DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
An Expostulation To Lord King.
by Thomas Moore

"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"
VERGIL.
1826.
How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?
Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"--
At once so confounded domestic and foreign.
As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.
You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]
Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humor endowed with effects so provoking,
That when the whole House looks unusually grave
You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!
And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth--
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
'Twixt those who have heirlooms, and those who've but looms!
"To talk now of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]--
(And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)
"When some years ago he and others had fed
"Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"
It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words
Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are--
That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,
Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.
When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;
But not so the plan of our noble physicians,
"No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.
So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
As I shall my poetry--neither convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but shows,
When you tread on a nobleman's corn,[4]
how he winces.
Above The Battle
by Katharine Lee Bates

Honor and pity for the smitten field,
The valorous ranks mown down like precious corn,
Whose want must famish love morn after morn,
Till Death, the good physician, shall have healed
The craving and the tearspent eyelids sealed.
Proud be the homes that for each cannon-torn,
Encrimsoned rampart have been left forlorn;
Holy the knells o'er fallen patriots pealed.
But they, above the battle, throng a space
Of starry silences and silver rest.
Commingled ghosts, they press like brothers through
White, dove-winged portals, where one Father's face
Atones their passion, as the ethereal blue
Serenes the fiery glows of east and west.
Horatius At The Bridge
by William F. Kirk

Horatius ban brave yentleman,
Who vatch big bridge at night:
It ban gude many years ago,
Ay ant got date yust right.
Dar ban some foxy geezers
Who march avay from home,
And tenk they having qvite gude chance
To raise some hal in Rome.
Lars Porsena ban starting it, - 
Ay tenk Lars ban a Svede;
He raise 'bout tousand soldiers,
And put himself in lead.
Then he began tu marching,
And all his frends march, tu,
Till they skol come almost to Rome,
Var dey skol rest a few.
Then op spake Maester Horatius,
Captain of dis har gate:
"To every yackass on dis earth
Death coming sune or late.
So how can ay die better
Than vatching bridge, yu say?
Now who skol standing on my front
And vatching bridge vith me?"
Then Maester Laertus Larson,
A scrapper fine ban he,
Say, "Ay skol standing on yure back,
But not on front, by yee!"
And old Herminius Hermanson - 
He ban gude fighter, tu,
Say, "Ay skol taking little smash
At dese har Svedes vith yu!"
So ven dis Maester Porsena
Ban come to big bridge gate,
He sees three husky lumberyacks,
And know he come tu late.
But Lars, he ant ban qvitter,
He send 'bout saxteen men
To taking bridge, - by yiminy,
Dey ant come back again!
While old Horatius and his frends
Ban vatching bridge so gude,
Some aldermen on oder shore
Ban sawing planty vood.
Ay tal yu, ven dese boodlers
Ban start to tear tengs down,
Dar ant no better vorkers
Novere in whole dam town.
So ven dis bridge start falling,
Horatius' frends yump back;
And he skol stand alone dar - 
He ban brave lumberyack.
Then he yump into Tiber,
And say, "Ay skol svim home!"
Dis har ban how Horatius
Skol turn gude trick for Rome.
The Wishing Gate
by William Wordsworth

[In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of an old highway
leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, from time out of
mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that
wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue.]
Hope rules a land forever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught? the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.
Not such the land of Wishes there
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,
And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart
Ye superstitions of the heart,
How poor, were human life!
When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate;
Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surnving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!
Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;
Or here a saint expired.
Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care,
And in her fondest love
Peace to embosom and content
To overawe the turbulent,
The selfish to reprove.
Yea! even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,
The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Beloved, who maker
All happiness her own.
Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,
The ancient faith disclaim?
The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;
If some have thirsted to renew
A broken vow, or bind a true,
With firmer, holier knot.
And not in vain, when thoughts are cast
Upon the irrevocable past,
Some Penitent sincere
May for a worthier future sigh,
While trickles from his downcast eye
No unavailing tear.
The Worldling, pining to be freed
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,
Might stop before this favored scene,
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate.
The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak
Is man, though loth such help to seek,
Yet, passing, here might pause,
And thirst for insight to allay
Misgiving, while the crimson day
In quietness withdraws;
Or when the church-clock's knell profound
To Time's first step across the bound
Of midnight makes reply;
Time pressing on with starry crest,
To filial sleep upon the breast
Of dread eternity.
The Sonnets XXVIII - How can I then return in happy plight
by William Shakespeare

