DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Well Of Loch Maree
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree
A little isle reposes;
A shadow woven of the oak
And willow o'er it closes.
Within, a Druid's mound is seen,
Set round with stony warders;
A fountain, gushing through the turf,
Flows o'er its grassy borders.
And whoso bathes therein his brow,
With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
And sense of peace returning.
O restless heart and fevered brain,
Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!
Life's changes vex, its discords stun,
Its glaring sunshine blindeth,
And blest is he who on his way
That fount of healing findeth!
The shadows of a humbled will
And contrite heart are o'er it;
Go read its legend, "Trust In God,"
On Faith's white stones before it
There'll Never Be Peace.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "There art few gude fellows when Willie's awa."
I.
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing the tears down came,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars:
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
II.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burthen that bows me down,
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
A Conjuration To Electra
by Robert Herrick

By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I' the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.
Written In Very Early Youth
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.
A Young Man's Exhortation
by Thomas Hardy

Call off your eyes from care
By some determined deftness; put forth joys
Dear as excess without the core that cloys,
And charm Life's lourings fair.
Exalt and crown the hour
That girdles us, and fill it full with glee,
Blind glee, excelling aught could ever be
Were heedfulness in power.
Send up such touching strains
That limitless recruits from Fancy's pack
Shall rush upon your tongue, and tender back
All that your soul contains.
For what do we know best?
That a fresh love-leaf crumpled soon will dry,
And that men moment after moment die,
Of all scope dispossest.
If I have seen one thing
It is the passing preciousness of dreams;
That aspects are within us; and who seems
Most kingly is the King.
1867: WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS.
Shelter.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

By the wide lake's margin I mark'd her lie -
The wide, weird lake where the alders sigh -
A young fair thing, with a shy, soft eye;
And I deem'd that her thoughts had flown
To her home, and her brethren, and sisters dear,
As she lay there watching the dark, deep mere,
All motionless, all alone.
Then I heard a noise, as of men and boys,
And a boisterous troop drew nigh.
Whither now will retreat those fairy feet?
Where hide till the storm pass by?
One glance - the wild glance of a hunted thing -
She cast behind her; she gave one spring;
And there follow'd a splash and a broadening ring
On the lake where the alders sigh.
She had gone from the ken of ungentle men!
Yet scarce did I mourn for that;
For I knew she was safe in her own home then,
And, the danger past, would appear again,
For she was a water-rat.
By Their Works
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Call him not heretic whose works attest
His faith in goodness by no creed confessed.
Whatever in love's name is truly done
To free the bound and lift the fallen one
Is done to Christ. Whoso in deed and word
Is not against Him labors for our Lord.
When He, who, sad and weary, longing sore
For love's sweet service, sought the sisters' door,
One saw the heavenly, one the human guest,
But who shall say which loved the Master best
Sonnet 51
by Michael Drayton

Calling to minde since first my loue begunne,
Th' incertaine times oft varying in their course,
How things still vnexpectedly haue runne,
As please the fates, by their resistlesse force:
Lastly, mine eyes amazedly haue scene,
Essex great fall, Tyrone his peace to gaine,
The quiet end of that long-liuing Queene,
This Kings faire entrance, and our peace with Spaine,
We and the Dutch at length our selues to seuer.
Thus the world doth, and euermore shall reele,
Yet to my goddesse am I constant euer;
How ere blind fortune turne her giddy wheele:
Though heauen and earth proue both to mee vntrue,
Yet am I still inuiolate to you.
To a River in the South
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Call me no more, O gentle stream,
To wander through thy sunny dream,
No more to lean at twilight cool
Above thy weir and glimmering pool.
Surely I know thy hoary dawns,
The silver crisp on all thy lawns,
The softly swirling undersong
That rocks thy reeds the winter long.
Surely I know the joys that ring
Through the green deeps of leafy spring;
I know the elfin cups and domes
That are their small and secret homes.
Yet is the light for ever lost
That daily once thy meadows crossed,
The voice no more by thee is heard
That matched the song of stream and bird.
Call me no more!--thy waters roll
Here, in the world that is my soul,
And here, though Earth be drowned in night,
Old love shall dwell with old delight.
By-And-Bye
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

