DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Homer's Hymn To Venus.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphrodite,
Who wakens with her smile the lulled delight
Of sweet desire, taming the eternal kings
Of Heaven, and men, and all the living things
That fleet along the air, or whom the sea,
Or earth, with her maternal ministry,
Nourish innumerable, thy delight
All seek ... O crowned Aphrodite!
Three spirits canst thou not deceive or quell: -
Minerva, child of Jove, who loves too well
Fierce war and mingling combat, and the fame
Of glorious deeds, to heed thy gentle flame.
Diana ... golden-shafted queen,
Is tamed not by thy smiles; the shadows green
Of the wild woods, the bow, the...
And piercing cries amid the swift pursuit
Of beasts among waste mountains, - such delight
Is hers, and men who know and do the right.
Nor Saturn's first-born daughter, Vesta chaste,
Whom Neptune and Apollo wooed the last,
Such was the will of aegis-bearing Jove;
But sternly she refused the ills of Love,
And by her mighty Father's head she swore
An oath not unperformed, that evermore
A virgin she would live mid deities
Divine: her father, for such gentle ties
Renounced, gave glorious gifts - thus in his hall
She sits and feeds luxuriously. O'er all
In every fane, her honours first arise
From men - the eldest of Divinities.
These spirits she persuades not, nor deceives,
But none beside escape, so well she weaves
Her unseen toils; nor mortal men, nor gods
Who live secure in their unseen abodes.
She won the soul of him whose fierce delight
Is thunder - first in glory and in might.
And, as she willed, his mighty mind deceiving,
With mortal limbs his deathless limbs inweaving,
Concealed him from his spouse and sister fair,
Whom to wise Saturn ancient Rhea bare.
but in return,
In Venus Jove did soft desire awaken,
That by her own enchantments overtaken,
She might, no more from human union free,
Burn for a nursling of mortality.
For once amid the assembled Deities,
The laughter-loving Venus from her eyes
Shot forth the light of a soft starlight smile,
And boasting said, that she, secure the while,
Could bring at Will to the assembled Gods
The mortal tenants of earth's dark abodes,
And mortal offspring from a deathless stem
She could produce in scorn and spite of them.
Therefore he poured desire into her breast
Of young Anchises,
Feeding his herds among the mossy fountains
Of the wide Ida's many-folded mountains, -
Whom Venus saw, and loved, and the love clung
Like wasting fire her senses wild among.
Music.
by Archibald Lampman

Move on, light hands, so strongly tenderly,
Now with dropped calm and yearning undersong,
Now swift and loud, tumultuously strong,
And I in darkness, sitting near to thee,
Shall only hear, and feel, but shall not see,
One hour made passionately bright with dreams,
Keen glimpses of life's splendour, dashing gleams
Of what we would, and what we cannot be.
Surely not painful ever, yet not glad,
Shall such hours be to me, but blindly sweet,
Sharp with all yearning and all fact at strife,
Dreams that shine by with unremembered feet,
And tones that like far distance make this life
Spectral and wonderful and strangely sad.
Occasioned By Some Verses Of His Grace The Duke Of Buckingham.
by Alexander Pope

Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends,
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain,
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
Youth And Age
by William Butler Yeats

Much did I rage when young,
Being by the world oppressed,
But now with flattering tongue
It speeds the parting guest.
Sonnet XI: On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer
by John Keats

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific, and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Idols.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

I.
Mouths have they, but they speak not:
Yet something in the certainty of faith
To their disciples saith:
"Believe on me and vengeance I will wreak not."
The word that conquers death--
The immutable and boundless gift of grace--
Dwells in that stony face,
And every supplication answereth.
Mouths have they, but they speak not;
Yet one supernal will that shapes to suit
A great decree that can not be belied
Utters from voiceless lips those creeds that guide
The tribes that never heard
The living, saving Word,--
That have their dead gods and are satisfied.
II.
Eyes have they, but they see not:
Yet the pagan builds his shrine,
And keeps his fires divine
Forever bright, nor darkly doubts there be not
Enough of grace and power
Within those eyes that glower
To read his soul. To him they are not blind,
For some dim, undefined
Reward of faith that thrills his untaught breast
Links up his baser mind
To the clear eyes of God that burn behind
The stony brow. It is a creed professed
Before a deity not quenched in space,
But one to whom his bands
Can lift adoring hands,
And see and touch and worship face to face.
III.
Ears have they, but they hear not:
Yet the heathen kneel and pray,
Nor in their madness say:
"Thou art no god, and therefore I will fear not;
What if I disobey?
Thou art but stone or clay."
They hear not, but their worshippers impute
Them faculties to suit
The divination of the prayers they say;
And Christ, who understands
His children in all lands
When from the dark their dying souls have cried,
Shrines His great heart of love within the clod
The savage calls his god
And all idolatry is deified.
Ars Postera
by Owen Seaman

