A Comprehensive Collection of Public Domain Poems

This expanded collection features a wide array of some of the most beloved and
influential poems from American and British literary history. These works, now in the
public domain, continue to captivate readers with their timeless explorations of nature,
love, life, and death. From the quiet introspection of Emily Dickinson to the epic scale of
Walt Whitman and the sublime nature of William Wordsworth, this volume is a treasury
of classic verse.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

A reclusive American poet, Dickinson's work was largely unpublished during her lifetime.
Her unique style—characterized by short lines, slant rhyme, and unconventional
capitalization and punctuation—now defines her as one of the most innovative and
important figures in American poetry.

Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but
just Ourselves – And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For
His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the
Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us – The Dews drew quivering and Chill – For only Gossamer, my
Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was
scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the
Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without
the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the
little Bird That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It
asked a crumb - of me.

I'm nobody! Who are you?

I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To
an admiring bog!

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

A celebrated American poet, Frost was renowned for his realistic depictions of rural life
in New England. He often wrote in traditional verse forms, but his poetry explored deep
philosophical and social themes, connecting the everyday with the profound.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see
me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods
and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other
sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before
I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one
traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the
undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was
grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really
about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the
first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever
come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in
a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

A central figure in American poetry, Whitman's work is a bridge between

transcendentalism and realism. He is often considered the father of free verse, and his
epic collection Leaves of Grass revolutionized American poetry with its celebration of
democracy, nature, and the individual.
O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the
prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While
follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the
bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for
you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-
crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain!
dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen
cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm,
he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring
O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing
his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank
or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The
boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the
steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he
stands, The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon
intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at
work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to
none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust,
friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

A major figure of the English Romantic movement, Wordsworth's poetry is celebrated for
its deep appreciation of nature and its exploration of the human experience through a
connection with the natural world.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I
saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering
and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in
never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their
heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet
could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward
eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with
the daffodils.

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

An American writer, poet, and literary critic, Poe is a central figure of American
Romanticism and is widely regarded as the inventor of the detective fiction genre. His
poetry is known for its lyrical beauty, musicality, and often dark, melancholic themes.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint
and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there
came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some
visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember
wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to
borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare
and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with
fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating, “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor
entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly
your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I
heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting,
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken,
and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered
word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a
tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my
window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my
heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a
stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute
stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and
nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum
of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art
sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell
me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven
“Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little
meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the
sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul
in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he
fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the
morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said
“Nevermore.”

Stirred by this, I thought to find its origin: but, with my intellect, I felt the truth inside me,
that the bird was but a prophet And his word, a sacred token, from a higher mind, a god.
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— By that Heaven that
bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within
the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven
“Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back
into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of
that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my
door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just
above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is
dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my
soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

One of the most prominent poets of the Victorian era, Browning was celebrated for her
passion and her ability to weave her personal experiences into her verse, particularly in
her famous collection Sonnets from the Portuguese.

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and
height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal
Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I
love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love
thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee
with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, Smiles,
tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

I hope this expanded collection provides a richer and more complete literary experience.
I've aimed to include a good variety of styles and themes from different poetic
movements.

Please let me know if there's a specific poet you'd like me to add or if you have any other
changes in mind!