"By-and-bye," the maiden sighed - "by-and-bye
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-bye - by-and-bye."
"By-and-bye," the soldier said - "by-and-bye,
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-bye - by-and-bye."
"By-and-bye," the mother cried - "by-and-bye,
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-bye - by-and-bye."
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-bye" - by-and-bye?
The Forest.
by William Morris

Pear-tree.
By woodman's edge I faint and fail;
By craftsman's edge I tell the tale.
Chestnut-tree.
High in the wood, high o'er the hall,
Aloft I rise when low I fall.
Oak-tree.
Unmoved I stand what wind may blow.
Swift, swift before the wind I go.
Calico Pie.
by Edward Lear

I.
Calico pie,
The little birds fly
Down to the calico-tree:
Their wings were blue,
And they sang "Tilly-loo!"
Till away they flew;
And they never came back to me!
They never came back,
They never came back,
They never came back to me!
II.
Calico jam,
The little Fish swam
Over the Syllabub Sea.
He took off his hat
To the Sole and the Sprat,
And the Willeby-wat:
But he never came back to me;
He never came back,
He never came back,
He never came back to me.
III.
Calico ban,
The little Mice ran
To be ready in time for tea;
Flippity flup,
They drank it all up,
And danced in the cup:
But they never came back to me;
They never came back,
They never came back,
They never came back to me.
IV.
Calico drum,
The Grasshoppers come,
The Butterfly, Beetle, and Bee,
Over the ground,
Around and round,
With a hop and a bound;
But they never came back,
They never came back,
They never came back.
They never came back to me.
Calm Be Thy Sleep.
by Thomas Moore

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers!
Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!
May every joy this bright world numbers
Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!
Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided,
There ever must some pang remain,
Still be thy lot with me divided,--
Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!
Day and night my thoughts shall hover
Round thy steps where'er they stray;
As, even when clouds his idol cover,
Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.
If this be wrong, if Heaven offended
By worship to its creature be,
Then let my vows to both be blended,
Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.
The Hawk
by William Butler Yeats

'Call down the hawk from the air;
Let him be hooded or caged
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
For larder and spit are bare,
The old cook enraged,
The scullion gone wild.'
'I will not be clapped in a hood,
Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,
Now I have learnt to be proud
Hovering over the wood
In the broken mist
Or tumbling cloud.'
'What tumbling cloud did you cleave,
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,
Last evening? that I, who had sat
Dumbfounded before a knave,
Should give to my friend
A pretence of wit.'
Jehovah-Nissi. The Lord My Banner. - Exodus xvii.15.
by William Cowper

By whom was David taught
To aim the deadly blow,
When he Goliath fought,
And laid the Gittite low?
Nor sword nor spear the stripling took,
But chose a pebble from the brook.
'Twas Israel's God and King
Who sent him to the fight;
Who gave him strength to sling,
And skill to aim aright.
Ye feeble saints, your strength endures,
Because young David's God is yours.
Who order'd Gideon forth,
To storm the invader's camp,
With arms of little worth,
A pitcher and a lamp?[1]
The trumpets made his coming known,
And all the host was overthrown.
Oh! I have seen the day,
When, with a single word,
God helping me to say,
My trust is in the Lord,
My soul hath quell'd a thousand foes,
Fearless of all that could oppose.
But unbelief, self-will,
Self-righteousness, and pride,
How often do they steal
My weapon from my side!
Yet David's Lord, and Gideon's friend,
Will help his servant to the end.
Sonnets: Idea LI
by Michael Drayton

