DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Thunder-Cloud.
by George MacDonald

Oh, melancholy fragment of the night
Drawing thy lazy web against the sun,
Thou shouldst have waited till the day was done
With kindred glooms to build thy fane aright,
Sublime amid the ruins of the light!
But thus to shape our glories one by one
With fearful hands, ere we had well begun
To look for shadows--even in the bright!
Yet may we charm a lesson from thy breast,
A secret wisdom from thy folds of thunder:
There is a wind that cometh from the west
Will rend thy tottering piles of gloom asunder,
And fling thee ruinous along the grass,
To sparkle on us as our footsteps pass!
Upon The Death Of The Earl Of Dundee.[1]
by John Dryden

Oh, last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.
Scotland and thee did each in other live;
Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee survive.
Farewell! who dying didst support the state,
And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.
Mignon.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Oh, Mignon's mouth is like a rose,
A red, red rose, that half uncurls
Sweet petals o'er a crimson bee:
Or like a shell, that, opening, shows
Within its rosy curve white pearls,
White rows of pearls,
Is Mignon's mouth that smiles at me.
Oh, Mignon's eyes are like blue gems,
Two azure gems, that gleam and glow,
Soft sapphires set in ivory:
Or like twin violets, whose stems
Bloom blue beneath the covering snow,
The lidded snow,
Are Mignon's eyes that laugh at me.
O mouth of Mignon, Mignon's eyes!
O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!
Within which lies all ecstasy
Of tears and kisses and of sighs:
O mouth, O eyes, and O desire,
O love's desire,
Have mercy on the soul of me!
The County Fair.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Oh, let's go out to the county fair
And breathe the balmy country air,
And whittle a stick and look at the hosses,
Discuss the farmer's profit and losses.
We'll take a look at the country stock
And drink some milk from a dairy crock;
Look at the pigs and admire the chickens,
And try to forget it's hot as the dickens.
Forget there are any political rings
Just think of the butter and eggs and things;
So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare,
And we'll all go out to the county fair.
On An Unfortunate And Beautiful Woman.
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh, Mary, when distress and anguish came,
And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame;
When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled,
And Want bowed low thy unsupported head;
Sure sad Humanity a tear might give,
And Virtue say, Live, beauteous sufferer, live!
But should there one be found, (amidst the few
Who with compassion thy last pangs might view),
One who beheld thy errors with a tear,
To whom the ruins of thy heart were dear,
Who fondly hoped, the ruthful season past,
Thy faded virtues might revive at last;
Should such be found, oh! when he saw thee lie,
Closing on every earthly hope thine eye;
When he beheld despair, with rueful trace,
Mark the strange features of thy altered face;
When he beheld, as painful death drew nigh,
Thy pale, pale cheek, thy feebly lifted eye,
Thy chill, shrunk hand, hung down as in despair,
Or slowly raised, with many a muttered prayer;
When thus, in early youth, he saw thee bend
Poor to the grave, and die without a friend;
Some sadder feelings might unbidden start,
And more than common pity touch his heart!
The eventful scene is closed; with pausing dread
And sorrow I drew nigh the silent bed;
Thy look was calm, thy heart was cold and still,
As if the world had never used it ill;
Methought the last faint smile, with traces weak,
Still seemed to linger on thy faded cheek.
Poor Mary! though most beauteous in thy face,
Ere sorrow touched it, beamed each lovely grace;
Yet, oh! thy living features never wore
A look so sweet, so eloquent before,
As this, which bids all human passions cease,
And tells my pitying heart you died in peace!
Oh, My Love
by Nizar Qabbani

Oh, my love
If you were at the level of my madness,
You would cast away your jewelry,
Sell all your bracelets,
And sleep in my eyes.
Lovely Mary Donnelly
by William Allingham

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest;
Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will
Sweet looks o' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,
No pretty girl from miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to her feet;
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed his luck not to be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright.
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods or grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress,
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go.
Hymn Of A Virgin Of Delphi, At The Tomb Of Her Mother.
by Thomas Moore

Oh, lost, forever lost--no more
Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempe's distant vale
In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
By nature warmed and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
The breathings of a Deity.
Guide of my heart! still hovering round.
Thy looks, thy words are still my own--
I see thee raising from the ground
Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
Was planted for a doom divine;
And, though it droop in languor now,
Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!"
"Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,
"Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,
"A viewless hand shall cull it thence
"To bloom immortal in the skies!"
All that the young should feel and know
By thee was taught so sweetly well,
Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,
And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still lingering here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh yes--and, as in former days,
When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,
And danced around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
My foot the lightest o'er the green:
So still, each look and step to mould,
Thy guardian care is round me spread,
Arranging every snowy fold
And guiding every mazy tread.
And, when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave
Shall never drop its silvery tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so entirely dear!
Auto-Da-Fe
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

