DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Bandit's Death
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

To Sir Walter Scott...
O GREAT AND GALLANT SCOTT,
TRUE GENTLEMAN, HEART, BLOOD AND BONE,
I WOULD IT HAD BEEN MY LOT
TO HAVE SEEN THEE, AND HEARD THEE, AND KNOWN.
Sir, do you see this dagger? nay, why do you start aside?
I was not going to stab you, tho' I am the Bandit's bride.
You have set a price on his head: I may claim it without a lie.
What have I here in the cloth? I will show it you by-and-by.
Sir, I was once a wife. I had one brief summer of bliss.
But the Bandit had woo'd me in vain, and he stabb'd my Piero with this.
And he dragg'd me up there to his cave in the mountain, and there one day
He had left his dagger behind him. I found it. I hid it away.
For he reek'd with the blood of Piero; his kisses were red with his crime,
And I cried to the Saints to avenge me. They heard, they bided their time.
In a while I bore him a son, and he loved to dandle the child,
And that was a link between us; but I'to be reconciled?'
No, by the Mother of God, tho' I think I hated him less,
And'well, if I sinn'd last night, I will find the Priest and confess.
Listen! we three were alone in the dell at the close of the clay.
I was lilting a song to the babe, and it laugh'd like a dawn in May.
Then on a sudden we saw your soldiers crossing the ridge,
And he caught my little one from me: we dipt down under the bridge
By the great dead pine'you know it'and heard as we crouch'd below,
The clatter of arms, and voices, and men passing to and fro.
Black was the night when we crept away'not a star in the sky'
Hush'd as the heart of the grave, till the little one utter'd a cry.
I whisper'd 'give it to me,' but he would not answer me'then
He gript it so hard by the throat that the boy never cried again.
We return'd to his cave'the link was broken'he sobb'd and he wept,
And cursed himself; then he yawn'd, for the wretch could sleep, and he slept
Ay, till dawn stole into the cave, and a ray red as blood
Glanced on the strangled face'I could make Sleep Death, if I would'
Glared on at the murder'd son, and the murderous father at rest, . . . 
I drove the blade that had slain my husband thrice thro' his breast.
He was loved at least by his dog: it was chain'd, but its horrible yell
'She has kill'd him, has kill'd him, has kill'd him' rang out all down thro' the dell,
Till I felt I could end myself too with the dagger'so deafen'd and dazed'
Take it, and save me from it ! I fled. I was all but crazed
With the grief that gnaw'd at my heart, and the weight that dragg'd at my hand;
But thanks to the Blessed Saints that I came on none of his band;
And the band will be scatter'd now their gallant captain is dead,
For I with this dagger of his'do you doubt me? Here is his head !
Sonnets - I - Christmas Day
by Mary Hannay Foott

O happy day, with seven-fold blessings set
Amid thy hallowed hours, the memories dear
Of childhood's holidays, and household cheer,
When friends and kin in loving circle met,
And youth's glad gatherings, where the sands were wet
By waves that hurt not, whilst the great cliffs near,
With storms erewhile acquaint, gave echo clear
Of voices gay and laughter gayer yet.
And graver thoughts and holier arise
Of how, 'twixt that first eve and dawn of thine,
The Star ascended which hath lit our skies
More than the sun himself; and 'mid the kine
The Child was born whom shepherds, and the wise;
Who came from far, and angels, called Divine.
O Hymen! O Hymenee!
by Walt Whitman

O Hymen! O hymenee!
Why do you tantalize me thus?
O why sting me for a swift moment only?
Why can you not continue? O why do you now cease?
Is it because, if you continued beyond the swift moment, you would soon certainly kill me?
A Bride
by James Whitcomb Riley

"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy
Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold
That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,
Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:
Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,
Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast,
Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily
Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest.
And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
"Weary?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery?
Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears
And wash with their dews one white face from her history,
Set like a gem in the red rust of years?
Nothing will rest her - unless he who died of her
Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom,
Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her,
Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom.
And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror
To heel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
While The Musician Played.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O it was but a dream I had
While the musician played! - 
And here the sky, and here the glad
Old ocean kissed the glade - 
And here the laughing ripples ran,
And here the roses grew
That threw a kiss to every man
That voyaged with the crew.
Our silken sails in lazy folds
Drooped in the breathless breeze:
As o'er a field of marigolds
Our eyes swam o'er the seas;
While here the eddies lisped and purled
Around the island's rim,
And up from out the underworld
We saw the mermen swim.
And it was dawn and middle-day
And midnight - for the moon
On silver rounds across the bay
Had climbed the skies of June - 
And there the glowing, glorious king
Of day ruled o'er his realm,
With stars of midnight glittering
About his diadem.
The seagull reeled on languid wing
In circles round the mast,
We heard the songs the sirens sing
As we went sailing past;
And up and down the golden sands
A thousand fairy throngs
Flung at us from their flashing hands
The echoes of their songs.
O it was but a dream I had
While the musician played - 
For here the sky, and here the glad
Old ocean kissed the glade;
And here the laughing ripples ran,
And here the roses grew
That threw a kiss to every man
That voyaged with the crew.
Peggy Band
by John Clare

