DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Redbird
by Madison Julius Cawein

From "Wild Thorn and Lily"
Among the white haw-blossoms, where the creek
Droned under drifts of dogwood and of haw,
The redbird, like a crimson blossom blown
Against the snow-white bosom of the Spring,
The chaste confusion of her lawny breast,
Sang on, prophetic of serener days,
As confident as June's completer hours.
And I stood listening like a hind, who hears
A wood nymph breathing in a forest flute
Among the beech-boles of myth-haunted ways:
And when it ceased, the memory of the air
Blew like a syrinx in my brain: I made
A lyric of the notes that men might know:
He flies with flirt and fluting - 
As flies a crimson star
From flaming star-beds shooting - 
From where the roses are.
Wings past and sings; and seven
Notes, wild as fragrance is, - 
That turn to flame in heaven, - 
Float round him full of bliss.
He sings; each burning feather
Thrills, throbbing at his throat;
A song of firefly weather,
And of a glowworm boat:
Of Elfland and a princess
Who, born of a perfume,
His music rocks, - where winces
That rosebud's cradled bloom.
No bird sings half so airy,
No bird of dusk or dawn,
Thou masking King of Faery!
Thou red-crowned Oberon!
Senorita
by Madison Julius Cawein

An agate-black, your roguish eyes
Claim no proud lineage of the skies,
No starry blue; but of good earth
The reckless witchery and mirth.
Looped in your raven hair's repose,
A hot aroma, one red rose
Dies; envious of that loveliness,
By being near which its is less.
Twin sea shells, hung with pearls, your ears,
Whose slender rosiness appears
Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire
Binds the attention these inspire.
One slim hand crumples up the lace
About your bosom's swelling grace;
A ruby at your samite throat
Lends the required color note.
The moon bears through the violet night
A pearly urn of chaliced light;
And from your dark-railed balcony
You stoop and wave your fan at me.
O'er orange orchards and the rose
Vague, odorous lips the south wind blows,
Peopling the night with whispers of
Romance and palely passionate love.
The heaven of your balcony
Smiles down two stars, that say to me
More peril than Angelica
Wrought with her beauty in Cathay.
Oh, stoop to me! and, speaking, reach
My soul like song that learned sweet speech
From some dim instrument who knows?
Or flower, a dulcimer or rose.
Bellambi's Maid
by Henry Kendall

Amongst the thunder-splintered caves
On Ocean's long and windy shore,
I catch the voice of dying waves
Below the ridges old and hoar;
The spray descends in silver showers,
And lovely whispers come and go,
Like echoes from the happy hours
I never more may hope to know!
The low mimosa droops with locks
Of yellow hair, in dewy glade,
While far above the caverned rocks
I hear the dark Bellambi's Maid!
The moonlight dreams upon the sail
That drives the restless ship to sea;
The clouds troop past the mountain vale,
And sink like spirits down the lee;
The foggy peak of Corrimal,
Uplifted, bears the pallid glow
That streams from yonder airy hall
And robes the sleeping hills below;
The wandering meteors of the sky
Beneath the distant waters wade,
While mystic music hurries by
The songs of dark Bellambi's Maid!
Why comes your voice, you lonely One,
Along the wild harp's wailing strings?
Have not our hours of meeting gone,
Like fading dreams on phantom wings?
Are not the grasses round your grave
Yet springing green and fresh to view?
And does the gleam on Ocean's wave
Tide gladness now to me and you?
Oh! cold and cheerless falls the night
On withered hearts and hopes decayed:
And I have seen but little light
Since died the dark Bellambi's Maid!
Alciphron And Leucippe
by Walter Savage Landor

