DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Late Autumn
by William Allingham

October - and the skies are cool and gray
O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.
The dignity of woods in rich decay
Accords full well with this majestic grief
That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,
Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief
Only a robin sings from any spray.
And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills
White mist around the hollows of the hills,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.
The Castaway.
by William Cowper

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away:
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow:
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet better felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd:
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried''Adieu!'
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear;
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
October
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

October is the treasurer of the year,
And all the months pay bounty to her store;
The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,
And fill her brimming coffers more and more.
But she, with youthful lavishness,
Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,
And decks herself in garments bold
Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.
She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,
But smiles and sings her happy life along;
She only sees above a shining sky;
She only hears the breezes' voice in song.
Her garments trail the woodlands through,
And gather pearls of early dew
That sparkle, till the roguish Sun
Creeps up and steals them every one.
But what cares she that jewels should be lost,
When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers?
Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,
Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs.
Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,
She lives her life out joyously,
Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way
And turns her auburn locks to gray.
Caterpillars
by John Frederick Freeman

Of caterpillars Fabre tells how day after day
Around the rim of a vast earth pot they crawled,
Tricked thither as they filed shuffling out one morn
Head to tail when the common hunger called.
Head to tail in a heaving ring day after day,
Night after slow night, the starving mommets crept,
Each following each, head to tail, day after day,
An unbroken ring of hunger, then it was snapt.
I thought of you, long-heaving, horned green caterpillars,
As I lay awake. My thoughts crawled each after each,
Crawling at night each after each on the same nerve,
An unbroken ring of thoughts too sore for speech.
Over and over and over and over again
The same hungry thoughts and the hopeless same regrets,
Over and over the same truths, again and again
In a heaving ring returning the same regrets.
A Triolet
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
It makes bad writers somewhat worse:
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
That fall beneath a reader's curse,
It is the feeblest jingle yet.
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
Ode V; On Love Of Praise
by Mark Akenside

Of all the springs within the mind
Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze,
From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.
Nor any partial, private end
Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, virtue's friend,
So like to virtue's self appears.
For who in glory can delight
Without delight in glorious deeds?
What man a charming voice can slight,
Who courts the echo that succeeds?
But not the echo on the voice
More, than on virtue praise, depends;
To which, of course, it's real price
The judgment of the praiser lends.
If praise then with religious awe
From the sole perfect judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law
Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.
With which in character the same
Tho' in an humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.
Captain Reece
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Of all the ships upon the blue,
No ship contained a better crew
Than that of worthy Captain Reece.
Commanding of The Mantelpiece.
He was adored by all his men,
For worthy Captain Reece, R.N.,
Did all that lay within him to
Promote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad,
Their captain danced to them like mad,
Or told, to make the time pass by,
Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather bed had every man,
Warm slippers and hot-water can,
Brown windsor from the captain's store,
A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn?
Lo, seltzogenes at every turn.
And on all very sultry days
Cream ices handed round on trays.
Then currant wine and ginger pops
Stood handily on all the "tops:"
And, also, with amusement rife,
A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."
New volumes came across the sea
From Mister Mudie's libraree;
The Times and Saturday Review
Beguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,
Was quite devoted to his men;
In point of fact, good Captain Reece
Beatified The Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half-past ten,
He said (addressing all his men):
"Come, tell me, please, what I can do
To please and gratify my crew.
"By any reasonable plan
I'll make you happy if I can;
My own convenience count as nil;
It is my duty, and I will."
Then up and answered William Lee,
(The kindly captain's coxswain he,
A nervous, shy, low-spoken man)
He cleared his throat and thus began:
"You have a daughter, Captain Reece,
Ten female cousins and a niece,
A ma, if what I'm told is true,
Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,
More friendly-like we all should be.
If you united of 'em to
Unmarried members of the crew.
"If you'd ameliorate our life,
Let each select from them a wife;
And as for nervous me, old pal,
Give me your own enchanting gal!"
Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,
Debated on his coxswain's plan:
"I quite agree," he said. "O Bill;
It is my duty, and I will.
"My daughter, that enchanting gurl,
has just been promised to an earl,
And all my other familee
To peers of various degree.
"But what are dukes and viscounts to
The happiness of all my crew?
The word I gave you I'll fulfil;
It is my duty, and I will.
"As you desire it shall befall,
I'll settle thousands on you all,
And I shall be, despite my hoard,
The only bachelor on board."
The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,
He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece:
"I beg your honor's leave," he said,
"If you wish to go and wed,
"I have a widowed mother who
Would be the very thing for you 
She long has loved you from afar,
She washes for you, Captain R."
The captain saw the dame that day 
Addressed her in his playful way 
"And did it want a wedding ring?
It was a tempting ickle sing!
"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,
We'll all be married this day week 
At yonder church upon the hill;
It is my duty, and I will!"
The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,
And widowed ma of Captain Reece,
Attended there as they were bid;
It was their duty, and they did.
Beachville.
by James McIntyre