O it was a lorn and a dismal night,
And the storm beat loud and high;
Not a friendly light to guide me right
Was there shining in the sky,
When a lonely hut my wanderings met,
Lost in a foreign land,
And I found the dearest friend as yet
In my lovely Peggy Band.
"O, father, here's a soldier lad,
And weary he seems to be."
"Then welcome in," the old man said,
And she gave her seat to me.
The fire she trimmed, and my clothes she dried
With her own sweet lily hand,
And o'er the soldier's lot she sighed,
While I blest my Peggy Band.
When I told the tale of my wandering years,
And the nights unknown to sleep,
She made excuse to hide her tears,
And she stole away to weep.
A pilgrim's blessing I seemed to share,
As saints of the Holy Land,
And I thought her a guardian angel there,
Though he called her his Peggy Band.
The night it passed, and the hour to part
With the morning winged away,
And I felt an anguish at my heart
That vainly bid to stay.
I thanked the old man for all he did,
And I took his daughter's hand,
But my heart was full, and I could not bid
Farewell to my Peggy Band.
A blessing on that friendly cot,
Where the soldier found repose,
And a blessing be her constant lot
Who soothed the stranger's woes.
I turned a last look at the door,
As she held it in her hand,
And my heart ached sore, as I crossed the moor,
For to leave my Peggy Band.
October
by Robert Lee Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost,
For the grapes' sake along the all.
Hymn II
by John Greenleaf Whittier

O Holy Father! just and true
Are all Thy works and words and ways,
And unto Thee alone are due
Thanksgiving and eternal praise!
As children of Thy gracious care,
We veil the eye, we bend the knee,
With broken words of praise and prayer,
Father and God, we come to Thee.
For Thou hast heard, O God of Right,
The sighing of the island slave;
And stretched for him the arm of might,
Not shortened that it could not save.
The laborer sits beneath his vine,
The shackled soul and hand are free;
Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine!
Praise! for the blessing is of Thee!
And oh, we feel Thy presence here,
Thy awful arm in judgment bare!
Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear;
Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.
Praise! for the pride of man is low,
The counsels of the wise are naught,
The fountains of repentance flow;
What hath our God in mercy wrought?
Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts!
And when the bondman's chain is riven,
And swells from all our guilty coasts
The anthem of the free to Heaven,
Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led,
As with Thy cloud and fire before,
But. unto Thee, in fear and dread,
Be praise and glory evermore
The Sailor's Sweetheart
by Duncan Campbell Scott

O if love were had for asking,
In the markets of the town,
Hardly a lass would think to wear
A fine silken gown:
But love is had by grieving
By choosing and by leaving,
And there's no one now to ask me
If heavy lies my heart.
O if love were had for a deep wish
In the deadness of the night,
There'd be a truce to longing
Between the dusk and the light:
But love is had for sighing,
For living and for dying,
And there's no one now to ask me
If heavy lies my heart.
O if love were had for taking
Like honey from the hive,
The bees that made the tender stuff
Could hardly keep alive:
But love it is a wounded thing,
A tremor and a smart,
And there's no one left to kiss me now
Over my heavy heart.
Control.
by Sidney Lanier

O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee
And make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe.
Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet
He made a wolf to plow his land.
Our Old Friend Neverfail
by James Whitcomb Riley

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run
When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;
It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,
Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;
It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back; -
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;
I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;
But most I like - with you, my boy - our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
A Session With Uncle Sidney - III - Sings A "Winky-Tooden" Song
by James Whitcomb Riley

O here's a little rhyme for the Spring- or Summer-time - 
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho! - 
Just a little bit o' tune you can twitter, May or June,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It's a song that soars and sings,
As the birds that twang their wings
Or the katydids and things
Thus and so, don't you know,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It's a song just broken loose, with no reason or excuse - 
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
You can sing along with it - or it matters not a bit - 
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It's a lovely little thing
That 'most any one could sing
With a ringle-dingle-ding,
Soft and low, don't you know,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
What the Bullet Sang
by Bret Harte (Francis)

O Joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love, the one
Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,
With the power in his hands
Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space,
All my own!
It is he O my love!
So bold!
It is I all thy love
Foretold!
It is I. O love! what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
Lieth there so cold?
Lovely Davies.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Miss Muir."
I.
O how shall I, unskilfu', try
The poet's occupation,
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours,
That whispers inspiration?
Even they maun dare an effort mair,
Than aught they ever gave us,
Or they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms o' lovely Davies.
Each eye it cheers, when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning.
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower
The garden is adorning.
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,
When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart when we maun part
Frae charming lovely Davies.
II.
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift,
That maks us mair than princes;
A scepter'd hand, a king's command,
Is in her darting glances:
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms,
Even he her willing slave is;
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign
Of conquering, lovely Davies.
My muse to dream of such a theme,
Her feeble pow'rs surrender:
The eagle's gaze alone surveys
The sun's meridian splendour:
I wad in vain essay the strain,
The deed too daring brave is!
I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire
The charms o' lovely Davies.
The Shearers Dream
by Henry Lawson

O I dreamt I shore in a shearing shed and it was a dream of joy
For every one of the rouseabouts was a girl dressed up as a boy
Dressed up like a page in a pantomime the prettiest ever seen
They had flaxen hair they had coal black hair and every shade between
There was short plump girls there was tall slim girls and the handsomest ever seen
They was four foot five they was six foot high and every shade between
The shed was cooled by electric fans that was over every shoot
The pens was of polished mahogany and everything else to suit
The huts had springs to the mattresses and the tucker was simply grand
And every night by the billabong we danced to a German band
Our pay was the wool on the jumbucks' backs so we shore till all was blue
The sheep was washed afore they was shore and the rams were scented too
And we all of us cried when the shed cut out in spite of the long hot days
For every hour them girls waltzed in with whisky and beer on trays
There was three of them girls to every chap and as jealous as they could be
There was three of them girls to every chap and six of them picked on me
We was drafting them out for the homeward track and sharing them round like steam
When I woke with my head in the blazing sun to find it a shearer's dream
O I Won'T Lead A Homely Life
by Thomas Hardy

To an old air
"O I won't lead a homely life
As father's Jack and mother's Jill,
But I will be a fiddler's wife,
With music mine at will!
Just a little tune,
Another one soon,
As I merrily fling my fill!"
And she became a fiddler's Dear,
And merry all day she strove to be;
And he played and played afar and near,
But never at home played he
Any little tune
Or late or soon;
And sunk and sad was she!
In Praise Of Women.
by Robert Herrick

O Jupiter, should I speak ill
Of woman-kind, first die I will;
Since that I know, 'mong all the rest
Of creatures, woman is the best.
To Morning
by William Blake

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun
Rous'd like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills.
In The Dark.
by James Whitcomb Riley

O in the depths of midnight
What fancies haunt the brain!
When even the sigh of the sleeper
Sounds like a sob of pain.
A sense of awe and of wonder
I may never well define, -
For the thoughts that come in the shadows
Never come in the shine.
The old clock down in the parlor
Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
And the seconds drip in the silence
As the rain drips from the eaves.
And I think of the hands that signal
The hours there in the gloom,
And wonder what angel watchers
Wait in the darkened room.
And I think of the smiling faces
That used to watch and wait,
Till the click of the clock was answered
By the click of the opening gate. -
They are not there now in the evening -
Morning or noon - not there;
Yet I know that they keep their vigil,
And wait for me Somewhere.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXIX
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

O ioy to high for my low stile to show!
O blisse fit for a nobler seat then me!
Enuie, put out thine eyes, least thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flowe!
My friend, that oft saw through all maskes my wo,
Come, come, and let me powre my selfe on thee.
Gone is the Winter of my miserie!
My Spring appeares; O see what here doth grow:
For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine,
Of her high heart giu'n me the Monarchie:
I, I, O I, may say that she is mine!
And though she giue but thus conditionly,
This realme of blisse while vertuous course I take,
No kings be crown'd but they some couenants make.
A Valentine.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

O how shall I write a love-ditty
To my Alice on Valentine's day?
How win the affection or pity
Of a being so lively and gay?
For I'm an unpicturesque creature,
Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
Without a respectable feature,
With a squint and a very queer nose.
But she is a being seraphic,
Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
Who can talk in a manner most graphic
Every possible language on earth.
When she's roaming in regions Italic,
You would think her a fair Florentine;
She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
Better far than Rousseau or Racine.
She sings - sweeter far than a cymbal
(A sound which I never have heard);
She plays - and her fingers most nimble
Make music more soft than a bird.
She speaks - 'tis like melody stealing
O'er the Mediterranean sea;
She smiles - I am instantly kneeling
On each gouty and corpulent knee.
'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven
(Where else it should shine I don't know),
And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
Are winking at mortals below:
Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
My heart they will ne'er lead astray;
Nor the soft silken memories sever,
Which bind me to Alice De Grey.
If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum,
Her fairy form follows me there;
If I list to the solemn "Te Deum,"
Her voice seems to join in the prayer.
"Sweet spirit" I seem to remember,
O would she were near me to hum it;
As I heard her in sunny September,
On the Rigi's a'rial summit!
O Alice where art thou?    No answer
Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart;
Perhaps she has married a lancer,
Or a bishop, or baronet smart;
Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,
She is dancing, nor thinking of me;
Or riding in front of a small groom;
Or tossed in a tempest at sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti,
In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;
Or walking alone on a jetty;
Or buttering bread in a parlour;
Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,
She will find me dull, married, and gray;
So I'll send her this juvenile greeting
On the Eve of St. Valentine's day.
Bare Boughs
by Madison Julius Cawein

