DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Grasshopper And The Ant.
by Jean de La Fontaine

The Grasshopper, singing
All summer long,
Now found winter stinging,
And ceased in his song.
Not a morsel or crumb in his cupboard - 
So he shivered, and ceased in his song.
Miss Ant was his neighbor;
To her he went:
"O, you're rich from labor,
And I've not a cent.
Lend me food, and I vow I'll return it,
Though at present I have not a cent."
The Ant's not a lender,
I must confess.
Her heart's far from tender
To one in distress.
So she said: "Pray, how passed you the summer,
That in winter you come to distress?"
"I sang through the summer,"
Grasshopper said.
"But now I am glummer
Because I've no bread."
"So you sang!" sneered the Ant. "That relieves me.
Now it's winter - go dance for your bread!"
The Grass.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The grass so little has to do, --
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine, --
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away, --
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!
The Grandest Theme
by Joseph Horatio Chant

The grandest theme for tongue, or pen,
Is not the heavens supernal;
Nor mighty deeds of God-like men,
Though they may be eternal;
Nor Alpine heights, nor lovely vale,
With brooks and grazing cattle;
Nor awful roar of rushing gale,
Beyond the noise of battle;
Nor clashing arms, nor trembling earth;
Nor heaving waves of ocean;
Nor record of a nation's birth;
Nor heaven's cloud-cars in motion.
The grandest theme, for tongue, or pen,
Above all else in glory;
Which suits alike, all sinful men,
Is the sweet Gospel story,
Which tells me of my Saviour's love
And infinite compassion,
Which brought Him from His throne above
To Calvary's cross and passion.
And now the holy angels sing,
With blood-washed souls in glory,
A song which makes heaven's arches ring
About this Gospel story.
Compensation
by Arthur Conan Doyle

The grime is on the window pane,
Pale the London sunbeams fall,
And show the smudge of mildew stain,
Which lies on the distempered wall.
I am a cripple, as you see,
And here I lie, a broken thing,
But God has given flight to me,
That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.
For if I will to see or hear,
Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
And lo! the picture flashes clear,
Through all the mist of centuries.
I can recall the Tigris' strand,
Where once the Turk and Tartar met,
When the great Lord of Samarcand
Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.
Under a ten-league swirl of dust
The roaring battle swings and sways,
Now reeling down, now upward thrust,
The crescent sparkles through the haze.
I see the Janissaries fly,
I see the chain-mailed leader fall,
I hear the Tekbar clear and high,
The true believer's battle-call.
And tossing o'er the press I mark
The horse-tail banner over all,
Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark
That lies on the distempered wall.
And thus the meanest thing I see
Will set a scene within my brain,
And every sound that comes to me,
Will bring strange echoes back again.
Hark now! In rhythmic monotone,
You hear the murmur of the mart,
The low, deep, unremitting moan,
That comes from weary London's heart.
But I can change it to the hum
Of multitudinous acclaim,
When triple-walled Byzantium,
Re-echoes the Imperial name.
I hear the beat of armed feet,
The legions clanking on their way,
The long shout rims from street to street,
With rolling drum and trumpet bray.
So I hear it rising, falling,
Till it dies away once more,
And I hear the costers calling
Mid the weary London roar.
Who shall pity then the lameness,
Which still holds me from the ground?
Who commiserate the sameness
Of the scene that girds me round?
Though I lie a broken wreck,
Though I seem to want for all,
Still the world is at my beck
And the ages at my call.
The Winds Of Angus
by George William Russell

The grey road whereupon we trod became as holy ground:
The eve was all one voice that breathed its message with no sound:
And burning multitudes pour through my heart, too bright, too blind,
Too swift and hurried in their flight to leave their tale behind.
Twin gates unto that living world, dark honey-coloured eyes
The lifting of whose lashes flushed the face with paradise--
Beloved, there I saw within their ardent rays unfold
The likeness of enraptured birds that flew from deeps of gold
To deeps of gold within my breast to rest or there to be
Transfigured in the light, or find a death to life in me.
So love, a burning multitude, a seraph wind which blows
From out the deep of being to the deep of being goes:
And sun and moon and starry fires and earth and air and sea
Are creatures from the deep let loose who pause in ecstasy,
Or wing their wild and heavenly way until again they find
The ancient deep and fade therein, enraptured, bright and blind.
Meeting At Night
by Robert Browning