[On an advertisement of A Comedy of Sighs.]
Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
You're getting quite a high renown;
Your Comedy of Leers, you know,
Is posted all about the town;
This sort of stuff I cannot puff,
As Boston says, it makes me 'tired';
Your Japanee-Rossetti girl
Is not a thing to be desired.
Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
New English Art (excuse the chaff)
Is like the Newest Humour style,
It's not a thing at which to laugh;
But all the same, you need not maim
A beauty reared on Nature's rules;
A simple maid au naturel
Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.
Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
You put strange phantoms on our walls,
If not so daring as To-day's,
Nor quite so Hardy as St. Paul's;
Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,
Grande Dame Sans Merci she may be;
But there is that about her throat
Which I myself don't care to see.
Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
The Philistines across the way,
They say her lips, well, never mind
Precisely what it is they say;
But I have heard a drastic word
That scarce is fit for dainty ears;
But then their taste is not the kind
Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.
Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
On fair Elysian lawns apart
Burd Helen of the Trojan time
Smiles at the latest mode of Art;
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
It's not important to be New;
New Art would better Nature's best,
But Nature knows a thing or two.
Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
Are there no models at your gate,
Live, shapely, possible and clean?
Or won't they do to 'decorate'?
Then by all means bestrew your scenes
With half the lotuses that blow,
Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,
But let the human woman go!
Richmond Hill
by Matthew Arnold

Murmur of living!
Stir of existence!
Soul of the world!
Make, oh make yourselves felt
To the dying spirit of Youth.
Come, like the breath of the spring.
Leave not a human soul
To grow old in darkness and pain.
Only the living can feel you
But leave us not while we live
Music Comes
by John Frederick Freeman

Music comes
Sweetly from the trembling string
When wizard fingers sweep
Dreamily, half asleep;
When through remembering reeds
Ancient airs and murmurs creep,
Oboe oboe following,
Flute answering clear high flute,
Voices, voices--falling mute,
And the jarring drums.
At night I heard
First a waking bird
Out of the quiet darkness sing....
Music comes
Strangely to the brain asleep!
And I heard
Soft, wizard fingers sweep
Music from the trembling string,
And through remembering reeds
Ancient airs and murmurs creep;
Oboe oboe following,
Flute calling clear high flute,
Voices faint, falling mute,
And low jarring drums;
Then all those airs
Sweetly jangled--newly strange,
Rich with change....
Was it the wind in the reeds?
Did the wind range
Over the trembling string;
Into flute and oboe pouring
Solemn music; sinking, soaring
Low to high,
Up and down the sky?
Was it the wind jarring
Drowsy far-off drums?
Strangely to the brain asleep
Music comes.
The Cock-Fighter's Garland.[1]
by William Cowper

Muse'hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.
That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.
This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.
In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose,
Possess'd of every kind.
Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks on his well-dress'd head
Wing'd broad on either side,
The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat,
As luxury could provide.
Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight
'Twixt birds to battle train'd.
One feather'd champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The C'sar of his race.
It chanced at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desperate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.
The master storm'd, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,
He doom'd his favourite dead.
He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird,
Alive and struggling, tied.
The horrid sequel asks a veil;
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be shall be sunk'
Led by the sufferer's screams aright
His shock'd companions view the sight,
And him with fury drunk.
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.
But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,
Big with a curse too closely pent,
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.
'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgment of the skies;
But judgments plain as this,
That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,
'Tis hard to read amiss.
A Poet To His Muse
by John Collings Squire, Sir

Muse, you have opened like a flower.
*     *     *     *     *
Long ago I knew that brown integument,
Like a dead husk, had dormant life within it,
And waited till a first white point appeared
Which shot into a naked stiff pale spike
That grew.
I knew this was not all;
Nothing I said as greener you grew and taller,
But dreamed alone of the day when your bud would unsheathe,
And silently swell, and at last your crown would break
Filling the air with clouds of colour and fragrance,
Radiant waves, odours of immortality.
*     *     *     *     *
In a pot of earth I watered and tended you,
Breaking the clods and soaking the earth with water
That fed your roots and eased your way to the light.
I gave you the sun and the rain
But saved you from scorching and drowning:
You are mine, and only I know you,
And the ways of your growth, and the days.
*     *     *     *     *
But you are not from me.
I am but a pen for a hand,
A bed for a river,
A window for light.
And I bow in awe to that Power
That made you a flower.
Mrs. Kessler
by Edgar Lee Masters