O heart, - that beat the bird's blithe blood,
The blithe bird's strain, and understood
The song it sang to leaf and bud, - 
What dost thou in the wood?
O soul, - that kept the brook's glad flow,
The glad brook's word to sun and moon, - 
What dost thou here where song lies low,
And dead the dreams of June?
Where once was heard a voice of song,
The hautboys of the mad winds sing;
Where once a music flowed along,
The rain's wild bugle's ring.
The weedy water frets and ails,
And moans in many a sunless fall;
And, o'er the melancholy, trails
The black crow's eldritch call.
Unhappy brook! O withered wood!
O days, whom Death makes comrades of!
Where are the birds that thrilled the blood
When Life struck hands with Love?
A song, one soared against the blue;
A song, one silvered in the leaves;
A song, one blew where orchards grew
Gold-appled to the eaves.
The birds are flown; the flowers, dead;
And sky and earth are bleak and gray:
Where Joy once went, all light of tread,
Grief haunts the leaf-wild way.
W. Q. J.  *
by George William Russell

O hero of the iron age,
Upon thy grave we will not weep,
Nor yet consume away in rage
For thee and thy untimely sleep.
Our hearts a burning silence keep.
O martyr, in these iron days
One fate was sure for soul like thine:
Well you foreknew but went your ways.
The crucifixion is the sign,
The meed of all the kingly line.
We may not mourn--though such a night
Has fallen on our earthly spheres
Bereft of love and truth and light
As never since the dawn of years;--
For tears give birth alone to tears.
One wreath upon they grave we lay
(The silence of our bitter thought,
Words that would scorch their hearts of clay),
And turn to learn what thou has taught,
To shape our lives as thine was wrought.
--April 15, 1896
Forevermore.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
O heart that vainly follows
The flight of summer swallows,
Far over holts and hollows,
O'er frozen buds and flowers;
To violet seas and levels,
Where Love Time's locks dishevels
With merry mimes and revels
Of aphrodisiac Hours.
II
O Love who, dreaming, borrows
Dead love from sad to-morrows,
The broken heart that sorrows,
The blighted hopes that weep;
Pale faces pale with sleeping;
Red eyelids red with weeping;
Dead lips dead secrets keeping,
That shake the deeps of sleep!
III
O Memory that showers
About the withered hours
White, ruined, sodden flowers,
Dead dust and bitter rain;
Dead loves with faces teary;
Dead passions wan and dreary;
The weary, weary, weary,
Dead heart-ache and the pain!
IV
O give us back the blisses,
Lost madness of moist kisses,
The youth, the joy, the tresses,
The fragrant limbs of white;
The high heart like a jewel
Alive with subtle fuel,
Lips beautiful and cruel,
Eyes' incarnated light!
V
Instead of tears, wild laughter
The old hot passions after,
The houri sweets that dafter
Made flesh and soul a slave!
Enough of tearful sorrows;
Enough of rank to-morrows;
The life that whines and borrows
But memories of the grave!
VI
The grave that breaks no netting
Of care or spint's fretting,
No long, long sweet forgetting
For those who would forget;
And those who stammer by it
Hope of an endless quiet,
Within them voiceless riot
When they and it have met.
VII
And God we pray beseeching, - 
But Life with finger reaching,
Stone-stern, remaineth teaching
Our hearts to turn to stone;
Then fain are we to follow
The last, lorn, soaring swallow
Past bourns of holt and hollow
Forevermore alone.
Strathcona's Horse
by William Henry Drummond

O I was thine, and thou wert mine, and ours the boundless plain,
Where the winds of the North, my gallant steed, ruffled thy tawny mane,
But the summons hath come with roll of drum, and bugles ringing shrill,
Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the hill.
'Tis the voice of Empire calling, and the children gather fast
From every land where the cross bar floats out from the quivering mast;
So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle swinging free,
And thy hoofbeats shall answer the trumpets blowing across the sea.
Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,
For he who dares to stay our course drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow.
Thy form hath pressed the meadow's breast, where the sullen grey wolf hides,
The great red river of the North hath cooled thy burning sides;
Together we've slept while the tempest swept the Rockies' glittering chain;
And many a day the bronze centaur hath galloped behind in vain.
But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and the battlefields far away,
And the trail that ends where Empire trends, is the trail we ride to-day.
But proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of the foe to-morrow,
For he who bars Strathcona's Horse, drinks deep of the Cup of Sorrow.