DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Calm Is The Fragrant Air
by William Wordsworth

Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews.
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:
Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone
The time's and season's influence disown;
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence, how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins his little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade,
Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
A stream is heard, I see it not, but know
By its soft music whence the waters flow:
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
With the next dipping of its slackened oar;
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,
Might give to serious thought a moment's sway,
As a last token of man's toilsome day!
Cain And Abel
by Rudyard Kipling

Cain and Abel were brothers born.
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)
And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.
For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
(And the Corn don't care for the Horn),
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
To water his dam' Corn!
But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.
It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.
The Herd-bulls came to Cain's new house
(They wanted water so!, )
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin' "Give us water for our pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em, "No!"
The Cows they came to Cain's big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin' "Give some water to us pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em, "No?"
The li'l Calves came to Cain's fine house
With the Evenin' Star between their brows,
Sayin' "'Give us water an' we'll be cows!"
But Cain he told 'em, "No!"
The Herd-bulls led 'em back again,
An' Abel went an' said to Cain:,
"Oh, sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year."
And Cain he answered, "No!"
"Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An' let a little water through."
But Cain he answered:, "No!
"My dams are tight an' my ditches are sound,
An' not a drop goes through or round
Till she's done her duty by the Corn.
"I will not sell, an' I will not draw,
An' if you breach, I'll have the Law,
As sure as you are born!"
Then Abel took his best bull-goad,
An' holed a dyke on the Eden road.
He opened her up with foot an' hand,
An' let Euphrates loose on the land.
He spilled Euphrates out on the plain,
So's all his cattle could drink again.
Then Cain he saw what Abel done,
But, in those days, there was no Gun!
So he made him a club of a hickory-limb,
An' halted Abel an' said to him:,
"I did not sell an' I did not draw,
An' now you've breached I'll have the Law.
"You ride abroad in your hat and spurs,
Hell-hoofin' over my cucumbers!
"You pray to the Lord to send you luck
An' you loose your steers in my garden-truck:
"An' now you're bust, as you ought to be,
You can keep on prayin' but not to me!"
Then Abel saw it meant the life;
But, in those days, there was no Knife:
So he up with his big bull-goad instead,
But, Cain hit first and dropped him dead!
The Herd-bulls ran when they smelt the blood,
An' horned an' pawed in that Red Mud.
The Calves they bawled, and the Steers they milled,
Because it was the First Man Killed;
An' the whole Herd broke for the Land of Nod,
An' Cain was left to be judged by God!
But, seein' all he had had to bear,
I never could call the Judgment fair!
Ca' The Ewes.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Ca' the ewes to the knowes."
Chorus
Ca' the ewes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie!
I.
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.
II.
Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide,
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
III.
I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.
IV.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.
V.
If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie.
VI.
While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
'Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the ewes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.
Cenotaph
by William Wordsworth

By vain affections unenthralled,
Though resolute when duty called
To meet the world's broad eye,
Pure as the holiest cloistered nun
That ever feared the tempting sun,
Did Fermor live and die.
This Tablet, hallowed by her name,
One heart-relieving tear may claim;
But if the pensive gloom
Of fond regret be still thy choice,
Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice
Of Jesus from her tomb!
"I Am The Way, The Truth, And The Life"
The Creek-Road
by Madison Julius Cawein

