DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Salem Mother
by Theodosia Garrison

I
They whisper at my very gate,
These clacking gossips every one,
"We saw them in the wood of late,
Her and the widow's son;
The horses at the forge may wait,
The wool may go unspun."
I spread the food he loves the best,
I light the lamp when day is done,
Yet still he stays another's guest--
Oh, my one son, my son.
I would it burned in mine own breast
The spell he may not shun.
She hath bewitched him with her eyes.
(No goodly maid hath eyes as bright.)
Pale in the morn I watch him rise,
As one who wanders far by night.
The gossips whisper and surmise--
I hide me from the light.
II
Her hair is yellow as the corn,
Her eyes are bluer than the sky;
Behind the casement yester-morn,
I watched her passing by.
My son not yet had broken bread,
Yet from the table did he rise,
She said no word nor turned her head,
What then the spell that bade him stir,
Nor heeding any word I said,
Put by my hands and follow her.
III
He was so strong and wise and good--
Was there no other she might take,
Nor other mothers' hearts to break?
What though she bade the harvest fail,
What though she willed the cattle die,
So my son's soul was spared thereby.
My cattle fill the pasture-land,
The ripe fruit thickens on the tree,
My son, my son is lost to me.
IV
They burned a witch in our town,
On hangman's hill to-day;
And black the ashes drifted down,
Ashes black and grey,
Not white like those o' martyred folk
Whose souls are clean as they.
They burned a witch in our town,
Upon a windy hill,
For that she made the wells sink down
And wrought a young man ill,
The smoke rose black against the sky,
And hangs before it still.
They burned a witch in our town,
And sure they did but right,
And yet I would the rain could drown
That blackened hill from sight,
And some great wind might drive that cloud
'Twixt God and me this night.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - VII. ' At Rome
by William Wordsworth

They who have seen the noble Roman's scorn
Break forth at thought of laying down his head,
When the blank day is over, garroted
In his ancestral palace, where, from morn
To night, the desecrated floors are worn
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they who have read
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed,
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne;
They who have heard some learned Patriot treat
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme
From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright dream
Of Commonwealths, each city a star-like seat
Of rival glory; they, fallen Italy
Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!
Lines For The Bridal
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

They will place a bridal wreath, maiden,
To crown all your shining hair;
The mist-like cloud of the bridal veil
Will float round a face most fair.
They will dress you in bridal robes, maiden,
And the holy words be said,
And the ring put on and two made one,
And the maiden we love be wed.
You'll give him your virgin hand, maiden,
And become a wedded wife;
That hand will mingle "honey for two"
To sweeten the bitter of life.
They will give you costly gifts, maiden,
And many a wish beside
Will rise in prayer in blessings come down
On thy head O fair young bride
And kind will the bridegroom be maiden
True and tender as years roll on
Who learns to love in the school of Christ
Will cherish what he has won
And so what can I say more maiden
Wooed and won and to be wed,
Pray that His blessing who loved till death
May rest on your fair young head
In the hollow of His hand maiden,
He will keep you who fainteth not
He will cause the splendour of His face
To shine on your happy lot
Epilogue To The Second Part Of The Conquest Of Granada.
by John Dryden

They who have best succeeded on the stage,
Have still conform'd their genius to their age.
Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,
When men were dull, and conversation low.
Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:
Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.
And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene,
Which must atone for an ill-written play.
They rose, but at their height could seldom stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
And they have kept it since, by being dead.
But, were they now to write, when critics weigh
Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
None of them, no not Jonson in his height,
Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.
Think it not envy, that these truths are told:
Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.
'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown,
But, by their errors, to excuse his own.
If love and honour now are higher raised,
'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised.
Wit's now arrived to a more high degree:
Our native language more refined and free.
Our ladies and our men now speak more wit
In conversation, than those poets writ.
Then, one of these is, consequently, true:
That what this poet writes comes short of you,
And imitates you ill (which most he fears),
Or else his writing is not worse than theirs.
Yet though you judge (as sure the critics will),
That some before him writ with greater skill,
In this one praise he has their fame surpass'd,
To please an age more gallant than the last.
Victory.
by Madison Julius Cawein

They who take courage from their own defeat
Are victors too, no matter how much beat.
A Feel In The Chris'mas-Air
by James Whitcomb Riley

They's a kind o' feel in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run ag'in! -
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I swear
They's a goneness somers I can't quite state -
A kind o' feel in the air.
They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man lives at! -
It gives a feller a' appetite -
They ain't no doubt about that! -
And yit they's somepin' - I don't know what -
That follers me, here and there,
And ha'nts and worries and spares me not -
A kind o' feel in the air!
They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest
As blame-don sad as sweet! -
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my feet,
They's allus a kind o' sort of a' ache
That I can't lo-cate no-where; -
But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake! -
A kind o' feel in the air.
Is it the racket the childern raise? -
W'y, no! - God bless 'em! - no! -
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze -
Like my own wuz, long ago? -
Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat
O' the little toy-drum and blare
O' the horn? - No! no! - it is jest the sweet -
The sad-sweet feel in the air.
In Memoriam. - Miss Delia Woodruff Godding,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.
Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!
And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd
Knowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind.
--Full many a pupil of thy varied lore
Amid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales
Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought,
And far away in the broad-featured west
Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green
The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail
From youthful bands expecting thy return,
To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.
They watch in vain.
The pleasant halls are dark
Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears
Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee.
Said we thy life was o'er?
Forgive the words.
We take them back.
Thou hast begun to live.
Here was the budding, there the perfect flower,
Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun,
Here the scant preface, there the open Book
Where angels read forever.
*     *     *     *     *
Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule
Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune
That harp of praise within the unfolding heart
Which 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands
Swells the full anthem of Eternity.
Regret.
by Emma Lazarus