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
The Magpie And Her Brood.
by John Gay

From the Tales of Bonaventura des Periers, Servant to Marguerite of Valois, Queen of Navarre. By HORACE LORD ORFORD.
How anxious is the pensive parents' thought,
How blest the lot of fondlings, early taught;
Joy strings her hours on pleasure's golden twine,
And fancy forms it to an endless line.
But ah! the charm must cease, or soon or late,
When chicks and misses rise to woman's state;
The little tyrant grows in turn a slave,
And feels the soft anxiety she gave.
This truth, my pretty friend, an ancient sage,
Who wrote in tale and legend many a page,
Couch'd in that age's unaffected guise,
When fables were the wisdom of the wise.
To careless notes I've tuned his Gothic style,
Content, if you approve, and LAURA smile.
Once on a time a magpie led
Her little family from home,
To teach them how to win their bread,
When she afar would roam:
She pointed to each worm and fly,
Inhabitants of earth and sky,
Or where the beetle buzzed, she called;
But indications all were vain, - 
They would not budge - the urchin train,
But cawed, and cried, and squalled;
They wanted to return to nest,
To nestle to mamma's warm breast,
And thought that she should seek the meat
Which they were only born to eat - 
But Madge knew better things:
"My loves," said she, "behold the plains,
Where stores of food, where plenty reigns;
I was not half so big as you,
When me my honoured mother drew
Forth to the groves and springs - 
She flew away, before aright
I knew to read or knew to write,
Yet I made shift to live:
So must you too - come, hop away - 
Get what you can - steal what you may,
For industry will thrive."
"But, bless us!" cried the peevish chits,
"Can babes like us live by our wits?
With perils compassed round, can we
Preserve our lives and liberty?
Ah! how escape the fowler's snare,
And gard'ner with his gun in air,
Who, if we pilfer plums or pears,
Will scatter lead about our ears?
And you would drop a mournful head
To see your little pies lie dead!"
"My dears," she said, and kissed their bills,
"The wise by foresight baffle ills,
A wise descent you claim;
To bang a gun off takes some time, - 
A man must load, a man must prime,
A man must take an aim - 
He lifts the tube, he shuts one eye, - 
'Twill then be time enough to fly;
You, out of reach, may laugh and chatter:
To cheat a man is no great matter."
"Ay, but" - "But what?" "Why, if the clown
Should take a stone to knock us down?"
"Why, if he do - you flats!
Must he not stoop to raise the stone?
The stooping warns you to be gone;
Birds are not killed like cats."
"But, dear mamma, we yet are scared,
The rogue, you know, may come prepared
A big stone in his fist!"
"Indeed, my darlings," Madge replies,
"If you already are so wise:
Go, cater where you list."
Colours.
by Paul Bewsher

How bright is Earth's rich gown
None but an Airman knows
Yellow, and green, and brown - 
How bright is Earth's rich gown!
I see, as I gaze down,
Its purple, cream, and rose.
How bright is Earth's rich gown
None but an Airman knows!
The Cracked Bell
by Charles Baudelaire

How bittersweet it is on winter nights
To hear old recollections raise themselves
Around the flickering fire's wisps of light
And through the mist, in voices of the bells.
Blessed is the bell of clear and virile throat
Alert and dignified despite his rust,
Who faithfully repeats religion's notes
As an old soldier keeps a watchman's trust.
My spirit, though, is cracked; when as she can
She chants to fill the cool night's emptiness,
Too often can her weakening voice be said
To sound the rattle of a wounded man
Beside a bloody pool, stacked with the dead,
Who cannot budge, and dies in fierce distress!
The Chambermaid's First Song
by William Butler Yeats

How came this ranger
Now sunk in rest,
Stranger with strangcr.
On my cold breast?
What's left to Sigh for?
Strange night has come;
God's love has hidden him
Out of all harm,
Pleasure has made him
Weak as a worm.
How Beautiful The Queen Of Night
by William Wordsworth

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
Her way pursuing among scattered clouds,
Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds
Hidden from view in dense obscurity.
But look, and to the watchful eye
A brightening edge will indicate that soon
We shall behold the struggling Moon
Break forth, again to walk the clear blue sky.
Horace To Maecenas.
by Eugene Field

