DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Full Sea Rolls And Thunders
by William Ernest Henley

The full sea rolls and thunders
In glory and in glee.
O, bury me not in the senseless earth
But in the living sea!
Ay, bury me where it surges
A thousand miles from shore,
And in its brotherly unrest
I'll range for evermore.
1876
The Garland I Send Thee.
by Thomas Moore

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.
The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.
The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.
The Gathering Of Dead Wood
by Paul Cameron Brown

The gathering of dead wood - driven,
pinched in faces between
the strain of Van Gogh's setting -
had all the more realism
hastening down that leaden street.
Churning sockets, burdened with the duress of suffering,
the street in vigorous winter
raced like a bootblack
up from the river. Hedged by
black stems called trees, rows
of withered houses and dim bread shops
propositioned rough headlights
along a promenade of ice stalks
and careening streetlamps.
Fast in the cold,
faces were juggernauts
skating treacherously
over the pond of that closed city.
The gates of fame and of the grave
by Walter Savage Landor

The gates of fame and of the grave
Stand under the same architrave.
Sonnet. Winter.
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow
Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall
Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow
Of the ice-covered waters, and the call
Of the cold driver to his oxen slow,
And the complaining of the gust, are all
That I can hear of music - would that I
With the green summer like a leaf might die?
So will a man grow gray, and on his head
The snow of years lie visibly, and so
Will come a frost when his green years have fled,
And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,
And his deep voice be shaken - would that I
In the green summer of my youth might die!
The Gargoyle
by Oliver Herford

The Gargoyle often makes its perch
On a cathedral or a church,
Where, mid ecclesiastic style,
It smiles an early-Gothic smile.
And while the parson, dignified,
Spouts at his weary flock inside,
The Gargoyle, from its lofty seat,
Spouts at the people in the street,
And, like the parson, seems to say
To those beneath him, "Let us spray."
I like the Gargoyle best; it plays
So cheerfully on rainy days,
While parsons (no one can deny)
Are awful dampers--when they're dry.
Candlelight In Black
by Paul Cameron Brown

The ghosts are marmalade
thin as rinds across toast
or the Weeping Willow, whose
green beard leans,
crane-like, into a child's
backyard.
A Morning Cloak butterfly,
maroon wet with the paint
of morning, cat paws
thin filament leaves
astride a larder
of memories.
Dalliance with the past,
smoke grey these architects
of memory
the privet hedge,
lone pine tree,
jet black caterpillar
poised about a green
carrot top trigger
laced in emperor's gold
like fathoms of the sea
held ... in quiet repose.
Gethsemane
by Rudyard Kipling

The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass, we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass, it didn't pass,
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane!
Fragment: Rain.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The gentleness of rain was in the wind.
Dyke Side
by John Clare

The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not pass
But fear the noisome toad and shun the grass;
And on the sunny banks they dare not go
Where hissing snakes run to the flood below.
The nuthatch noises loud in wood and wild,
Like women turning skreeking to a child.
The schoolboy hears and brushes through the trees
And runs about till drabbled to the knees.
The old hawk winnows round the old crow's nest;
The schoolboy hears and wonder fills his breast.
He throws his basket down to climb the tree
And wonders what the red blotched eggs can be:
The green woodpecker bounces from the view
And hollos as he buzzes bye "kew kew."
The Thorn
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)
The garden of God is a radiant place,
And every flower has a holy face:
Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,
But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.
David is the song upon God's lips,
And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips:
And Gabriel's the breath of His command,
But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand.
The Ivory Tower is fair to see,
And may her walls encompass me!
But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might,
Saint Michael, show me how to fight!
King Log & King Stork
by Walter Crane

The Frogs prayed to Jove for a king:
"Not a log, but a livelier thing."
Jove sent them a Stork,
Who did royal work,
For he gobbled them up, did their king.
Don't Have Kings
The Moon-Path
by Archibald Lampman