Thin summer rain on grass and bush and hedge,
Reddening the road and deepening the green
On wide, blurred lawn, and in close-tangled sedge;
Veiling in gray the landscape stretched between
These low broad meadows and the pale hills seen
But dimly on the far horizon's edge.
In these transparent-clouded, gentle skies,
Wherethrough the moist beams of the soft June sun
Might any moment break, no sorrow lies,
No note of grief in swollen brooks that run,
No hint of woe in this subdued, calm tone
Of all the prospect unto dreamy eyes.
Only a tender, unnamed half-regret
For the lost beauty of the gracious morn;
A yearning aspiration, fainter yet,
For brighter suns in joyous days unborn,
Now while brief showers ruffle grass and corn,
And all the earth lies shadowed, grave, and wet;
Space for the happy soul to pause again
From pure content of all unbroken bliss,
To dream the future void of grief and pain,
And muse upon the past, in reveries
More sweet for knowledge that the present is
Not all complete, with mist and clouds and rain.
The Sonnets CXXXII - Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me
by William Shakespeare

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
Corinna,[1] A Ballad
by Jonathan Swift

1711-12
This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.
But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: "This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;"
"And I pronounce," the Satyr said,
"The world shall feel her scratch and bite."
Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad:
And how, when master went to p - ,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.
At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.
Things Mortal Still Mutable
by Robert Herrick

Things are uncertain; and the more we get,
The more on icy pavements we are set.
Think Not that the Heart is Devoid of Emotion.
by Alfred Castner King

Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,
Because of a countenance rugged and stern,
The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,
As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;
As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,
The heart may have treasures which few can discern.
Think not the heart barren, because no reflection
Is flashed from the depths of its secret embrace;
External appearance may baffle detection,
And yet the heart beat with an ethical grace:
The breast may be charged with the truest affection
And never betray it by action or face.
Cleveland Lyke-Wake Dirge
by Walter Scott (Sir)

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle;
Fire and sleete and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
When thou from hence away are paste,
Every nighte and alle;
To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;
And Christe receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle;
Sit thee down, and put them on;
And Christe receive thye saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle;
The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane,
And Christe receive thye saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle;
To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saul
(A stanza wanting)
From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle;
To purgatory fire thou comest at laste;
And Christ receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drinke,
Every nighte and alle;
The fire shall never make thee shrinke;
And Christ receive thye saule.
If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle;
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle;
Fire and sleete, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
He Prefers Her Earthly
by Thomas Hardy

This after-sunset is a sight for seeing,
Cliff-heads of craggy cloud surrounding it.
- And dwell you in that glory-show?
You may; for there are strange strange things in being,
Stranger than I know.
Yet if that chasm of splendour claim your presence
Which glows between the ash cloud and the dun,
How changed must be your mortal mould!
Changed to a firmament-riding earthless essence
From what you were of old:
All too unlike the fond and fragile creature
Then known to me . . . Well, shall I say it plain?
I would not have you thus and there,
But still would grieve on, missing you, still feature
You as the one you were.
Years Ago.
by Walter R. Cassels

This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when first we met;
When first her voice thrill'd through my heart,
Aeolian-sweet, thrill'd through my heart;
And glances from her soft brown eyes,
Like gleamings out of Paradise,
Shone on my heart, and made it bright
With fulness of celestial light;
This day it seems--this day--and yet,
Ah! years ago--long years ago.
This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when first I knew
How all her beauty fill'd my soul,
With mystic glory fill'd my soul;
And every word and smile she gave,
Like motions of a sunlit wave,
Rock'd me with divine emotion,
Joyous, o'er Life's smiling ocean;
This day it seems--this day--and yet,
Ah! years ago--long years ago.
This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when first I heard,
Amid the silence of my soul,
The fearful silence of my soul,
That warning voice of doom declare--
O God! unmoved by my despair--
How her soft eyes would lose their light,
Their holy, pure, and stainless light,
And all the beauty of her being
Fade sadly, swiftly from my seeing;
This day it seems--Ah me! this day,
Though years ago--sad years ago.
This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago, when dumb I stood
Beside that little grass-green mound--
Would I had lain beneath the mound!--
And gazed out through my briny tears,
Upon the future lonely years,
Upon the cold, bleak, cheerless years,
Till Earth should ope her grassy breast,
And take me to my welcome rest,
Where she in Death's cold arms lay prest;
This day it seems--Ah me! this day,
Though years ago--sad years ago.
This day it was--Ah! years ago,
Long years ago; and yet I still
Gaze through moist eyes upon the Past,
The cherish'd, unforgotten Past;
Gaze onward through the coming days,
And wonder, with a sweet amaze,
What sunrise with its rosy light
Will bring her to my longing sight;
What sunset with its golden glow
Will o'er the long-sought slumber flow,
Amid whose visions she shall gleam,
As once she did through youth's sweet dream,
Ah! years ago--long years ago.
To Caroline.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov'd thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
2.
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as thine own.
3.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
4.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In sighs alone it breath'd my name.
5.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.
6.
Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only hope is, to forget!
Inscription For A Hermitage In The Author's Garden.
by William Cowper