(HE EXPLAINS.)
Oh, just burning up some old papers,
They do make a good deal of smoke:
That's right, Dolly, open the window;
They'll blaze if you give them a poke.
I've got a lot more in the closet;
Just look at the dust! What a mess!
Why, read it, of course, if you want to,
It's only a letter, I guess.
(SHE READS.)
Just me, and my pipe, and the fire-light,
Whose mystical circles of red
Protect me alone with the shadows;
The smoke-wreaths engarland my head;
And the strains of a waltz, half forgotten,
The favorite waltz of the year,
Played softly by fairy musicians,
Chime sweetly and low on my ear.
The smoke-cloud floats thickly around me,
All perfumed and white, till it seems
A bride-veil magicians have woven
To honor the bride of my dreams.
Float on, dreamy waltz, through my fancies,
My thoughts in your harmony twine!
Draw near, phantom face, in your beauty,
Look deep, phantom eyes, into mine.
Sweet lips crimson buds half unfolded 
Give breath to the exquisite voice,
That, waking the strands of my being
To melody, bids me rejoice.
Dream, soul, till the world's dream is ended!
Dream, heart, of your beautiful past!
For dreaming is better than weeping,
And all things but dreams at the last.
Change rules in the world of the waking 
Its laughter aye ends in a sigh;
Dreams only are changeless immortal:
A love-dream alone cannot die.
Toil, fools! Sow your hopes in the furrows,
Rich harvest of failure you'll reap;
Life's riddle is read the most truly
By men who but talk in their sleep.
(HE REMONSTRATES.)
There, stop! That'll do yes, I own it 
But, dear, I was young then, you know.
I wrote that before we were married;
Let's see why, it's ten years ago!
You remember that night, at Drake's party,
When you flirted with Dick all the time?
I left in a state quite pathetic,
And went home to scribble that rhyme.
What a boy I was then with my dreaming,
And reading the riddle of life!
You gave a good guess at its meaning
The night you said "Yes," little wife.
One kiss for old times' sake, my Dolly 
That didn't seem much like a dream.
Holloa! something's wrong with the children!
Those young ones do nothing but scream.
Gilhooley's Estate
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Oh, Mr Gilhooley he turned up his toes,
As most of you know, soon or late;
And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows,
So they took him to Gilhooley's Estate.
Gilhooley in life had been living so free
'Twas thought his possessions were great,
So Jones, with a smile, says, "There's many a fee
For me in Gilhooley's Estate."
They made out a list of his property fine,
It totaled a thousand-and-eight;
But the debts were nine hundred and ninety-nine,
The debts of Gilhooley's Estate.
So Mrs Gilhooley says, "Jones, my dear man,
My childer have little to ait:
Just keep my expinses as low as you can
Against poor Gilhooley's Estate."
Bur Jones says, "The will isn't clear in its terms,
I fear it will need some debate,
And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms)
To appear in Gilhooley's Estate."
So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head
And a brief in his hand, quite elate,
Went up to the Court where they bury the dead,
Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate."
But his Honour the Judge said, "I think that the joint
Legatees must be called to probate,
Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point,
The point of Gilhooley's Estate."
"I order a suit to be brought just to try
If this is correct that I state,
A nice friendly suit, and the costs by and by,
Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate."
So Mrs Gilhooley says, "Jones, you'll appear!
Thim barristers' fees is too great;
The suit is but friendly," "Attorneys, my dear,
Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate."
From the barristers' quarter a mighty hurrah
Arises both early and late:
It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar
Dividing Gilhooley's Estate.
Oh, My Geraldine
by Sir Francis Cowley Burnand

Oh, my Geraldine,
No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um.
You are my lum ti toodle lay,
Pretty, pretty queen,
Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen,
More sweet than tiddle lum in May.
Like the star so bright
That somethings all the night,
My Geraldine!
You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen,
Hark! there is what, ho!
From something, um, you know,
Dear, what I mean.
Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.
Oh, It Is Good
by Robert William Service