An ancient chestnut's blossoms threw
Their heavy odour over two:
Leucippe, it is said, was one;
The other, then, was Alciphron.
'Come, come! why should we stand beneath?'
This hollow tree's unwholesome breath?'
Said Alciphron, 'here's not a blade
Of grass or moss, and scanty shade.
Come; it is just the hour to rove
In the lone dingle shepherds love;
There, straight and tall, the hazel twig
Divides the crook'ed rock-held fig,
O'er the blue pebbles where the rill
In winter runs and may run still.
Come then, while fresh and calm the air,
And while the shepherds are not there.'
Leucippe.        But I would rather go when they
Sit round about and sing and play.
Then why so hurry me? for you
Like play and song, and shepherds too.
Alciphron.     I like the shepherds very well,
And song and play, as you can tell.
But there is play, I sadly fear,
And song I would not have you hear.
Leucippe.        What can it be? What can it be?
Alciphron.     To you may none of them repeat
The play that you have play'd with me,
The song that made your bosom beat.
Leucippe.        Don't keep your arm about my waist.
Alciphron.     Might you not stumble?
Leucippe.        Well then, do.
But why are we in all this haste?
Alciphron.     To sing.
Leucippe.        Alas! and not play too?
At A Pantomime. By A Bilious One
by William Schwenck Gilbert

An Actor sits in doubtful gloom,
His stock-in-trade unfurled,
In a damp funereal dressing-room
In the Theatre Royal, World.
He comes to town at Christmas-time,
And braves its icy breath,
To play in that favourite pantomime,
Harlequin Life and Death.
A hoary flowing wig his weird
Unearthly cranium caps,
He hangs a long benevolent beard
On a pair of empty chaps.
To smooth his ghastly features down
The actor's art he cribs,
A long and a flowing padded gown.
Bedecks his rattling ribs.
He cries, "Go on begin, begin!
Turn on the light of lime
I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in
A favourite pantomime!"
The curtain's up the stage all black
Time and the year nigh sped
Time as an advertising quack
The Old Year nearly dead.
The wand of Time is waved, and lo!
Revealed Old Christmas stands,
And little children chuckle and crow,
And laugh and clap their hands.
The cruel old scoundrel brightens up
At the death of the Olden Year,
And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,
And bids the world good cheer.
The little ones hail the festive King,
No thought can make them sad.
Their laughter comes with a sounding ring,
They clap and crow like mad!
They only see in the humbug old
A holiday every year,
And handsome gifts, and joys untold,
And unaccustomed cheer.
The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,
Their breasts in anguish beat
They've seen him seventy times before,
How well they know the cheat!
They've seen that ghastly pantomime,
They've felt its blighting breath,
They know that rollicking Christmas-time
Meant Cold and Want and Death,
Starvation Poor Law Union fare
And deadly cramps and chills,
And illness illness everywhere,
And crime, and Christmas bills.
They know Old Christmas well, I ween,
Those men of ripened age;
They've often, often, often seen
That Actor off the stage!
They see in his gay rotundity
A clumsy stuffed-out dress
They see in the cup he waves on high
A tinselled emptiness.
Those aged men so lean and wan,
They've seen it all before,
They know they'll see the charlatan
But twice or three times more.
And so they bear with dance and song,
And crimson foil and green,
They wearily sit, and grimly long
For the Transformation Scene.
The Mirror.
by Madison Julius Cawein

An antique mirror this,
I like it not at all,
In this lonely room where the goblin gloom
Scowls from the arrased wall.
A mystic mirror framed
In ebon, wildly carved;
And the prisoned air in the crevice there
Moans like a man that's starved.
A truthful mirror where,
In the broad, chaste light of day,
From the window's arches, like fairy torches,
Red roses swing and sway.
They blush and bow and gaze,
Proud beauties desolate,
In their tresses cold the sunlight's gold,
In their hearts a jealous hate.
A small green worm that gnaws,
For the nightingale that low
Each eve doth rave, the passionate slave
Of the wild white rose below.
The night-bird wails below;
The stars creep out above;
And the roses soon in the sultry moon
Shall palpitate with love.
The night-bird sobs below;
The roses blow and bloom;
Thro' the diamond panes the moonlight rains
In the dim unholy room.
Ancestors grim that stare
Stiff, starched, and haughty down
From the oaken wall of the noble hall
Put on a sterner frown.
The old, bleak castle clock
Booms midnight overhead,
And the rose is wan and the bird is gone
When walk the shrouded dead.
And grim ancestors gaunt
In smiles and tears faint flit;
By the mirror there they stand and stare,
And weep and sigh to it.
In rare, rich ermine earls
With rapiers jeweled rare,
With a powdered throng of courtiers long
Pass with stiff and stately air.
With diamonds and perfumes
In ruff and golden lace,
Tall ladies pass by the looking-glass,
Each sighing at her face.
An awful mirror this,
I like it not at all,
In this lonely room where the goblin gloom
Scowls from the arrased wall.
Dawn
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