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.
It is a page whereon the sun and dew
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,
Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.
Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it
Record the happ'nings of each summer day;
Where we may read, as in a catalogue,
When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;
And now a bare-foot truant and his dog.
By-And-By.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"By-and-by," the maiden sighed - "by-and-by
He will claim me for his bride,
Hope is strong and time is fleet;
Youth is fair, and love is sweet,
Clouds will pass that fleck my sky.
He will come back by-and-by - by-and-by."
"By-and-by," the soldier said - "by-and-by,
After I have fought and bled,
I shall go home from the wars,
Crowned with glory, seamed with scars.
Joy will flash from some one's eye
When she greets me by-and-by - by-and-by."
"By-and-by," the mother cried - "by-and-by,
Strong and sturdy at my side,
Like a staff supporting me,
Will my bonnie baby be.
Break my rest, then, wail and cry - 
Thou'lt repay me by-and-by - by-and-by."
Fleeting years of time have sped - hurried by - 
Still the maiden is unwed;
All unknown the soldier lies,
Buried under alien skies;
And the son, with blood-shot eye
Saw his mother starve and die.
God in Heaven! dost Thou on high,
Keep the promised by-and-by - by-and-by?
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCVI. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Bye, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a hunting,
To get a little hare's skin
To wrap a baby bunting in.
The Wolves And The Sheep.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
By-gone a thousand years of war,
The wearers of the fleece
And wolves at last made peace;
Which both appear'd the better for;
For if the wolves had now and then
Eat up a straggling ewe or wether,
As often had the shepherd men
Turn'd wolf-skins into leather.
Fear always spoil'd the verdant herbage,
And so it did the bloody carnage.
Hence peace was sweet; and, lest it should be riven,
On both sides hostages were given.
The sheep, as by the terms arranged,
For pups of wolves their dogs exchanged;
Which being done above suspicion,
Confirm'd and seal'd by high commission,
What time the pups were fully grown,
And felt an appetite for prey,
And saw the sheepfold left alone,
The shepherds all away,
They seized the fattest lambs they could,
And, choking, dragg'd them to the wood;
Of which, by secret means apprised,
Their sires, as is surmised,
Fell on the hostage guardians of the sheep,
And slew them all asleep.
So quick the deed of perfidy was done,
There fled to tell the tale not one!
From which we may conclude
That peace with villains will be rued.
Peace in itself, 'tis true,
May be a good for you;
But 'tis an evil, nathless,
When enemies are faithless.
Montreal.
by W. M. MacKeracher

(Written in Winter.)
By thee, fair City, is Mount Royal based,
Which, though its inward fires are extinct,
Seems - in the flush of morning, indistinct,
When misty shadows are across it chased,
Over its flaky bosom pure and white,
Which glows and glistens in the early light,
Seems moved with passion. 'Neath it thou art traced,
In winter's jewelled brilliancy arrayed,
With sparkling spire and glassy dome displayed:
A gem-wrought girdle on a maiden's waist.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXV. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Bye, baby bumpkin,
Where's Tony Lumpkin?
My lady's on her death-bed,
With eating half a pumpkin.
Sonnet To Byron
by John Keats

Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
Captivity.
by Samuel Rogers

Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
Nor mov'd by gold--nor to be mov'd by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - IX - William The Third
by William Wordsworth

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw
Millions of waves into itself, and run,
From sea to sea, impervious to the sun
And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau
Swerves not, (how blest if by religious awe
Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend
With the wide world's commotions) from its end
Swerves not, diverted by a casual law.
Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope?
The Hero comes to liberate, not defy;
And, while he marches on with steadfast hope,
Conqueror beloved! expected anxiously!
The vacillating Bondman of the Pope
Shrinks from the verdict of his stedfast eye.
Calm Is All Nature As A Resting Wheel
by William Wordsworth