Oh, it is good to drink and sup,
And then beside the kindly fire
To smoke and heap the faggots up,
And rest and dream to heart's desire.
Oh, it is good to ride and run,
To roam the greenwood wild and free;
To hunt, to idle in the sun,
To leap into the laughing sea.
Oh, it is good with hand and brain
To gladly till the chosen soil,
And after honest sweat and strain
To see the harvest of one's toil.
Oh, it is good afar to roam,
And seek adventure in strange lands;
Yet oh, so good the coming home,
The velvet love of little hands.
So much is good. . . . We thank Thee, God,
For all the tokens Thou hast given,
That here on earth our feet have trod
Thy little shining trails of Heaven.
The Tree
by John Frederick Freeman

Oh, like a tree
Let me grow up to Thee!
And like a Tree
Send down my roots to Thee.
Let my leaves stir
In each sigh of the air,
My branches be
Lively and glad in Thee;
Each leaf a prayer,
And green fire everywhere ...
And all from Thee
The sap within the Tree.
And let Thy rain
Fall--or as joy or pain
So that I be
Yet unforgot of Thee.
Then shall I sing
The new song of Thy Spring,
Every leaf of me
Whispering Love in Thee!
Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Oh, no--not even when first we loved,
Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more,
Trust me, I love thee better now.
Altho' my heart in earlier youth
Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seemed to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now.
A Prayer For Aid.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Deh fammiti vedere.
Oh, make me see Thee, Lord, where'er I go!
If mortal beauty sets my soul on fire,
That flame when near to Thine must needs expire,
And I with love of only Thee shall glow.
Dear Lord, Thy help I seek against this woe,
These torments that my spirit vex and tire;
Thou only with new strength canst re-inspire
My will, my sense, my courage faint and low.
Thou gavest me on earth this soul divine;
And Thou within this body weak and frail
Didst prison it--how sadly there to live!
How can I make its lot less vile than mine?
Without Thee, Lord, all goodness seems to fail.
To alter fate is God's prerogative.
Memorial To D. C.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

[VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]
Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,
Where now no more the music is,
With hands that wrote you little notes
I write you little elegies!
Blindman's Buff.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

OH, my Theresa dear!
Thine eyes, I greatly fear,
Can through the bandage see!
Although thine eyes are bound,
By thee I'm quickly found,
And wherefore shouldst thou catch but me?
Ere long thou held'st me fast,
With arms around me cast,
Upon thy breast I fell;
Scarce was thy bandage gone,
When all my joy was flown,
Thou coldly didst the blind repel.
He groped on ev'ry side,
His limbs he sorely tried,
While scoffs arose all round;
If thou no love wilt give,
In sadness I shall live,
As if mine eyes remain'd still bound.
Magnus The Blind (From Sigurd Slembe)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 16)
"Oh, let me look once again and see
Starlight the heavens o'ersweeping!"
Begged young Magnus on bended knee,
It was sore to see.
All the women afar were weeping.
"Oh, till to-morrow! The mountains to see
And ocean its blue displaying,
Only once, and then let it be!"
Thus he bent the knee,
While his friends for mercy were praying.
"Oh, in the church let God's blood so bright
Be the last blessing that greets me!
It shall bathe with a flood of light
Through eternal night
My eyes, when the darkness meets me!"
Deep sank the steel, and each seeing eye
Lightning-like night had swallowed.
"Magnus, King Magnus, good-by, good-by!"
- "Oh, good-by, good-by, - 
You who eighteen summers me followed!"
Christmas Greens.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair and young,
By far too good for a single life,
And many a maiden, saith gossip's tongue,
Would fain be Lowbury pastor's wife:
So his book-marks are 'broidered in crimson and gold,
And his slippers are, really, a "sight to behold."
That's Lowbury pastor, sitting there
On the cedar boughs by the chancel rails;
His face is clouded with carking care,
For it's nearly five, the daylight fails 
The church is silent, the girls all gone,
And the Christmas wreaths not nearly done.
Two tiny boots crunch-crunch the snow,
They saucily stamp at the transept door,
And then up to the pillared aisle they go
Pit-pat, click-clack, on the marble floor 
A lady fair doth that pastor see,
And he saith, "Oh, bother, it isn't she!"
A lady in seal-skin eyes of blue,
And tangled tresses of snow-flecked gold 
She speaks, "Good gracious! can this be you,
Sitting alone in the dark and cold?
The rest all gone! Why it wasn't right;
These texts will never be done to-night."
She sits her down at her pastor's feet,
And, wreathing evergreen, weaves her wiles,
Heart-piercing glances bright and fleet,
Soft little sighs, and shy little smiles;
But the pastor is solemnly sulky and glum,
And thinketh it strange that "she" doesn't come.
Then she tells him earnestly, soft and low,
How she'd do her part in this world of strife,
And humbly look to him to know
The path that her feet should tread through life 
Her pastor yawneth behind his hat,
And wondereth what she is driving at.
Crunch-crunch again on the snow outside,
The pastor riseth unto his feet,
The vestry door is opened wide,
A dark-eyed maid doth the pastor greet,
And that lady fair can see and hear,
Her pastor kiss her, and call her "dear."
"Why, Maud!" "Why, Nelly!" those damsels cry;
But lo, what troubles that lady fair?
On Nelly's finger there meets her eye
The glow of a diamond solitaire,
And she thinks, as she sees the glittering ring,
"And so she's got him the hateful thing!"
There sit they all 'neath the Christmas tree,
For Maud is determined that she wont go
The pastor is cross as a man can be,
And Nelly would like to pinch her so,
And they go on wreathing the text again 
It is "Peace on earth and good-will towards men."
Hymn, Sung At Christmas By The Scholars Of St. Helena's Island, S.C.
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Oh, none in all the world before
Were ever glad as we!
We're free on Carolina's shore,
We're all at home and free.
Thou Friend and Helper of the poor,
Who suffered for our sake,
To open every prison door,
And every yoke to break!
Bend low Thy pitying face and mild,
And help us sing and pray;
The hand that blessed the little child,
Upon our foreheads lay.
We hear no more the driver's horn,
No more the whip we fear,
This holy day that saw Thee born
Was never half so dear.
The very oaks are greener clad,
The waters brighter smile;
Oh, never shone a day so glad
On sweet St. Helen's Isle.
We praise Thee in our songs to-day,
To Thee in prayer we call,
Make swift the feet and straight the way
Of freedom unto all.
Come once again, O blessed Lord!
Come walking on the sea!
And let the mainlands hear the word
That sets the islands free
The Circus-Day Parade
by James Whitcomb Riley

Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed,
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own,
And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!
And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind,
Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!
How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue,
And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you.
Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore,
Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore!
How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,
And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!
How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame,
With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.
How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast,
And the mystery within it only hinted of at last
From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there
The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!
And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town,
With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down,
And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played
A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.
Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed.
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
Woodburn.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh, the brow that has never been shaded by care
The rosewreath of pleasure may smilingly wear,
And the heart that is wholly a stranger to gloom,
'Mid the din of existence may fearlessly bloom;
But the one that is blighted by sadness and pain,
And blighted too rudely to blossom again,
When its hold on a reed-like support is resigned.
Nor peace, nor composure, nor solace can find,
Nor strength to submit to the chastening rod,
Save only in stillness alone with its God!
And oh! if a blissful communion with Heaven
To earth-wearied spirits has ever been given,
If the loved and the distant, the lost and the dead,
Who smiled on our pathway a moment, and fled,
Who darkened our sunshine and saddened our mirth,
To prove that the soul has no home upon earth,
Are sent in the night-time of gloom and distress,
As heralds of mercy to comfort and bless,
To place, while the tempest is fearfully loud,
The bright bow of peace on the dark thundercloud,
To whisper of purer and holier ties,
Of a land where the blossom of joy never dies 
Such tidings to welcome, oh! where shall we flee,
If not, dearest Woodburn, to silence and thee?
For ah! did the angel of peace over roam,
On an errand of love, from her own hallowed home,
To gladden a sin-blighted world for awhile,
Make the desert rejoice and the wilderness smile,
She has certainly paused in her holy career,
And closed up her pinions delightfully here.
Dear to me are thy shades, when no sound may be heard
Save the soul-soothing strains of thy harmonist bird,
For they seem on the soft wing of quiet to come,
Like celestial melodies luring us home,
Faint breathings from Heaven, to bid us prepare
For peals of ethereal minstrelsy there.
But oh! when day rests on the portals of eve,
As though loath the bright scene of enchantment to leave,
While its drapery of gold, hurried carelessly on,
Fades away, tint by tint, till at last all are gone,
I feel 'tis an emblem of life's little hour,
(Thus perish the hues of hope's loveliest flower),
And I sigh for repose on that heavenly shore
Where the day is eternal, and change is no more.
An Olde Lyric.
by Horace Smith

I.
Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
My own true love so sweete?
For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye
The prynte of her faery feete.
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?
Is she darke or fayre to see?
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?
Is't braided her haire or free?
II.
Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
And many as brighte to showe.
But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes,
Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
Of Love and of Puritie.