Mr. Kessler, you know, was in the army,
And he drew six dollars a month as a pension,
And stood on the corner talking politics,
Or sat at home reading Grant's Memoirs;
And I supported the family by washing,
Learning the secrets of all the people
From their curtains, counterpanes, shirts and skirts.
For things that are new grow old at length,
They're replaced with better or none at all:
People are prospering or falling back.
And rents and patches widen with time;
No thread or needle can pace decay,
And there are stains that baffle soap,
And there are colors that run in spite of you,
Blamed though you are for spoiling a dress.
Handkerchiefs, napery, have their secrets - 
The laundress, Life, knows all about it.
And I, who went to all the funerals
Held in Spoon River, swear I never
Saw a dead face without thinking it looked
Like something washed and ironed.
The Bedridden Peasant
by Thomas Hardy

To An Unknowing God
Much wonder I - here long low-laid -
That this dead wall should be
Betwixt the Maker and the made,
Between Thyself and me!
For, say one puts a child to nurse,
He eyes it now and then
To know if better 'tis, or worse,
And if it mourn, and when.
But Thou, Lord, giv'st us men our clay
In helpless bondage thus
To Time and Chance, and seem'st straightway
To think no more of us!
That some disaster cleft Thy scheme
And tore us wide apart,
So that no cry can cross, I deem;
For Thou art mild of heart,
And would'st not shape and shut us in
Where voice can not he heard:
'Tis plain Thou meant'st that we should win
Thy succour by a word.
Might but Thy sense flash down the skies
Like man's from clime to clime,
Thou would'st not let me agonize
Through my remaining time;
But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear -
Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind -
Thou'dst heal the ills with quickest care
Of me and all my kind.
Then, since Thou mak'st not these things be,
But these things dost not know,
I'll praise Thee as were shown to me
The mercies Thou would'st show!
Mrs. Earth
by Walter De La Mare

Mrs. Earth makes silver black,
Mrs. Earth makes iron red
But Mrs. Earth can not stain gold,
Nor ruby red.
Mrs. earth the slenderest bone
Whitens in her bosom cold,
But Mrs. Earth can change my dreams
No more than ruby or gold.
Mrs. Earth and Mr. Sun
Can tan my skin, and tire my toes,
But all that I'm thinking of, ever shall think,
Why, either knows.
Mr. And Mrs. Discobbolos.
by Edward Lear