An angel, robed in spotless white,
Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night.
Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone.
Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.
To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For Kenton)
An iron hand has stilled the throats
That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers' returning,
But no swift wings flash through the tree.
Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.
The scented morning of the year
Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
Among the bushes on the lawn.
When babies wander out a-Maying
Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?
Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?
Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.
Above the stars is set your nest.
Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly
And in the trees of Heaven rest.
And little children in their dreaming
Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming
And smile, by your clear music blest.
Through Tears.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

An artist toiled over his pictures;
He labored by night and by day.
He struggled for glory and honor,
But the world, it had nothing to say.
His walls were ablaze with the splendors
We see in the beautiful skies;
But the world beheld only the colors
That were made out of chemical dyes.
Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered;
He passed through the valley of grief.
Again he toiled over his canvas,
Since in labor alone was relief.
It showed not the splendor of colors
Of those of his earlier years,
But the world? the world bowed down before it,
Because it was painted with tears.
A poet was gifted with genius,
And he sang, and he sang all the days.
He wrote for the praise of the people,
But the people accorded no praise.
Oh, his songs were as blithe as the morning,
As sweet as the music of birds;
But the world had no homage to offer,
Because they were nothing but words.
Time sped. And the poet through sorrow
Became like his suffering kind.
Again he toiled over his poems
To lighten the grief of his mind.
They were not so flowing and rhythmic
As those of his earlier years,
But the world? lo! it offered its homage
Because they were written in tears.
So ever the price must be given
By those seeking glory in art;
So ever the world is repaying
The grief-stricken, suffering heart.
The happy must ever be humble;
Ambition must wait for the years,
Ere hoping to win the approval
Of a world that looks on through its tears.
How The Fatuous Wish Of A Peasant Came True
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

An excellent peasant,
Of character pleasant,
Once lived in a hut with his wife.
He was cheerful and docile,
But such an old fossil
You wouldn't meet twice in your life.
His notions were all without reason or rhyme,
Such dullness in any one else were a crime,
But the folly pig-headed
To which he was wedded
Was so deep imbedded,
it touched the sublime!
He frequently stated
Such quite antiquated
And singular doctrines as these:
"Do good unto others!
All men are your brothers!"
(Of course he forgot the Chinese!)
He said that all men were made equal and free,
(That's true if they're born on our side of the sea!)
That truth should be spoken,
And pledges unbroken:
(Now where, by that token,
would most of us be?)
One day, as his pottage
He ate in his cottage,
A fairy stepped up to the door;
Upon it she hammered,
And meekly she stammered:
"A morsel of food I implore."
He gave her sardines, and a biscuit or two,
And she said in reply, when her luncheon was through,
"In return for these dishes
Of bread and of fishes
The first of your wishes
I'll make to come true!"
That nincompoop peasant
Accepted the present,
(As most of us probably would,)
And, thinking her bounty
To turn to account, he
Said: "Now I'll do somebody good!
I won't ask a thing for myself or my wife,
But I'll make all my neighbors with happiness rife.
Whate'er their conditions,
Henceforward, physicians
And indispositions
they're rid of for life!"
These words energetic
The fairy's prophetic
Announcement brought instantly true:
With singular quickness
Each victim of sickness
Was made over, better than new,
And people who formerly thought they were doomed
With almost obstreperous healthiness bloomed,
And each had some platitude,
Teeming with gratitude,
For the new attitude
life had assumed.
Our friend's satisfaction
Concerning his action
Was keen, but exceedingly brief.
The wrathful condition
Of every physician
In town was surpassing belief!
Professional nurses were plunged in despair,
And chemists shook passionate fists in the air:
They called at his dwelling,
With violence swelling,
His greeting repelling
with arrogant stare.
They beat and they battered,
They slammed and they shattered,
And did him such serious harm,
That, after their labors,
His wife told the neighbors
They'd caused her excessive alarm!
They then set to work on his various ills,
And plied him with liniments, powders, and pills,
And charged him so dearly
That all of them nearly
Made double the yearly
amount of their bills.
This Moral by the tale is taught:--
The wish is father to the thought.
(We'd oftentimes escape the worst
If but the thinking part came first!)
The Ass In The Lion's Skin.
by Jean de La Fontaine

