DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Epilogue To 'The Good Natur'd Man'
by Oliver Goldsmith

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
'An Epilogue     things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.'
'Young man,' cries one     a bard laid up in clover    
'Alas, young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:
Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.'
'What I? dear Sir,' the Doctor interposes
'What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no; I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:
Go, ask your manager.' 'Who, me? Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.'
Our Author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simp'ring friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
'To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm'    
Blame where you must, be candid where you can;
And be each critic the 'Good Natur'd Man'.
Nature In Leasts
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

As sings the pine-tree in the wind,
So sings in the wind a sprig of the pine;
Her strength and soul has laughing France
Shed in each drop of wine.
Love And Art.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

S' come nella penna.
As pen and ink alike serve him who sings
In high or low or intermediate style;
As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile
To match the fancies that each master brings;
So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs
Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile:
Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile,
But what my face shows--dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs,
(The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear,
From different germs take divers qualities)
Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes;
And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer,
Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries.
After A Tempestuous Voyage. (At Tynemouth Priory)
by William Lisle Bowles

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tower that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with transient gleam
Is touched, and hushed is all the billowy deep!
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep,
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire!
As Slow Our Ship.
by Thomas Moore

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us.
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing,--
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.
Nursery Rhyme. CXCII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A walnut.]
As soft as silk, as white as milk,
As bitter as gall, a thick wall,
And a green coat covers me all.
Confession.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

As one, a poet of a fairy's train,
Might sit beside a violet's stem and view
Its opening petals, watch the wondrous blue
Thrill through their fibers, and their secret gain
Of how the earth and sky and wind and rain
Had given them life and form and scent and hue,--
So I have gazed into the eyes of you,
Those rare blue eyes, and have not looked in vain;
For they have told me all that I would know,
Even as the violets their secret tell
Unto the wistful spirits of the grove--
Ay, more than this, for, in their tender glow,
I've learned their secret, found their winsome spell,
The sweet and simple message of their love.
My White Chrysanthemum.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

As purely white as is the drifted snow,
More dazzling fair than summer roses are,
Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,
When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow,
Your blossoms blow.
Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own,
In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies,
Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries;
When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown,
You stand alone.
Fronting the winter with a fearless grace,
Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill,
Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still,
Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place
A smiling face.
Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint,
Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue,
Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two;
The nun-like lily bows without complaint,
And dies a saint.
Each following each they hasten them away,
And leave us to our winter and our rue,
Sad and uncomforted; you, only you,
Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stay
Long as you may.
And so we choose you out from all the rest,
For that most noble word of "Loyalty,"
Which blazoned on your petals seems to be;
Winter is near,--stay with us; be our guest,
The last and best.
Sir Andrew's Dream.
by Thomas Moore

"nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis:
cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent."
PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.
As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,
In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,
Being much too pious, as every one knows,
To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,
He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,
And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.
He found himself, to his great amaze,
In Charles the First's high Tory days,
And just at the time that gravest of Courts
Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]
Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear
Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!--
It chanced to be too a Sabbath day
When the people from church were coming away;
And Andrew with horror heard this song.
As the smiling sinners flockt along;--
"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"For a week of work and a Sunday of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."
"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"
And he grinned with conscious holiness.
But the song went on, and, to brim the cup
Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!
"Come, take out the lasses--let's have a dance--
"For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,
"Well knowing that no one's the more in advance
"On the road to heaven, for standing still.
"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces
"Should sour the cream of a creed of love;
"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,
"Alone should sit among cherubs above.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.
"For Sunday fun we never can fail,
"When the Church herself each sport points out;--
"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,
"And a May-pole high to dance about.
"Or should we be for a pole hard driven,
"Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,
"With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,
"Will do for a May-pole just as well.
"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!
"A week of work and a Sabbath of play
"Make the poor man's life run merry away."
To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,
This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;
And God knows where might have ended the joke,
But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,
And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)
That since that dream--which, one would suppose,
Should have made his godly stomach rise.
Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies--
He has viewed things quite with different eyes;
Is beginning to take, on matters divine,
Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line--
Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,
As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:--
Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley
To bring in a Bill enacting duly
That all good Protestants from this date
May freely and lawfully recreate,
Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,
With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXVI. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A Well.]
As round as an apple, as deep as a cup,
And all the king's horses can't pull it up.
A Song Of Summer Days
by Virna Sheard

As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea,
These rounded summer days fall back into eternity.
Into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery - 
At set of sun each one slips back as pearls into the sea.
They are so sweet - so warm and sweet - Love fain would hold them fast:
He weeps when through his finger tips they slip away at last.
Lord Henley And St. Cecilia
by Thomas Moore

--in Metii decenaat Judicis aures.
HORAT.
As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,
Revolving much his own renown,
And hoping to add thereto a ray
By putting duets and anthems down,
Sudden a strain of choral sounds
Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;
Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"
For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.
Then starting up he saw a sight
That well might shock so learned a snorer--
Saint Cecilia robed in light
With a portable organ slung before her.
And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,
Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,
So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things,
They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.
"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns,
"And indeed that musical snore betrayed you,
"Myself and my choir of cherubims
"Are come for a while to serenade you."
In vain did the horrified Henley say
"'Twas all a mistake--she was misdirected;"
And point to a concert over the way
Where fiddlers and angels were expected.
In vain--the Saint could see in his looks
(She civilly said) much tuneful lore;
So at once all opened their music-books,
And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.
All night duets, terzets, quartets,
Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;
Ay, and old motets and canzonets
And glees in sets kept boring his ear.
He tried to sleep--but it wouldn't do;
So loud they squalled, he must attend to 'em.
Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew
Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.
Oh judgment dire on judges bold,
Who meddle with music's sacred strains!
Judge Midas tried the same of old
And was punisht like Henley for his pains.
But worse on the modern judge, alas!
Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne;
For Midas was given the ears of an ass,
While Henley is doomed to keep his own!
Upon Julia's Ribbon
by Robert Herrick