The full, clear moon uprose and spread
Her cold, pale splendor o'er the sea;
A light-strewn path that seemed to lead
Outward into eternity.
Between the darkness and the gleam
An old-world spell encompassed me:
Methought that in a godlike dream
I trod upon the sea.
And lo! upon that glimmering road,
In shining companies unfurled,
The trains of many a primal god,
The monsters of the elder world;
Strange creatures that, with silver wings,
Scarce touched the ocean's thronging floor,
The phantoms of old tales, and things
Whose shapes are known no more.
Giants and demi-gods who once
Were dwellers of the earth and sea,
And they who from Deucalion's stones,
Rose men without an infancy;
Beings on whose majestic lids
Time's solemn secrets seemed to dwell,
Tritons and pale-limbed Nereids,
And forms of heaven and hell.
Some who were heroes long of yore,
When the great world was hale and young;
And some whose marble lips yet pour
The murmur of an antique tongue;
Sad queens, whose names are like soft moans,
Whose griefs were written up in gold;
And some who on their silver thrones
Were goddesses of old.
As if I had been dead indeed,
And come into some after-land,
I saw them pass me, and take heed,
And touch me with each mighty hand;
And evermore a murmurous stream,
So beautiful they seemed to me,
Not less than in a godlike dream
I trod the shining sea.
Fragment
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down
His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun
Had swarthed about with lion-brown
Before the Spring was done.
His locks like all a ravel-rope's-end,
With hempen strands in spray - 
Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks - fall'n off their ranks,
Swung down at a disarray.
Or like a juicy and jostling shock
Of bluebells sheaved in May
Or wind-long fleeces on the flock
A day off shearing day.
Then over his turn'd temples - here - 
Was a rose, or, failing that,
Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear
For a beauty-bow to his hat,
And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamonds
Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.
Suggested By A Picture Of The Bird Of Paradise
by William Wordsworth

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed,
And a true master of the glowing strain,
Might scan the narrow province with disdain
That to the Painter's skill is here allowed.
This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim
The daring thought, forget the name;
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might own
As no unworthy Partner in their flight
Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway
Of nether air's rude billows is unknown;
Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they
Through India's spicy regions wing their way,
Might bow to as their Lord. What character,
O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee,
Of all thy feathered progeny
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair?
So richly decked in variegated down,
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown,
Tints softly with each other blended,
Hues doubtfully begun and ended;
Or intershooting, and to sight
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light
Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there?
Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life
Began the pencil's strife,
O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare.
A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong
Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song;
But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew
A juster judgment from a calmer view;
And, with a spirit freed from discontent,
Thankfully took an effort that was meant
Not with God's bounty, Nature's love to vie,
Or made with hope to please that inward eye
Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy,
But to recall the truth by some faint trace
Of power ethereal and celestial grace,
That in the living Creature find on earth a place.
In Hospital - III - Interior
by William Ernest Henley

The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere
Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.
Dressings and lint on the long, lean table -
Whom are they for?
The patients yawn,
Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.
It's grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank.
The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.
My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .
O, a gruesome world!
Dusk
by James Whitcomb Riley

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.
How The Land Was Won
by Henry Lawson

The future was dark and the past was dead
As they gazed on the sea once more,
But a nation was born when the immigrants said
"Good-bye!" as they stepped ashore!
In their loneliness they were parted thus
Because of the work to do,
A wild wide land to be won for us
By hearts and hands so few.
The darkest land 'neath a blue sky's dome,
And the widest waste on earth;
The strangest scenes and the least like home
In the lands of our fathers' birth;
The loneliest land in the wide world then,
And away on the furthest seas,
A land most barren of life for men,
And they won it by twos and threes!
With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept
By the camp-fires' ghastly glow,
Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept
With "nulla" and spear held low;
Death was hidden amongst the trees,
And bare on the glaring sand
They fought and perished by twos and threes,
And that's how they won the land!
It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,
While one reeled on alone,
The dust of Australia's greatest dead
With the dust of the desert blown!
Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin
That scorched in the blazing sun,
Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin,
And that's how the land was won!
Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,
And death by the lonely way;
The childbirth under the tilt or tent,
The childbirth under the dray!
The childbirth out in the desolate hut
With a half-wild gin for nurse,
That's how the first were born to bear
The brunt of the first man's curse!
They toiled and they fought through the shame of it,
Through wilderness, flood, and drought;
They worked, in the struggles of early days,
Their sons' salvation out.
The white girl-wife in the hut alone,
The men on the boundless run,
The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown,
And that's how the land was won.
No armchair rest for the old folk then,
But, ruined by blight and drought,
They blazed the tracks to the camps again
In the big scrubs further out.
The worn haft, wet with a father's sweat,
Gripped hard by the eldest son,
The boy's back formed to the hump of toil,
And that's how the land was won!
And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,
And the rainless belt, they ride,
The currency lad and the ne'er-do-well
And the black sheep, side by side;
In wheeling horizons of endless haze
That disk through the Great North-west,
They ride for ever by twos and by threes,
And that's how they win the rest.
Zero
by Madison Julius Cawein