An Ass in The Lion's skin arrayed
Made everybody fear.
And this was queer,
Because he was himself afraid.
Yet everywhere he strayed
The people ran like deer.
Ah, ah! He is betrayed:
No lion has that long and hairy ears.
Old Martin spied the tip; and country folk
Who are not in the secret of the joke,
With open mouths and eyes
Stare at old Martin's prize - 
A Lion led to mill, with neck in yoke.
Historical Epilogue To The Brothers. A Tragedy.
by Edward Young

An Epilogue, through custom, is your right,
But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night:
To-night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies,
Guilt's dreadful close our narrow scene denies.
In history's authentic record read
What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade;
Vengeance so great, that, when his tale is told,
With pity some e'en Perseus may behold.
Perseus surviv'd, indeed, and fill'd the throne,
But ceaseless cares in conquest made him groan:
Nor reign'd he long; from Rome swift thunder flew,
And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw:
Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led,
For this night's deed his perjur'd bosom bled:
His brother's ghost each moment made him start,
And all his father's anguish rent his heart.
When, rob'd in black, his children round him hung,
And their rais'd arms in early sorrow wrung;
The younger smil'd, unconscious of their woe;
At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow;
So sad the scene! What then must Perseus feel,
To see Jove's race attend the victor's wheel:
To see the slaves of his worst foes increase,
From such a source!--An emperor's embrace!
He sicken'd soon to death; and, what is worse,
He well deserv'd, and felt, the coward's curse;
Unpitied, scorn'd, insulted his last hour,
Far, far from home, and in a vassal's power:
His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain,
No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign;
No suit retards, no comfort soothes his doom,
And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb.
Nor ends it thus--dire vengeance to complete,
His ancient empire falling shares his fate:
His throne forgot! his weeping country chain'd!
And nations ask--where Alexander reign'd.
As public woes a prince's crime pursue,
So public blessings are his virtue's due.
Shout, Britons, shout--auspicious fortune bless!
And cry, Long live--Our title to success!
No Peace But A Right Peace
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

An inconclusive peace!--
A peace that would be no peace--
Naught but a treacherous truce for breeding
Of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!--
"No!" ...
The spirits of our myriad valiant dead,
Who died to make peace sure and life secure,
Thunder one mighty cry of righteous indignation,--
One vast imperative, unanswerable "No!" ...
"Not for that, not for that, did we die!"--
They cry;--
"--To give fresh life to godless knavery!
--To forge again the chains of slavery
Such as humanity has never known!
We gave our lives to set Life free,
Loyally, willingly gave we,
Lest on our children, and on theirs,
Should come like misery.
And now, from our souls' heights and depths,
We cry to you,--"Beware,
Lest you defraud us of one smallest atom of the price
Of this our sacrifice!
One fraction less than that full liberty,
Which comes of righteous and enduring peace,
Will be betrayal of your trust,--
Betrayal of your race, the world, and God."
Rondeau: An April Day.
by W. M. MacKeracher