As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced,
So smiles that ribbon 'bout my Julia's waist;
Or like Nay, 'tis that Zonulet of love,
Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
Sonnet CXXVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor ed io s' pien di maraviglia.
HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE.
As one who sees a thing incredible,
In mutual marvel Love and I combine,
Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine,
None but herself can be her parallel.
Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell
So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine,
Than whom no safer brighter beacons shine
His course to guide who'd wisely love and well.
What miracle is this, when, as a flower,
She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast,
Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'd
And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour,
To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there,
Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.
MACGREGOR.
Confluents
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

As rivers seek the sea,
Much more deep than they,
So my soul seeks thee
Far away:
As running rivers moan
On their course alone
So I moan
Left alone.
As the delicate rose
To the sun's sweet strength
Doth herself unclose,
Breadth and length:
So spreads my heart to thee
Unveiled utterly,
I to thee
Utterly.
As morning dew exhales
Sunwards pure and free,
So my spirit fails
After thee:
As dew leaves not a trace
On the green earth's face;
I, no trace
On thy face.
Its goal the river knows,
Dewdrops find a way,
Sunlight cheers the rose
In her day:
Shall I, lone sorrow past,
Find thee at the last?
Sorrow past,
Thee at last?
Reinforcements For Lord Wellington.
by Thomas Moore

suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites.
VERGIL.
1813.
As recruits in these times are not easily got
And the Marshal must have them--pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,
Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?
There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,
Any men we could half so conveniently spare;
And tho' they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.
Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being used to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly under-mining.
Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old Headfort at horn-works again might be tried,
And as Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side:
While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.
Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself
Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf:
Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?
And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove,
Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1]
Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.
In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment:
At present no more, but--good luck to the shipment!
The Disabled Debauchee
by John Wilmot

As some brave admiral, in former war,
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;
From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory, and his past delight;
From his fierce eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody day;
So when my days of impotence approach,
And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance,
My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the battles you maintain,
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.
Nor shall the sight of honourable scars,
Which my too-forward valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars.
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Should hopeful youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from their fair inviter's meanly shrink,
'Twould please the ghost of my departed vice,
If at my counsel they repent and drink.
Or should some cold-complexioned set forbid,
With his dull morals, our night's brisk alarms,
I'll fire his blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong and able to bear arms.
I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home,
Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won,
Windows demolished, watches overcome,
And handsome ills by my contrivance done.
Nor shall our love-fits, Cloris, be forgot,
When each the well-looked link-boy strove t'enjoy,
And the best kiss was the deciding lot:
Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.
With tales like these I will such heat inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I'll make them long some ancient church to fire,
And fear no lewdness they're called to by wine.
Thus statesman-like, I'll saucily impose,
And safe from danger valiantly advise,
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.
Qua Cursum Ventus
by Arthur Hugh Clough

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so, but why the tale reveal
Of those, whom year by year unchanged,
Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!
That Old Straw Hat Of Mine.
by George W. Doneghy

(With Apologies To Riley.)
I.
As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn,
And muses on the better times that once to him were known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I see the faded ribbon on that old straw hat of mine.
II.
The firelight seems to mock me as the ruddy flames arise,
And I turn about to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes;
And I ponder then in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my condition, and to vanish like the smoke.
III.
With fondest recollection the loving thoughts that start
Into being are but feelings from the bottom of my heart;
And to wear the new hats over is a luxury divine--
Till my truant fancy wanders with that old straw hat of mine.
IV.
Now I hear without my chamber, like a fluttering of wings,
The rustling of the autumn wind as through the trees it sings,
And I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any scheme
That will bring to me a hat of which I now can only dream.
V.
In fact, to speak in earnest, if I could work a charm,
I'd try it on old Isaacs--'twouldn't do him much of harm--
And I'd find an extra flavor in memory's mellow wine
When I thought of how I swapped him that old straw hat of mine.
VI.
A thing of real beauty, with a shape of airy grace,
Floats out of Isaacs' storehouse, as the genii from the vase,
And, oh! I gaze upon it with a pair of loving eyes,
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies!
VII.
But, ah! my dream is broken when I gaze upon that chair,
For my eyes are now wide open and--the same old hat is there;
And reluctantly and sadly all my visions I resign
To know that I must wear again that old straw hat of mine!
An Old Sweetheart Of Mine
by James Whitcomb Riley

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection - for the loving thoughts that start
Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine -
When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweetheart of mine.
Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings,
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme
When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream.
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm -
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.
A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress
With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine
Grew round the stump," she loved me - that old sweetheart of mine.
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned -
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to:
When we should live together in a cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:
When I should be her lover forever and a day,
And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb
They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.
*        *        *        *        *
But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
And the door is softly opened, and - my wife is standing there;
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.
To A Poet
by Richard Le Gallienne

As one, the secret lover of a queen,
Watches her move within the people's eye,
Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,
And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;
The little room where love did 'shut them in,'
The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,
And rests his hand where on his heart doth die
A bruised daffodil of last night's sin:
So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once more
Here where a thousand eyes may read it too,
I smile your own sweet secret smile at those
Who deem the outer petals of the rose
The rose's heart - I, who through grace of you,
Have known it for my own so long before.
Victor And Vanquished
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As one who long hath fled with panting breath
Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
I turn and set my back against the wall,
And look thee in the face, triumphant Death,
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
With armor shattered, and without a shield,
I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, but will not yield.
This is no tournament where cowards tilt;
The vanquished here is victor of the field.
A Sculptor.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.
And no trace
Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
And the sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."