The gate, on ice-hoarse hinges, stiff with frost,
Croaks open; and harsh wagon-wheels are heard
Creaking through cold; the horses' breath is furred
Around their nostrils; and with snow deep mossed
The hut is barely seen, from which, uptossed,
The wood-smoke pillars the icy air unstirred;
And every sound, each axe-stroke and each word,
Comes as through crystal, then again is lost.
The sun strikes bitter on the frozen pane,
And all around there is a tingling, tense
As is a wire stretched upon a disc
Vibrating without sound: It is the strain
That Winter plays, to which each tree and fence,
It seems, is strung, as 't were of ringing bisque.
Stellenbosh
by Rudyard Kipling

The general 'eard the firin' on the flank,
An' 'e sent a mounted man to bring 'im back
The silly, pushin' person's name an' rank
'Oo'd dared to answer Brother Boer's attack:
For there might 'ave been a serious engagement,
An' 'e might 'ave wasted 'alf a dozen men;
So 'e ordered 'im to stop 'is operations round the kopjes,
An' 'e told 'im off before the Staff at ten!
And it all goes into the laundry,
But it never comes out in the wash,
'Ow we're sugared about by the old men
('Eavy sterned amateur old men!)
That 'amper an' 'inder an' scold men
For fear o' Stellenbosh!*
The General 'ad 'produced a great effect,'
The General 'ad the country cleared, almost;
The General ''ad no reason to expect,'
And the Boers 'ad us bloomin' well on toast!
For we might 'ave crossed the drift before the twilight,
Instead o' sitting down an' takin' root;
But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd,
To the last survivin' bandolier an' boot.
The General saw the farm'ouse in 'is rear,
With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun;
Sez 'e, 'I'll pitch my tabernacle 'ere,'
An' 'e kept us muckin' round till 'e 'ad done.
For 'e might 'ave caught the confluent pneumonia
From sleepin' in his gaiters in the dew;
So 'e took a book an' dozed while the other columns closed
And De Wet's commando out an' trickled through!
The General saw the mountain-range ahead,
With their 'elios showin' saucy on the 'eight,
So 'e 'eld us to the level ground instead,
An' telegraphed the Boojers would n't fight.
For 'e might 'ave gone an' sprayed 'em with a pompom,
Or 'e might 'ave slung a squadron out to see,
But'e was n't takin' chances in them 'igh an' 'ostile kranzes,
He was markin' time to earn a K.C.B
The General got 'is decorations thick
(The men that backed 'is lies could not complain),
The Staff 'ad D.S.O.'s till we was sick,
An' the soldier, 'ad the work to do again!
For 'e might 'ave known the District was an 'otbed,
Instead of 'andin' over, upside-down,
To a man 'oo 'ad to fight 'alf a year to put it right,
While the General went an' slandered 'im in town!
An' it all went into the laundry,
But it never came out in the wash.
We were sugared about by the old men
(Panicky, perishin' old men)
That 'amper an' 'inder an' scold men
For fear o' Stellenbosh!
Northman
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

The gale that wrecked you on the sand,
It helped my rowers to row;
The storm is my best galley hand
And drives me where I go.
An Answer To A Friend's Question
by Jonathan Swift

The furniture that best doth please
St. Patrick's Dean, good Sir, are these:
The knife and fork with which I eat;
And next the pot that boils the meat;
The next to be preferr'd, I think,
Is the glass in which I drink;
The shelves on which my books I keep
And the bed on which I sleep;
An antique elbow-chair between,
Big enough to hold the Dean;
And the stove that gives delight
In the cold bleak wintry night:
To these we add a thing below,
More for use reserved than show:
These are what the Dean do please;
All superfluous are but these.
Pictures.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

