thought:
It wraps and enthralls
Marsh, meadow, and forest; and falls
Also on me.
We Must Send Them Out To Play
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste;
But slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so:
When a murderer's hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste;
And the way to change his purpose is first to knock him down
And teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.
The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon;
And the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way,
For the roots of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon;
If you would better your garden and make the most of your soil,
Hurry and dig up the evil things and cast them out to-day.
The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface;
We must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls to their sons.
But listen, my brothers, listen - when a child cries out in pain,
We must rise from the banquet board and go, though the host is saying grace;
We must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our little ones,
Nor ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.
The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes,
As a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow.
But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day;
If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise?
We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children NOW;
We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to play.
Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux.
by Robert Burns

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
E'er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him,
Except the moment that they crush't him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em,
And thought it sport.
Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark.
Yet that was never Robin's mark
To mak a man;
But tell him he was learned and clark,
Ye roos'd him than!
Envious Minnie
by Heinrich Hoffmann

Now Minnie was a pretty girl,
Her hair so gracefully did curl;
She had a slender figure, too,
And rosy cheeks, and eyes of blue.
And yet, with all those beauties rare,
Those angel eyes and curly hair,
Oh! many, many faults had she,
The worst of which was jealousy.
When on the brilliant Christmas tree
St. Nicholas hung his gifts so free,
The envious Minnie could not bear
With any one those gifts to share.
And when her sisters' birthdays came
Minnie (it must be told with shame)
Would envy every pretty thing
Which dear Mamma to them would bring.
Sometimes great tears rolled from her eyes,
Sometimes she pierced the air with cries,
For hours together she would fret
Because their toys she could not get.
Ah, then! how changed this pretty child,
No longer amiable and mild.
That fairy form and smiling face
Lost all their sprightliness and grace.
Her tender mother often sighed,
And to reform her daughter tried.
"Oh! Minnie, Minnie," she would say,
"Quite yellow you will turn some day."
Now came the merry Christmas feast;
St. Nicholas brought to e'en the least
Such pretty presents, rich and rare,
But all the best for Minnie were.
Now to her little sister Bess
St. Nicholas brought a yellow dress;
This Minnie longed for (envious child),
And snatched it from her sister mild.
Then all in tears did Bessie run
To tell her mother what was done.
Then Minnie ran triumphantly
To try the dress on, as you see.
But Minnie was not satisfied,
She pouted, fretted, sulked, and cried;
Sisters and brothers had no rest,--
She vowed their presents were the best,
And springing quickly to the glass,
What saw she there? Alas! alas!
Oh! what a sad, such deep disgrace!
She found she had a yellow face.
"Ah, me!" she cried, now, in despair,
"Where are my rosy cheeks--oh, where?"
Exclaimed her mother, "Now you see
The punishment of jealousy."
Fragment. Trionfo Della Morte.
by Emma Lazarus

Now since nor grief nor fear was longer there,
Each thought on her fair face was clear to see,
Composed into the calmness of despair -
Not like a flame extinguished violently,
But one consuming of its proper light.
Even so, in peace, serene of soul, passed she.
Even as a lamp, so lucid, softly-bright,
Whose sustenance doth fail by slow degrees,
Wearing unto the end, its wonted plight.
Not pale, but whiter than the snow one sees
Flaking a hillside through the windless air.
Like one o'erwearied, she reposed in peace
As 't were a sweet sleep filled each lovely eye,
The soul already having fled from there.
And this is what dull fools have named to die.
Upon her fair face death itself seemed fair.