I.
Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos
Climbed to the top of a wall.
And they sate to watch the sunset sky,
And to hear the Nupiter Piffkin cry,
And the Biscuit Buffalo call.
They took up a roll and some Camomile tea,
And both were as happy as happy could be,
Till Mrs. Discobbolos said, - 
"Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
It has just come into my head,
Suppose we should happen to fall!!!!!
Darling Mr. Discobbolos!
II.
"Suppose we should fall down flumpetty,
Just like pieces of stone,
On to the thorns, or into the moat,
What would become of your new green coat?
And might you not break a bone?
It never occurred to me before,
That perhaps we shall never go down any more!"
And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
"Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
What put it into your head
To climb up this wall, my own
Darling Mr. Discobbolos?"
III.
Mr. Discobbolos answered,
"At first it gave me pain,
And I felt my ears turn perfectly pink
When your exclamation made me think
We might never get down again!
But now I believe it is wiser far
To remain for ever just where we are."
And Mr. Discobbolos said,
"Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
It has just come into my head
We shall never go down again,
Dearest Mrs. Discobbolos!"
IV.
So Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos
Stood up and began to sing, - 
"Far away from hurry and strife
Here we will pass the rest of life,
Ding a dong, ding dong, ding!
We want no knives nor forks nor chairs,
No tables nor carpets nor household cares;
From worry of life we've fled;
Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
There is no more trouble ahead,
Sorrow or any such thing,
For Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos!"
The Crimes Of Peace
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Musing upon the tragedies of earth,
Of each new horror which each hour gives birth,
Of sins that scar and cruelties that blight
Life's little season, meant for man's delight,
Methought those monstrous and repellent crimes
Which hate engenders in war-heated times,
To God's great heart bring not so much despair
As other sins which flourish everywhere
And in all times - bold sins, bare-faced and proud,
Unchecked by college, and by Church allowed,
Lifting their lusty heads like ugly weeds
Above wise precepts and religious creeds,
And growing rank in prosperous days of peace.
Think you the evils of this world would cease
With war's cessation?
If God's eyes know tears,
Methinks He weeps more for the wasted years
And the lost meaning of this earthly life - 
This big, brief life - than over bloody strife.
Yea; there are mean, lean sins God must abhor
More than the fatted, blood-drunk monster, War.
Looking from His place, looking from His high place among the stars, God saw a peaceful land - 
A land of fertile fields and golden harvests - and great cities whose innumerable spires pierced the vault of heaven, like bayonets of an invading army.
And God said, speaking unto Himself aloud, God said:
'Peace and power and plenty have I given unto this land; and those tall steeples are monuments to Me.
Now let My people reveal themselves, that I may see their works, done in My name in a fertile land of peace.
I will withdraw Mine eyes from other worlds that I may behold them, that I may behold these people to whom I sent Christ - they whose innumerable spires pierce My blue vault like bayonets.'
God saw the restless, idle rich in club and cabaret,
Meat-gorged, wine-filled, they played and preened and danced till dawn o' day;
They played at sports; they played at love; they played at being gay.
They were but empty, silk-clad shells; their souls had leaked away.
He saw the sweat-shop and the mill where little children toiled,
The sunless rooms where mothers slaved and unborn souls were spoiled;
While those whose greedy, selfish lives had thrust the toilers there,
He saw whirled down broad avenues, clothed all with raiment fair.
He saw in homes made beautiful with all that gold can give
Unhappy souls at odds with life, not knowing how to live.
He saw fair, pampered women turn from motherhood's sweet joy,
Obsessed with methods to prevent or mania to destroy.
He saw men sell their souls to vice and avarice and greed;
He heard race quarrelling with race and creed decrying creed;
And shameful wealth and waste He saw, and shameful want and need.
He saw bold little children come from church and schoolroom, blind
To suffering of lesser things, unfeeling and unkind;
He heard them taunt the poor, and tease their furred and feathered kin;
And no voice spake from home or church to tell them this was sin.
He heard the cry of wounded things, the wasteful gun's report;
He saw the morbid craze to kill, which Christian men called sport.
And then God hid His grieving face behind a wall of cloud,
On earth they said, 'A thunder-storm' - but God had wept aloud.
Sonnet LXXXI. On A Lock Of Miss Sarah Seward's Hair Who Died In Her Twentieth Year.
by Anna Seward

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form
Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine
This precious Ringlet! - still the soft hairs shine,
Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm
With sunny gleam! - Alas! each kindred charm
Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine
Wither'd to shapeless Dust! - and of their grace
Memory alone retains the faithful trace. - 
Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now
Time on her brow had faded thee! - My care
Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;
And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,
Thou all of that fair Frame my love cou'd save
From the resistless ravage of the GRAVE!
Written On The Death Of General Sir Ralph Abercrombie.
by Thomas Gent

Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!
For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,
To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.
Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honour'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?
Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,
When wild storms gather round thy country's sun;
Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,
Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast won!
Slack Tide.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

My boat is still in the reedy cove
Where the rushes hinder its onward course,
For I care not now if we rest or move
O'er the slumberous tide to the river's source.
My boat is fast in the tall dank weeds
And I lay my oars in silence by,
And lean, and draw the slippery reeds
Through my listless fingers carelessly.
The babbling froth of the surface foam
Clings close to the side of my moveless boat,
Like endless meshes of honeycomb, - 
And I break it off, and send it afloat.
A faint wind stirs, and I drift along
Far down the stream to its utmost bound,
And the thick white foam-flakes gathering strong
Still cling, and follow, and fold around.
Oh! the weary green of the weedy waste,
The thickening scum of the frothy foam,
And the torpid heart by the reeds embraced
And shrouded and held in its cheerless home.
The fearful stillness of wearied calm,
The tired quiet of ended strife,
The echoed note of a heart's sad psalm,
The sighing end of a wasted life. - 
The reeds cling close, and my cradle sways,
And the white gull dips in the waters' barm,
And the heart asleep in the twilight haze
Feels not its earth-bonds, knows not alarm.
The Sleeping Child
by Eugene Field

My baby slept--how calm his rest,
As o'er his handsome face a smile
Like that of angel flitted, while
He lay so still upon my breast!
My baby slept--his baby head
Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud:
I did not weep or cry aloud--
I only wished I, too, were dead!
My baby sleeps--a tiny mound,
All covered by the little flowers,
Woos me in all my waking hours,
Down in the quiet burying-ground.
And when I sleep I seem to be
With baby in another land--
I take his little baby hand--
He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.
Sleep on, O baby, while I keep
My vigils till this day be passed!
Then shall I, too, lie down at last,
And with my baby darling sleep.