I
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.
II
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The Gurgling Imps
by Arthur Macy

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Lived in the Land of the Crimson Plum,
And a language very strange had they,
'Twas merely a chattering ricochet.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Caught hummingbirds for the sake of the hum,
Their cheeks were flushed with a sable tinge,
Their eyelids hung on a silver hinge.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Called each other "My charming chum,"
And floated in tears of joy to see
Their relatives hung in a cranberry tree.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Stole the whole of a half of a crumb,
And a wind arose and blew the Imps
Way off to the Land of the Lazy Limps.
Home
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The greatest words are always solitaires,
Set singly in one syllable; like birth,
Life, love, hope, peace.    I sing the worth
Of that dear word toward which the whole world fares - 
I sing of home.
To make a home, we should take all of love
And much of labour, patience, and keen joy;
Then mix the elements of earth's alloy
With finer things drawn from the realms above,
The spirit home.
There should be music, melody and song;
Beauty in every spot; an open door
And generous sharing of the pleasure store
With fellow-pilgrims as they pass along,
Seeking for home.
Make ample room for silent friends - the books,
That give so much and only ask for space.
Nor let Utility crowd out the vase
Which has no use save gracing by its looks
The precious home.
To narrow bounds let mirrors lend their aid
And multiply each gracious touch of art;
And let the casual stranger feel the part - 
The great creative part - that love has played
Within the home.
Here bring your best in thought
The Hardy Youth. III-2 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare
To narrow poverty must learn to bend,
And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,
Courageous Parthians into flight must send.
And he must try all dangerous adventures,
His life out in the open he must pass;
The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughter
Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas,"
They sigh - for fear the royal husband,
Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack
This lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody anger
Into the midst of slaughter has dragged back.
'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country,
Death follows fast upon the man who flees,
Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating,
Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees,
Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious,
Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands,
Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems,
As now the gaping populace demands.
Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dying
Deserve not death, by paths no other knows
Points out the way, and still while she is soaring,
Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows.
And there's a sure reward for loyal silence.
Him I'll forbid under my roof to sit
Who has divulged the Elusinian mysteries,
Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flit
Often great Jupiter, when once neglected,
The wicked near the innocent has put,
But punishment to overtake the guilty
Has rarely failed, though she is lame of foot
The Voortrekker
by Rudyard Kipling

The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire,
He shall fulfill God's utmost will unknowing His desire;
And he shall see old planets pass and alien stars arise,
And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies.
Strong lust of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand
To win his food from the desert rude, his foothold from the sand.
His neighbors' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest,
He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed.
He shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring
Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a People, and a King;
He shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce cooled camp;
There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp;
There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand,
Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand!
The New School
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For My Mother)
The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.
The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls
Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,
And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls
A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.
For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,
And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,
And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.
They have taken their youth and mirth away from the study and playing-ground
To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;
Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found,
And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.
And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end,
A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.
And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,
A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.
And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts with laughing eyes,
On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod;
They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,
A flame that they took with strong young hands from the altar-fires of God.
The Reapers' Song.
by Susanna Moodie

The harvest is nodding on valley and plain,
To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield;
Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain;
'Tis ripe to our hand!--to the field--to the field!
If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile,
Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile.
Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray,
We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!
With his garland of poppies red August is here,
And the forest is losing its first tender green;
Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year,
And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene.
To the field!--to the field! whilst the Summer is ours
We will reap her ripe corn--we will cull her bright flowers.
Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray,
For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.
Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies,
Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry,
Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise,
With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply:
He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd,
And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around.
Then, a largess! a largess!--kind stranger, we pray,
For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!
The Harp Of The Minstrel
by James Whitcomb Riley

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,
For the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;
But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart
A sorrow to one in an alien clime,
Let the light of the melody fall on the heart,
And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.
The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim
That once were his passionate love and his pride;
And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him
Have fallen away as the flowers have died.
The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath
And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago,
Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath
The grass and the stubble - the frost and the snow.
Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings
Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear,
And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings,
And jewel the song with the gem of a tear.
For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom tonight,
And the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.
Bryant
by James Whitcomb Riley