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; 
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
Is cropping audibly his later meal: 
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal 
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. 
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, 
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
That grief for which the senses still supply 
Fresh food; for only then, when memory 
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain 
Those busy cares that would allay my pain; 
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
The officious touch that makes me droop again.
Hikmet Name. - Book Of Proverbs.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Call on the present day and night for nought,
Save what by yesterday was brought.
-
THE sea is flowing ever,
The land retains it never.
-
BE stirring, man, while yet the day is clear;
The night when none can work fast Draweth near.
-
WHEN the heavy-laden sigh,
Deeming help and hope gone by,
Oft, with healing power is heard,
Comfort-fraught, a kindly word.
-
How vast is mine inheritance, how glorious and sublime!
For time mine own possession is, the land I till is time!
-
UNWARY saith, ne'er lived a man more true;
The deepest heart, the highest head he knew,
"In ev'ry place and time thou'lt find availing
Uprightness, judgment, kindliness unfailing."
-
THOUGH the bards whom the Orient sun bath bless'd
Are greater than we who dwell in the west,
Yet in hatred of those whom our equals we find.
In this we're not in the least behind.
-
WOULD we let our envy burst,
Feed its hunger fully first!
To keep our proper place,
We'll show our bristles more;
With hawks men all things chase,
Except the savage boar.
-
BY those who themselves more bravely have fought
A hero's praise will be joyfully told.
The worth of man can only be taught
By those who have suffer'd both heat and cold.
-
"WHEREFORE is truth so far from our eyes,
Buried as though in a distant land?"
None at the proper moment are wise!
Could they properly understand,
Truth would appear in her own sweet guise,
Beauteous, gentle, and close at hand.
-
WHY these inquiries make,
Where charity may flow?
Cast in the flood thy cake,
Its eater, who will know?
-
ONCE when I a spider had kill'd,
Then methought: wast right or wrong?
That we both to these times should belong,
This had God in His goodness willed.
-
MOTLEY this congregation is, for, lo!
At the communion kneel both friend and foe.
-
IF the country I'm to show,
Thou must on the housetop go.
-
A MAN with households twain
Ne'er finds attention meet,
A house wherein two women reign
Is ne'er kept clean and neat.
-
BLESS, thou dread Creator,
Bless this humble fane;
Man may build them greater,
More they'll not contain.
-
LET this house's glory rise,
Handed to far ages down,
And the son his honour prize.
As the father his renown.
-
O'ER the Mediterranean sea
Proudly hath the Orient sprung;
Who loves Hafis and knows him, he
Knows what Caldron hath sung.
-
IF the ass that bore the Saviour
Were to Mecca driven, he
Would not alter, but would be
Still an ass in his behavior.
-
THE flood of passion storms with fruitless strife
'Gainst the unvanquished solid land.
It throws poetic pearls upon the strand,
And thus is gain'd the prize of life.
-
WHEN so many minstrels there are,
How it pains me, alas, to know it!
Who from the earth drives poetry far?
Who but the poet!
Event Of Things Not In Our Power.
by Robert Herrick

By time and counsel do the best we can,
Th' event is never in the power of man.
Stray Pleasures
by William Wordsworth

By their floating mill,
That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;
And many a blithe day they have past.
In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel,
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them, what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The showers of the spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing;
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;
Each wave, one and t' other, speeds after his brother:
They are happy, for that is their right!
Address To My Father, On His Receiving An Easy Chair From The Right Hon. Lady--------.
by John Clare

Calm resignation meets a happy end;
And Providence, long-trusted, brings a friend.
God's will be done, be patient and be good;
Elisha was, and ravens brought him food:
And so wast thou, my father,--fate's decree
Doom'd many evils should encompass thee;
And, like Elisha, though it met thee late,
Patience unwearied did not vainly wait.
Thou hast, my father, long been us'd to pine,
And patient borne thy pain; great pain was thine.
Thou hast submitted, ah, and thou hast known
The roughest storms that life has ever blown,
Yet met them like a lamb: thou wert resign'd,
And though thou pray'dst a better place to find,
'Twas nought presumptuous--meekly wouldst thou crave,
When pains rack'd sore, some easement in the grave;
To lay thy aching body down in peace,
Where want and pain, poor man's tormentors, cease.
'Twas all thy wish--and not till lately wish'd,
When age came on, and pain thy strength had crush'd.
There stood thy children, "ah," thou oft wouldst sigh,
"Let's see my babes brought up, and let me die.
"Though what I do brings them but little food,
"It better keeps them than a workhouse would.
"I've small enticement in this world to find,
"But could not rest if they were left behind."--
Bless thee, my father! thou'st been kind to me,
And God, who saw it, will be kind to thee.
Now pain has mark'd thee long with age's scars,
And age with double-blow thy end prepares,--
A crooked wreck, the trace of what has been,
Toil, want, and pain, now but too plainly seen,--
Thou'st met with friends who joy to damp despair,
And when most needed brought thy easy chair;
An easy seat thy wasted form to bless,
And make thy useless limbs to pain thee less:
O mayst thou long enjoy the comfort given,
Live long to bless them who the deed have done;
Then change thy earthly pains for joys in heaven!--
So beats the bosom of thy only son,
Whose bliss is at its height, whose long hope's crown'd,
To prove, when wanted most, thy friends are found.
The Green-Hand Rouseabout
by Henry Lawson

Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!, you don't know what it means.
(What's that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you, mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I'm waiting. Milk? Oh, yes, a bucketful.)
I'm just in from west the Darling, 'picking-up' and rolling wool.'
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee, two hours' graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner, mutton greasy-warm for tea,
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)
Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton, bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.
Dusty patch in baking mulga, glaring iron hut and shed,
Feel and smell of rain forgotten, water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise, all-pervading sheep yard smell,
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches, 'Slushy' rings the bullock-bell,
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie, sinners string towards the shed,
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass, screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles. 'Go it, tigers!' and the agony begins,
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades, for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep, half-a-dozen Christs they'd sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from, too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!
Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;
Blasphemy of five-and-forty, prickly heat, and stink of rams!
'Barcoo' leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, 'Barcoo' blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added, trial of our cursing powers,
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
'Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?' 'Seen my cattle-pup?'
'There's a sheep fell down in my shoot, just jump down and pick it up.'
'Give the office when the boss comes.' 'Catch that gory sheep, old man.'
'Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?' 'Fetch my combs back when yer can.'
'When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?
'Fetch my pipe, the cook'll show yer, and I'll let yer have a cut.'
Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer's roaring like a bull:
'Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell's the (foundling) Wool!!'
Pound a week and station prices, mustn't kick against the pricks,
Seven weeks of lurid mateship, ruined soul and four pounds six.
What's that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef, moo-cow, Roast Bullock, Beef!
Call Me Away
by Anne Bronte

Call me away; there's nothing here,
That wins my soul to stay;
Then let me leave this prospect drear,
And hasten far away.
To our beloved land I'll flee,
Our land of thought and soul,
Where I have roved so oft with thee,
Beyond the world's control.
I'll sit and watch those ancient trees,
Those Scotch firs dark and high;
I'll listen to the eerie breeze,
Among their branches sigh.
The glorious moon shines far above;
How soft her radiance falls,
On snowy heights, and rock, and grove;
And yonder palace walls!
Who stands beneath yon fir trees high?
A youth both slight and fair,
Whose bright and restless azure eye
Proclaims him known to care,
Though fair that brow, it is not smooth;
Though small those features, yet in sooth
Stern passion has been there.
Now on the peaceful moon are fixed
Those eyes so glistening bright,
But trembling teardrops hang betwixt,
And dim the blessed light.
Though late the hour, and keen the blast,
That whistles round him now,
Those raven locks are backward cast,
To cool his burning brow.
His hands above his heaving breast
Are clasped in agony,
'O Father! Father! let me rest!
And call my soul to thee!
I know 'tis weakness thus to pray;
But all this cankering care,
This doubt tormenting night and day
Is more than I can bear!
With none to comfort, none to guide
And none to strengthen me.
Since thou my only friend hast died,
I've pined to follow thee!
Since thou hast died! And did he live
What comfort could his counsel give,
To one forlorn like me?
Would he my Idol's form adore,
Her soul, her glance, her tone?
And say, "Forget for ever more
Her kindred and thine own;
Let dreams of her thy peace destroy,
Leave every other hope and joy
And live for her alone"?'
He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears,
Still glistening on his cheek,
The lady of his soul appears,
And hark! I hear her speak,
'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep,
While I am by thy side,
Our foes all day their watch may keep
But cannot thus divide
Such hearts as ours; and we tonight
Together in the clear moon's light
Their malice will deride.
No fear our present bliss shall blast
And sorrow we'll defy.
Do thou forget the dreary past,
The dreadful future I.'
Forget it? Yes, while thou art by
I think of nought but thee,
'Tis only when thou art not nigh
Remembrance tortures me.
But such a lofty soul to find,
And such a heart as thine,
In such a glorious form enshrined
And still to call thee mine,
Would be for earth too great a bliss,
Without a taint of woe like this,
Then why should I repine?
His Lachrym'; Or, Mirth Turned To Mourning.
by Robert Herrick

Call me no more,
As heretofore,
The music of a feast;
Since now, alas!
The mirth that was
In me is dead or ceas'd.
Before I went,
To banishment,
Into the loathed west,
I could rehearse
A lyric verse,
And speak it with the best.
But time, ay me!
Has laid, I see,
My organ fast asleep,
And turn'd my voice
Into the noise
Of those that sit and weep.