How breaks my heart to hear you say
You feel the shadows fall about you!
The gods forefend
That fate, O friend!
I would not, I could not live without you!
You gone, what would become of me,
Your shadow, O beloved Maecenas?
We've shared the mirth--
And sweets of earth--
Let's share the pangs of death between us!
I should not dread Chinaera's breath
Nor any threat of ghost infernal;
Nor fear nor pain
Should part us twain--
For so have willed the powers eternal.
No false allegiance have I sworn,
And, whatsoever fate betide you,
Mine be the part
To cheer your heart--
With loving song to fare beside you!
Love snatched you from the claws of death
And gave you to the grateful city;
The falling tree
That threatened me
Did Fannus turn aside in pity;
With horoscopes so wondrous like,
Why question that we twain shall wander,
As in this land,
So, hand in hand,
Into the life that waiteth yonder?
So to your shrine, O patron mine,
With precious wine and victims fare you;
Poor as I am,
A humble lamb
Must testify what love I bear you.
But to the skies shall sweetly rise
The sacrifice from shrine and heather,
And thither bear
The solemn prayer
That, when we go, we go together!
The Peau De Chagrin Of State Street
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

How beauteous is the bond
In the manifold array
Of its promises to pay,
While the eight per cent it gives
And the rate at which one lives
Correspond!
But at last the bough is bare
Where the coupons one by one
Through their ripening days have run,
And the bond, a beggar now,
Seeks investment anyhow,
Anywhere!
In Memoriam
by William Lisle Bowles

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod
Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more) nor of the great
Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased GOD
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go
In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed;
Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now,
Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start,
And half unman the miserable heart,
The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!
Politics
by William Butler Yeats

How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
In Memoriam. - Miss Sara K. Taylor,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.
How beautiful in death
The young and lovely sleeper lies--
Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,
Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow
Where lustrous curls profusely flow;
If 'twere not for the icy chill
That from her marble hand doth thrill,
And for her lip that gives no sound,
And for the weeping all around,
How beautiful were death.
How beautiful in life!
Her pure affections heavenward moving,
Her guileless heart so full of loving,
Her joyous smile, her form of grace,
Her clear mind lighting up the face,
And making home a blessed place,
Still breathing thro' the parents' heart
A gladness words could ne'er impart,
A faith that foil'd affliction's dart--
How beautiful her life.
Gone to the Better Land!
Before the world's cold mist could shade
The brightness on her spirit laid,
Before the autumnal breeze might fray
One leaflet from her wreath away,
Or crisp one tendril of the vine
That hope and happiness did twine--
Gone--in the soul's unfaded bloom
That dreads no darkness of the tomb--
Gone to the Better Land.
The Happy Change.
by William Cowper

How blest thy creature is, O God,
When, with a single eye,
He views the lustre of thy word,
The dayspring from on high!
Through all the storms that veil the skies,
And frown on earthly things,
The Sun of Righteousness he eyes,
With healing on his wings.
Struck by that light, the human heart,
A barren soil no more,
Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad,
Where serpents lurk'd before.[1]
The soul a dreary province once
Of Satan's dark domain,
Feels a new empire form'd within,
And owns a heavenly reign.
The glorious orb, whose golden beams
The fruitful year control,
Since first, obedient to thy word,
He started from the goal;
Has cheer'd the nations with the joys
His orient rays impart;
But, Jesus, 'tis thy light alone
Can shine upon the heart.
Chalkey Hall
by John Greenleaf Whittier