The harp has fallen from the master's hand;
Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings,
Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings
In sad aeolian murmurs through the land.
The tide of melody, whose billows grand
Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings,
Now, in receding current, sobs and sings
That song we never wholly understand.
* * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong,
And gracious reverence to humbly bow,
And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong;
O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow,
And lips so long attuned to sacred song,
How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!
The Reunion
by John Greenleaf Whittier

The gulf of seven and fifty years
We stretch our welcoming hands across;
The distance but a pebble's toss
Between us and our youth appears.
For in life's school we linger on
The remnant of a once full list;
Conning our lessons, undismissed,
With faces to the setting sun.
And some have gone the unknown way,
And some await the call to rest;
Who knoweth whether it is best
For those who went or those who stay?
And yet despite of loss and ill,
If faith and love and hope remain,
Our length of days is not in vain,
And life is well worth living still.
Still to a gracious Providence
The thanks of grateful hearts are due,
For blessings when our lives were new,
For all the good vouchsafed us since.
The pain that spared us sorer hurt,
The wish denied, the purpose crossed,
And pleasure's fond occasions lost,
Were mercies to our small desert.
'T is something that we wander back,
Gray pilgrims, to our ancient ways,
And tender memories of old days
Walk with us by the Merrimac;
That even in life's afternoon
A sense of youth comes back again,
As through this cool September rain
The still green woodlands dream of June.
The eyes grown dim to present things
Have keener sight for bygone years,
And sweet and clear, in deafening ears,
The bird that sang at morning sings.
Dear comrades, scattered wide and far,
Send from their homes their kindly word,
And dearer ones, unseen, unheard,
Smile on us from some heavenly star.
For life and death with God are one,
Unchanged by seeming change His care
And love are round us here and there;
He breaks no thread His hand has spun.
Soul touches soul, the muster roll
Of life eternal has no gaps;
And after half a century's lapse
Our school-day ranks are closed and whole.
Hail and farewell! We go our way;
Where shadows end, we trust in light;
The star that ushers in the night
Is herald also of the day
The Faithful Bird.
by William Cowper

The greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat
Enjoy'd the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows seem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,
You must not live alone'
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Return'd him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush when I tell you how a bird
A prison with a friend preferr'd
To liberty without.
To Henry Higden,[1] Esq., On His Translation Of The Tenth Satire Of Juvenal.
by John Dryden

The Grecian wits, who Satire first began,
Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man;
At mighty villains, who the state oppress'd,
They durst not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least,
And turn'd them out of office with a jest.
No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand
The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand.
Wise legislators never yet could draw
A fop within the reach of common law;
For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation,
Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.
Our last redress is dint of verse to try,
And Satire is our Court of Chancery.
This way took Horace to reform an age,
Not bad enough to need an author's rage:
But yours,[2] who lived in more degenerate times,
Was forced to fasten deep, and worry crimes.
Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well,
You make him smile in spite of all his zeal:
An art peculiar to yourself alone,
To join the virtues of two styles in one.
Oh! were your author's principle received,
Half of the labouring world would be relieved:
For not to wish is not to be deceived.
Revenge would into charity be changed,
Because it costs too dear to be revenged:
It costs our quiet and content of mind,
And when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind.
Suppose I had the better end o' the staff,
Why should I help the ill-natured world to laugh?
'Tis all alike to them, who get the day;
They love the spite and mischief of the fray.
No; I have cured myself of that disease;
Nor will I be provoked, but when I please:
But let me half that cure to you restore;
You gave the salve, I laid it to the sore.
Our kind relief against a rainy day,
Beyond a tavern, or a tedious play,
We take your book, and laugh our spleen away.
If all your tribe, too studious of debate,
Would cease false hopes and titles to create,
Led by the rare example you begun,
Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.
The Tryst.
by Jean Blewett