The full-orbed Paschal moon; dark shadows flung
On the brown Lenten earth; tall spectral trees
Stand in their huge and naked strength erect,
And stretch wild arms towards the gleaming sky.
A motionless girl-figure, face upraised
In the strong moonlight, cold and passionless.
*     *     *     *     *
A proud spring sunset; opal-tinted sky,
Save where the western purple, pale and faint
With longing for her fickle Love, - content
Had merged herself into his burning red.
A fair young maiden, clad in velvet robe
Of sombre green, stands in the golden glow,
One hand held up to shade her dazzled eyes,
A bunch of white Narcissus at her throat.
*     *     *     *     *
November's day, dark, leaden, lowering, - 
Grey purple shadows fading on the hills;
Dreary and desolate the far expanse
And gloomy sameness of the open plain.
A peasant woman, in white wimpled hood,
White vest, and scarlet petticoat, surveys
The meadow, with rough hands crossed on her breast.
*     *     *     *     *
A shining, shimmering, gracious, golden day;
The sated summer's all-pervading hush;
Warm luscious tints, glowing in earth and sky.
On a low mossy bank, a little child,
His golden curls twined in the reedy grass,
Clutching within his tear-stained feverish hands
The yellow blossoms of the Celandine,
Sobs out his heart in passionate childish grief.
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 I. Departure From The Vale Of Grasmere, August 1803
by William Wordsworth

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains
Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;
Even for the tenants of the zone that lies
Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,
Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap
At will the crystal battlements, and peep
Into some other region, though less fair,
To see how things are made and managed there.
Change for the worse might please, incursion bold
Into the tracts of darkness and of cold;
O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer,
And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.
Such animation often do I find,
Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,
Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,
Perhance without one look behind me cast.
Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.
O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;
Not like an outcast with himself at strife;
The slave of business, time, or care for life,
But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,
Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;
To cull contentment upon wildest shores,
And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;
With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,
And having rights in all that we behold.
Then why these lingering steps? A bright adieu,
For a brief absence, proves that love is true;
Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn
That winds into itself for sweet return.
J. D. R.
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

The friends that are, and friends that were,
What shallow waves divide!
I miss the form for many a year
Still seated at my side.
I miss him, yet I feel him still
Amidst our faithful band,
As if not death itself could chill
The warmth of friendship's hand.
His story other lips may tell, - 
For me the veil is drawn;
I only knew he loved me well,
He loved me - and is gone!
Sonnet CLXIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' aura serena che fra verdi fronde.
THE GENTLE BREEZE (L' AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER.
The gentle gale, that plays my face around,
Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,
To fond remembrance brings the time, when Love
First gave his deep, although delightful wound;
Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er found
Veil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move;
To view her locks that shone bright gold above,
Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound:
Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind,
And then coil'd up again so gracefully,
That but to think on it still thrills the sense.
These Time has in more sober braids confined;
And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,
That death alone can disengage it thence.
NOTT.
The balmy airs that from yon leafy spray
My fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet,
Recall to my fond heart the fatal day
When Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,
And gave me the fair face--in scorn away
Since turn'd, or hid by jealousy--to meet;
The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,
Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,
So sweetly on the wind were then display'd,
Or gather'd in with such a graceful art,
Their very thought with passion thrills my mind.
Time since has twined them in more sober braid,
And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,
Death from its fetters only can unbind.
MACGREGOR.
In Memoriam. - Mary Shipman Deming,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.
The garner'd Jewel of our heart,
The Darling of our tent!
Cold rains were falling thick and fast,
When forth from us she went.
The sweetest blossom on our tree,
When droop'd her fairy head,
We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.
The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.
We gaze,--her wings we may not see:
We listen,--all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again.
Ballade Of Suicide, A
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours, on the wall,
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me.... After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay,
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall,
I see a little cloud all pink and grey,
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call,
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way,
I never read the works of Juvenal,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H. G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational,
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
Envoi
Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The Milk Jug
by Oliver Herford

The Gentle Milk Jug blue and white
I love with all my soul,
She pours herself with all her might
To fill my breakfast bowl.
All day she sits upon the shelf,
She does not jump or climb--
She only waits to pour herself
When 'tis my supper-time.
And when the Jug is empty quite,
I shall not mew in vain,
The Friendly Cow, all red and white,
Will fill her up again.
On The Author Of Letters On Literature.[1]
by William Cowper

The Genius of the Augustan age
His head among Rome's ruins rear'd,
And, bursting with heroic rage,
When literary Heron appear'd;
Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire,
By being scandalously bold,
Attain'd the mark of thy desire.
And for traducing Virgil's name
Shalt share his merited reward;
A perpetuity of fame,
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.
Nancibel.
by Bliss Carman (William)

The ghost of a wind came over the hill,
While day for a moment forgot to die,
And stirred the sheaves
Of the millet leaves,
As Nancibel went by.
Out of the lands of Long Ago,
Into the land of By and By,
Faded the gleam
Of a journeying dream,
As Nancibel went by.