Of Beachville, village of the plain,
We now will sing a short refrain,
For here the Thames doth pleasant flow,
And charm to landscape doth bestow;
Though river here it is not deep,
Yet banks slope graceful up the steep,
And from the summit of the hills
You look down on the famed lime kilns,
And 'tis full worthy poet's rhyme
The whiteness of your pure white lime,
Your glory never shall be gone
While you have quarries of this stone,
In influence you yet will wax
With mills for flour and also flax.
Dinner Favors, To A. R. C.
by Arthur Macy

Of all the joys on earth that be
There is no sweeter one to me
Than sitting with a merry lass
From consomm' to demi-tasse.
And yet a golden hour I'd steal,
Reverse the order of the meal,
And countermarching, backward stray
From demi-tasse to consomm'.
Translations. - Dame Music. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Of all the joys earth possesses,
None the gladness fine surpasses
Which I give you with my singing,
And with much harmonious ringing.
An evil spirit cannot dwell
Where companions are singing well;
Here strife, wrath, envy, hate, are not;
Every heartache must leave the spot:
Greed, care, all things that hard oppress
Troop off with great unwillingness.
Also each man is free to this--
For such a joy no trespass is,
God himself pleasing better far
Than all the joys on earth that are;
It breaks the toils by Satan spun,
And many a murder keeps undone.
Of this, King David is the proof,
Who often Saul did hold aloof,
All with his harping sweet and well,
That he not into murder fell.
For God's own truth, in word and will
It makes the heart ready and still;
That knew Elisha well, I wot,
When he the Spirit by harping got.
The best time of the year is mine,
When all the little birds sing fine,
Fill heaven and earth full of their strain:
Much good singing is going then;
The nightingale the lead she takes,
And everything right merry makes
With her gladsome lovely song,
For which great thanks to her belong.
But more to our dear Lord God, much,
Who has created the bird such,
A songstress of the true right sort,
A mistress of the music-art:
She sings and springs, both nights and days,
To him, not weary of his praise.
Him lauding come my songs as well,
My everlasting thanks to tell.
Choice.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;
When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;
When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, --
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!
Felicity Knows No Fence.
by Robert Herrick

Of both our fortunes good and bad we find
Prosperity more searching of the mind:
Felicity flies o'er the wall and fence,
While misery keeps in with patience.
Musings Of An Unreformed Peer.
by Thomas Moore

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,
The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;--
Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,
Did not get on exceedingly well as we are,
And perform all the functions of noodles by birth
As completely as any born noodles on earth.
How acres descend, is in law-books displayed,
But we as wiseacres descend, ready made;
And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,
Are all of us born legislators by nature;--
Like ducklings to water instinctively taking,
So we with like quackery take to lawmaking;
And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,
To make us more wise than our sires were before us.
The Egyptians of old the same policy knew--
If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:
Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it,
Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it),
The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it;
While, famed for conservative stomachs, the Egyptians
Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.
It is true, we've among us some peers of the past,
Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast--
Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising
With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising.
Conserves, in whom--potted, for grandmamma uses--
'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.
'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement,
Even our House, God help it, is doomed to improvement,
And all its live furniture, nobly descended
But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.
With movables 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham,
No wonder even fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;
And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,
When--as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,
Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm--
So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;
And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air,
Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,
Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky,
Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"
While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians,
Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.
Remorse. - A Fragment.
by Robert Burns

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, 'Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt, 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O, happy! happy! enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
Thought
by Walt Whitman