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to'the last retreat.
Gratitude. Addressed To Lady Hesketh.
by William Cowper

This cap, that so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel on high,
Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky:
This cap to my cousin I owe,
She gave it, and gave me beside,
Wreath'd into an elegant bow,
The ribbon with which it is tied.
This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contrived both for toil and repose,
Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and dose,
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that
In which, or astronomy lies,
Fair Cassiopeia sat:
These carpets so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride!
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country ride!
This table, and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin
And periwig nicely adjust:
This moveable structure of shelves,
For its beauty admired and its use,
And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view,
And hope in due time, to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too:
This china, that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above
Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet:
These curtains that keep the room warm
Or cool, as the season demands,
Those stoves that for pattern and form
Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands:
All these are not half that I owe
To one, from our earliest youth,
To me ever ready to show
Benignity, friendship, and truth;
For Time, the destroyer declared
And foe of our perishing kind,
If even her face he has spared,
Much less could he alter her mind.
Thus compass'd about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease,
I indulge my poetical moods
In many such fancies as these;
And fancies I fear they will seem'
Poets' goods are not often so fine;
The poets will swear that I dream
When I sing of the splendour of mine.
Incense
by Vachel Lindsay

Think not that incense-smoke has had its day.
My friends, the incense-time has but begun.
Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,
Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun.
And mountain-boulders in our aged West
Shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed:
And there the scholar from the Chinese hills
Shall do deep honor, with his wise head bowed.
And on our old, old plains some muddy stream,
Dark as the Ganges, shall, like that strange tide - 
(Whispering mystery to half the earth) - 
Gather the praying millions to its side,
And flow past halls with statues in white stone
To saints unborn to-day, whose lives of grace
Shall make one shining, universal church
Where all Faiths kneel, as brothers, in one place.
The Christmas-Box.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

This box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
With many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;
The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,
But baked indeed, for children's use design'd.
I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin'd,
Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
Within us speaks, that may be felt afar;
This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win,
As if with pleasure gleam'd each well-known star,
The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
Weariness.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

This April sun has wakened into cheer
The wintry paths of thought, and tinged with gold
These threadbare leaves of fancy brown and old.
This is for us the wakening of the year
And May's sweet breath will draw the waiting soul
To where in distance lies the longed-for goal.
The summer life will still all questioning,
The leaves will whisper peace, and calm will be
The wild, vast, blue, illimitable sea.
And we shall hush our murmurings, and bring
To Nature, green below and blue above,
A whole life's worshipping, a whole life's love.
We will not speak of sometime fretting fears,
We will not think of aught that may arise
In future hours to cloud our golden skies.
Some souls there are who love their woes and tears,
Gaining their joy by contrast, but for thee
And me, Beloved, peace is ecstasy.
It was not always so, there was a time
When I would choose the rocky mountain way,
And climb the hills of doubt to find the day.
Fresh effort brought fresh zest, and winter's rime
Chilled not but crowned endeavor, and the heat
Of summer thrilled, and made the pulses beat.
But now I am so weary that I turn
From labor with a shudder, and from pain
As from an enemy; I see no gain
In suffering, and cleansing fires must burn
As keenly as desire, so let me know
Quiet with thee, and twilight's afterglow.
I, who have boasted of my strength and will,
And ventured daring flights, and stood alone
In fearless, flushed defiance, I have grown
Humble, and seek another hand to fill
Life's cup, and other eyes to pierce the skies
Of Wisdom's dear, sad, mighty mysteries.
Ah! I will lie so quiet in thine arms
I will not stir thee; and thy whisperings
Shall teach me patience, and so many things
I have not learned as yet. And all alarms
Will melt in peace when, safe from tempest's rage
My wind-tossed ship has found its anchorage.
The Tour
by Rudyard Kipling

Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took,
He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
Accused of storming    through that placed nook
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile, five pounds. And Juan paid!
To A Lady Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
2.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
3.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: 
4.
This will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XLIX
by Alfred Edward Housman

Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
The Bride-Cake
by Robert Herrick

This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding-cake:
Knead but the dough, and it will be
To paste of almonds turn'd by thee;
Or kiss it thou but once or twice,
And for the bride-cake there'll be spice.