The harvest moon in yellow haze
Is steeping all the sea and land,
Is kindling paths and shining ways
Around the hills, across the sand.
And there are only thou and I - 
O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note
The glory of the sea and sky,
I see a softly rounded throat,
A face uplifted, pure and sweet,
Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;
Enough, the sea sings at our feet,
The harvest moon sails just above.
Fantasia
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The happy men that lose their heads
They find their heads in heaven,
As cherub heads with cherub wings,
And cherub haloes even:
Out of the infinite evening lands
Along the sunset sea,
Leaving the purple fields behind,
The cherub wings beat down the wind
Back to the groping body and blind
As the bird back to the tree.
Whether the plumes be passion-red
For him that truly dies
By headsmen's blade or battle-axe,
Or blue like butterflies,
For him that lost it in a lane
In April's fits and starts,
His folly is forgiven then:
But higher, and far beyond our ken,
Is the healing of the unhappy men,
The men that lost their hearts.
Is there not pardon for the brave
And broad release above,
Who lost their heads for liberty
Or lost their hearts for love?
Or is the wise man wise indeed
Whom larger thoughts keep whole?
Who sees life equal like a chart,
Made strong to play the saner part,
And keep his head and keep his heart,
And only lose his soul.
Twilight.
by H. P. Nichols

The happiest hour of all the day
To me, is always last;
When both my studies and my play,
My walks and work, are past.
When round the bright warm fire we come,
With hearts so light and free,
And all within our happy home
Are talking quietly,
Then, by my dear, kind father's side
I sit, or on his knee,
And then I tell him I have tried
His gentle girl to be.
And then he says the little child
Is loved by every one,
Who has a temper sweet and mild
And smiling as the sun.
Let me do always as I should,
Nor vex my father dear;
And let me be as glad and good
As he would have me here.
The Hapless Army
by Edward Dyson

'A soldier braving disease and death on the battlefield has a seven times better chance of life than a new-born baby.' - Secretary of War, U.S.A.
The Hapless Army from the dark
That lies beyond creation,
All blinded by the solar spark,
And leaderless in lands forlorn,
Come stumbling through the mists of morn;
And foes in close formation,
With taloned fingers dripping red,
Bestrew the sodden world with dead.
The Hapless Army bears no sword;
Fell destiny fulfilling,
It marches where the murder horde,
Amid the fair new urge of life,
With poison stream, and shot, and knife,
Make carnival of killing.
No war above black Hell's abyss
Knows evil grim and foul as this.
In pallid hillocks lie the slain
The callous heaven under;
Like twisted hieroglyphs of pain
They fleck earth to oblivion's brink,
As far as human mind may think,
Accusing God with thunder
Of dreadful silence. Nought it serves,
Fate ever calls the doomed reserves!
Still with Death's own monotony
The innocents are falling,
Like dead leaves in a forest dree;
And still the conscript armies come.
No banners theirs, no beat of drum,
No merry bugles calling!
Mad ally in the Slayers' train,
Man slaps and sorrows for the slain!
Life's Key
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The hand that fashioned me, tuned my ear
To chord with the major key,
In the darkest moments of life I hear
Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer
From choirs that I cannot see.
And the music of life seems so inspired
That it will not let me grow sad or tired.
Yet through and under the major strain,
I hear with the passing of years,
The mournful minor measure of pain,
Of souls that struggle and toil in vain
For a goal that never nears.
And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong,
Breaks more and more into earth's glad song.
And oft in the dark of the night I wake
And think of sorrowing lives,
And I long to comfort the hearts that ache,
To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take,
And to strengthen each soul that strives.
I long to cry to them 'Do not fear,
Help is coming and aid is near.'
However desolate, weird, or strange
Life's melody sounds to you,
Before to-morrow the air may change,
And the Great Director of music arrange
A programme perfectly new.
And the dirge in minor may suddenly be
Turned into a jubilant song of glee.
The Dreamers
by Theodosia Garrison

The gypsies passed her little gate--
She stopped her wheel to see,--
A brown-faced pair who walked the road,
Free as the wind is free;
And suddenly her tidy room
A prison seemed to be.
Her shining plates against the walls,
Her sunlit, sanded floor,
The brass-bound wedding chest that held
Her linen's snowy store,
The very wheel whose humming died,--
Seemed only chains she bore.
She watched the foot-free gypsies pass;
She never knew or guessed
The wistful dream that drew them close--
The longing in each breast
Some day to know a home like hers,
Wherein their hearts might rest.