Of equality, As if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself, As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same.
Sir Macklin
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Of all the youths I ever saw
None were so wicked, vain, or silly,
So lost to shame and Sabbath law,
As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY.
For every Sabbath day they walked
(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur)
In parks or gardens, where they talked
From three to six, or even later.
SIR MACKLIN was a priest severe
In conduct and in conversation,
It did a sinner good to hear
Him deal in ratiocination.
He could in every action show
Some sin, and nobody could doubt him.
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
He wept to think each thoughtless youth
Contained of wickedness a skinful,
And burnt to teach the awful truth,
That walking out on Sunday's sinful.
"Oh, youths," said he, "I grieve to find
The course of life you've been and hit on
Sit down," said he, "and never mind
The pennies for the chairs you sit on.
"My opening head is 'Kensington,'
How walking there the sinner hardens,
Which when I have enlarged upon,
I go to 'Secondly' its 'Gardens.'
"My 'Thirdly' comprehendeth 'Hyde,'
Of Secresy the guilts and shameses;
My 'Fourthly' 'Park' its verdure wide
My 'Fifthly' comprehends 'St. James's.'
"That matter settled, I shall reach
The 'Sixthly' in my solemn tether,
And show that what is true of each,
Is also true of all, together.
"Then I shall demonstrate to you,
According to the rules of WHATELY,
That what is true of all, is true
Of each, considered separately."
In lavish stream his accents flow,
TOM, BOB, and BILLY dare not flout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
"Ha, ha!" he said, "you loathe your ways,
You writhe at these my words of warning,
In agony your hands you raise."
(And so they did, for they were yawning.)
To "Twenty-firstly" on they go,
The lads do not attempt to scout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests
My eloquence has set you weeping;
In shame you bend upon your breasts!"
(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)
He proved them this he proved them that
This good but wearisome ascetic;
He jumped and thumped upon his hat,
He was so very energetic.
His Bishop at this moment chanced
To pass, and found the road encumbered;
He noticed how the Churchman danced,
And how his congregation slumbered.
The hundred and eleventh head
The priest completed of his stricture;
"Oh, bosh!" the worthy Bishop said,
And walked him off as in the picture.
Artist's Life.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,
Mad with melody, rhythm - rife
From the very first to the final note,
Give me his "Artist's Life!"
It stirs my blood to my finger ends,
Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,
And all that is sweetest and saddest blends
Together within my breast.
It brings back that night in the dim arcade,
In love's sweet morning and life's best prime.
When the great brass orchestra played and played.
And set our thoughts to rhyme.
It brings back that Winter of mad delights,
Of leaping pulses and tripping feet,
And those languid moon-washed Summer nights
When we heard the band in the street.
It brings back rapture and glee and glow,
It brings back passion and pain and strife,
And so of all the waltzes I know,
Give me the "Artist's Life."
For it is so full of the dear old time - 
So full of the dear old friends I knew.
And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,
I am always finding - you.
A Tree Song
by Rudyard Kipling

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun,
Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
(All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no little thing,
In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
Or ever AEneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
(From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
That anyway trusts her shade:
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
Or mellow with ale from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
Or he would call it a sin;
But we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth,
Good news for cattle and corn,
Now is the Sun come up from the South,
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
(All of a Midsummer morn):
England shall bide ti11 Judgment Tide,
By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Sally In Our Alley
by Henry Carey

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like Pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
There's ne'er a lady in the land
That's half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry them;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy them:
But sure such folk can have no part
In such a girl as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes, like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But let him bang, long as he will,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
Of all the days are in the week,
I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm dressed, all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
Soon as the text is named:
I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,
Oh, then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up and, box and all,
I'll give it to my honey;
Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds,
I'd give it all to Sally;
For she's the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
My master, and the neighbors all,
Make game of me and Sally,
And but for her I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley:
But when my seven long years are out,
Oh, then I'll marry Sally,
And then how happily we'll live,
But not in our alley.
Holiday Home.
by Hattie Howard

Of all the sweet visions that come unto me
Of happy refreshment by land or by sea,
Like oases where in life's desert I roam,
Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.
I climb to the top of the highest of hills
And look to the west with affectionate thrills,
And fancy I stand by the emerald side
Of charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.
In distant perspective unruffled it lies,
Except for the packet that paddles and plies,
And puffing its way like a pioneer makes
Its daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.
Untroubled except for the urchins that come
From many a haunt that is never a home,
Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,
Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.
All placid except for the dip of the oar
Of the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,
While merry excursionists shout till the gale
Reverberates laughter through rigging and sail.
How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shines
Like a salver of silver encompassed with vines,
In crystal illusion reflecting the skies
And the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.
There stands a great house on a summit so high,
Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;
And I think of the rest and the comfort up there
To sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.
Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the wood
Can never be written, nor be understood,
Except by the weary and languid who come
To bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.
From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,
From attic and alley, from labor severe,
For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepare
A world of diversion and excellent fare.
To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,
To lie in the shade of magnificent trees - 
Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowl
The life-giving essence for body and soul!
Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mind
The influence gentle, the ministry kind;
While gratitude fondly enhallows the thought
Of a home and a holiday never forgot.
Ah, one is remembered of saintliest men
To lovely Geneva who comes not again;
Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,
Humanity's helper, companion of God.
In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,
As unto a hospice by Providence led,
Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrude
Of the bounty so free, and the donors so good?
Who of their abundance have cheerfully given
Wherewith to develop an embryo heaven - 
To brighten conditions too hard and too sad
And make the unhappy contented and glad.
Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renown
Thus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,
Their monument building in many a dome
Like healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.