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze
To him who flies
From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam,
Till far behind him like a hideous dream
The close dark city lies
Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng
The marble floor
Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din
Of the world's madness let me gather in
My better thoughts once more.
Oh, once again revive, while on my ear
The cry of Gain
And low hoarse hum of Traffic die away,
Ye blessed memories of my early day
Like sere grass wet with rain!
Once more let God's green earth and sunset air
Old feelings waken;
Through weary years of toil and strife and ill,
Oh, let me feel that my good angel still
Hath not his trust forsaken.
And well do time and place befit my mood
Beneath the arms
Of this embracing wood, a good man made
His home, like Abraham resting in the shade
Of Mamre's lonely palms.
Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years,
The virgin soil
Turned from the share he guided, and in rain
And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain
Which blessed his honest toil.
Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas,
Weary and worn,
He came to meet his children and to bless
The Giver of all good in thankfulness
And praise for his return.
And here his neighbors gathered in to greet
Their friend again,
Safe from the wave and the destroying gales,
Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales,
And vex the Carib main.
To hear the good man tell of simple truth,
Sown in an hour
Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle,
From the parched bosom of a barren soil,
Raised up in life and power.
How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales,
A tendering love
Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven,
And words of fitness to his lips were given,
And strength as from above.
How the sad captive listened to the Word,
Until his chain
Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt
The healing balm of consolation melt
Upon its life-long pain
How the armed warrior sat him down to hear
Of Peace and Truth,
And the proud ruler and his Creole dame,
Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came,
And fair and bright-eyed youth.
Oh, far away beneath New England's sky,
Even when a boy,
Following my plough by Merrimac's green shore,
His simple record I have pondered o'er
With deep and quiet joy.
And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm,
Its woods around,
Its still stream winding on in light and shade,
Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade,
To me is holy ground.
And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps
His vigils still;
Than that where Avon's son of song is laid,
Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade,
Or Virgil's laurelled hill.
To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete,
To Juliet's urn,
Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange-grove,
Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love
Like brother pilgrims turn.
But here a deeper and serener charm
To all is given;
And blessed memories of the faithful dead
O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed
The holy hues of Heaven
Home
by Anne Bronte

How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within
Oh, give me back my HOME!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XIX - Primitive Saxon Clergy
by William Wordsworth

How beautiful your presence, how benign,
Servants of God! who not a thought will share
With the vain world; who, outwardly as bare
As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign
That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine!
Such Priest, when service worthy of his care
Has called him forth to breathe the common air,
Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine
Descended: happy are the eyes that meet
The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed
At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat
A benediction from his voice or hand;
Whence grace, through which the heart can understand,
And vows, that bind the will, in silence made.
Hugo's "Pool In The Forest"
by Eugene Field

How calm, how beauteous and how cool--
How like a sister to the skies,
Appears the broad, transparent pool
That in this quiet forest lies.
The sunshine ripples on its face,
And from the world around, above,
It hath caught down the nameless grace
Of such reflections as we love.
But deep below its surface crawl
The reptile horrors of the night--
The dragons, lizards, serpents--all
The hideous brood that hate the light;
Through poison fern and slimy weed
And under ragged, jagged stones
They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed,
They lap a dead man's bleaching bones.
And as, O pool, thou dost cajole
With seemings that beguile us well,
So doeth many a human soul
That teemeth with the lusts of hell.
Another On Her. (Julia)
by Robert Herrick

How can I choose but love and follow her
Whose shadow smells like milder pomander?
How can I choose but kiss her, whence does come
The storax, spikenard, myrrh, and laudanum?
Pomander, ball of scent.
The Sunset Of Romanticism
by Charles Baudelaire

How beautiful a new sun is when it rises,
flashing out its greeting, like an explosion!
Happy, whoever hails with sweet emotion
its descent, nobler than a dream, to our eyes!
I remember! I've seen all, flower, furrow, fountain,
swoon beneath its look, like a throbbing heart
Let's run quickly, it's late, towards the horizon,
to catch at least one slanting ray as it departs!
But I pursue the vanishing God in vain:
irresistible Night establishes its sway,
full of shudders, black, dismal, cold:
an odour of the tomb floats in the shadow,
at the swamp's edge, feet faltering I go,
bruising damp slugs, and unexpected toads.
Pain's Purpose
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

How blind is he who prays that God will send
All pain from earth.    Pain has its use and place;
Its ministry of holiness and grace.
The darker tones upon the canvas blend
With light and colour; and their shadows lend
The painting half its dignity.    Efface
The sombre background, and you lose all trace
Of that perfection which is true art's trend.
Life is an artist seeking to reveal
God's majesty and beauty in each soul.
If from the palette mortal man could steal
The precious pigment, pain, why then the scroll
Would glare with colours meaningless and bright,
Or show an empty canvas, blurred with light.
Tears
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

How can a heart play any more with life,
After it has found a woman and known tears?
In vain I shut my windows against the moonlight;
I have estranged sleep.
The flower of her face is growing in the shadow
Among warm and rustling leaves....
I see the sunlight on her house,
I see her curtains of vermilion silk....
Here is the almond-coloured dawn;
And there is dew on the petals of my night flower.
Lyric of Korea.