An April day, when skies are blue,
And earth rejoices to renew
Her vernal youth by lawn and lea,
And sap mounts upward in the tree,
And ruddy buds come bursting through;
When violets of tender hue
And trilliums keep the morning dew
Through all the sweet forenoon - give me
An April day;
When surly Winter's roystering crew
Have said the last of their adieux,
And left the fettered river free,
And buoyant hope and ecstasy
Of life awake, my wants are few -
An April day.
The Ass Carrying Relics.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
An ass, with relics for his load,
Supposed the worship on the road
Meant for himself alone,
And took on lofty airs,
Receiving as his own
The incense and the prayers.
Some one, who saw his great mistake,
Cried, 'Master Donkey, do not make
Yourself so big a fool.
Not you they worship, but your pack;
They praise the idols on your back,
And count yourself a paltry tool.'
'Tis thus a brainless magistrate
Is honour'd for his robe of state.
The Earthen Pot And The Iron Pot.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
An iron pot proposed
To an earthen pot a journey.
The latter was opposed,
Expressing the concern he
Had felt about the danger
Of going out a ranger.
He thought the kitchen hearth
The safest place on earth
For one so very brittle.
'For thee, who art a kettle,
And hast a tougher skin,
There's nought to keep thee in.'
'I'll be thy body-guard,'
Replied the iron pot;
'If anything that's hard
Should threaten thee a jot,
Between you I will go,
And save thee from the blow.'
This offer him persuaded.
The iron pot paraded
Himself as guard and guide
Close at his cousin's side.
Now, in their tripod way,
They hobble as they may;
And eke together bolt
At every little jolt, - 
Which gives the crockery pain;
But presently his comrade hits
So hard, he dashes him to bits,
Before he can complain.
Take care that you associate
With equals only, lest your fate
Between these pots should find its mate.
The Sea.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

An everywhere of silver,
With ropes of sand
To keep it from effacing
The track called land.
A Belgian Christmas
by Madison Julius Cawein

The "happy year" of 1914
An hour from dawn:
The snow sweeps on
As it swept with sleet last night:
The Earth around
Breathes never a sound,
Wrapped in its shroud of white.
A waked cock crows
Under the snows;
Then silence. After while
The sky grows blue,
And a star looks through
With a kind o' bitter smile.
A whining dog;
An axe on a log,
And a muffled voice that calls:
A cow's long low;
Then footsteps slow
Stamping into the stalls.
A bed of straw
Where the wind blows raw
Through cracks of the stable door:
A child's small cry,
A voice nearby,
That says, "One mouth the more."
A different note
In a man's rough throat
As he turns at an entering tread
Satyrs! see!
"My woman she
Was brought last night to bed!"
A cry of"Halt!"
"Ach! ich bin kalt!"
"A spy!""No.""That is clear!
There's a good shake-down
I' the jail in town
For her!" And then, "My orders here."
A shot, sharp-rolled
As the clouds unfold:
A scream; and a cry forlorn...
Clothed red with fire,
Like the Heart's Desire,
Look down the Christmas Morn.
The babe with light
Is haloed bright,
And it is Christmas Day:
A cry of woe;
Then footsteps slow,
And the wild guns, far away.
Lost Son Found.
by James McIntyre

An English ship when homeward bound,
Near to its port was shipwrecked found,
For it had struck a sunken rock,
And was slowly sinking from the shock.
In port they quick did man life boat,
Which o'er tempestuous sea did float,
They rescued all the crew, save one,
And were content with what they done.
But they had not their captain, Harry,
Who on the shore was forced to tarry,
And knew not of the disaster,
So crew had worked without a master.
But when he heard of the shipwreck,
And that a man was left on deck,
He quickly hurried the boat's crew
For to again attempt his rescue.
But earnestly his old mother,
Reminded him of his lost brother,
Perhaps drowned in foreign sea,
She cried, son, stay and comfort me.
But wreck they reach and rescue man,
And thrill of joy o'er city ran,
When it was found 'twas Harry's brother,
Had returned to comfort mother.
Thus providence rewards the brave
Who strive their fellow men to save,
The mother's griefs it did assuage,
And happy now is her old age.
The Earthworm And The Star.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

An Earthworm once loved a Star. In the hush of the summer night,
He lay quite close to the ground and gazed on its golden light;
He looked from his house of clay, and dreamed of wonderful things,
Till, lo! (as he thought) his longing brought forth miraculous wings.
The Butterfly soared in the air, straight toward the beckoning spark;
His wings grew weary and chill, but the Star smiled through the dark;
His wings grew heavy and cold, the wings that he dreamed love gave,
And he folded them there in the starlight, and the dust became his grave.