Calling to mind since first my love begun,
Th'uncertain times, oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly have run,
As't please the Fates by their resistless force;
Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen
Essex's great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,
The quiet end of that long living Queen,
This King's fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever;
Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel;
Yet to my goddess am I constant ever,
Howe'er blind Fortune turn her giddy wheel;
Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue,
Yet am I still inviolate to you.
Ca' The Yowes.
by Robert Burns

I.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather growes,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes - 
My bonnie dearie!
Hark the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
Then a faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.
II.
We'll gae down by Cluden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
III.
Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance so cheery.
IV.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
V.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die - but canna part - 
My bonnie dearie!
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather growes;
Ca' them where the burnie rowes - 
My bonnie dearie!
Song To The God Of War. (The Missionary.)
by William Lisle Bowles

By thy habitation dread,
In the valley of the dead,
Where no sun, nor day, nor night,
Breaks the red and dusky light;
By the grisly troops, that ride,
Of slaughtered Spaniards, at thy side,--
Slaughtered by the Indian spear,
Mighty Epananum, hear!
Hark, the battle! Hark, the din!
Now the deeds of Death begin!
The Spaniards come, in clouds! above,
I hear their hoarse artillery move!
Spirits of our fathers slain,
Haste, pursue the dogs of Spain!
The noise was in the northern sky!
Haste, pursue! They fly--they fly!
Now from the cavern's secret cell,
Where the direst phantoms dwell,
See they rush, and, riding high,
Break the moonlight as they fly;
And, on the shadowed plain beneath,
Shoot, unseen, the shafts of Death!
O'er the devoted Spanish camp,
Like a vapour, dark and damp,
May they hover, till the plain
Is hid beneath the countless slain;
And none but silent women tread
From corse to corse, to seek the dead!
The wavering fire flashed with expiring light,
When shrill and hollow, through the cope of night,
A distant shout was heard; at intervals,
Increasing on the listening ear it falls.
It ceased; when, bursting from the thickest wood,
With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood;
Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair,
Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare,
A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms,
And folding a white infant in her arms,
Appeared. Each warrior stooped his lance to gaze
On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze.
Save! she exclaimed, with harrowed aspect wild;
Oh, save my innocent, my helpless child!
Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke;
Caupolican, with stern inquiry, spoke:
Whence come, to interrupt our awful rite,
At this dread hour, the warriors of the night?
From ocean.
Who is she who fainting lies,
And now scarce lifts her supplicating eyes?
The Spanish ship went down; the seamen bore,
In a small boat, this woman to the shore:
They fell beneath our hatchets,--and again,
We gave them back to the insulted main.
The child and woman--of a race we hate--
Warriors, 'tis yours, here to decide their fate.
Vengeance! aloud fierce Mariantu cried:
Let vengeance on the race be satisfied!
Let none of hated Spanish blood remain,
Woman or child, to violate our plain!
Amid that dark and bloody scene, the child
Stretched to the mountain-chief his hands and smiled.
A starting tear of pity dimmed the eye
Of the old warrior, though he knew not why.
Oh, think upon your little ones! he cried,
Nor be compassion to the weak denied.
Caupolican then fixed his aspect mild
On the white woman and her shrinking child,
Then firmly spoke:--
White woman, we were free,
When first thy brethren of the distant sea
Came to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt!
Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt!
Yet blood we seek not, though our arms oppose
The hate of foreign and remorseless foes;
Thou camest here a captive, so abide,
Till the Great Spirit shall our cause decide.
He spoke: the warriors of the night obey;
And, ere the earliest streak of dawning day,
They lead her from the scene of blood away.
The Swallow And The Little Birds.[1]
by Jean de La Fontaine

By voyages in air,
With constant thought and care,
Much knowledge had a swallow gain'd,
Which she for public use retain'd,
The slightest storms she well foreknew,
And told the sailors ere they blew.
A farmer sowing hemp, once having found,
She gather'd all the little birds around,
And said, 'My friends, the freedom let me take
To prophesy a little, for your sake,
Against this dangerous seed.
Though such a bird as I
Knows how to hide or fly,
You birds a caution need.
See you that waving hand?
It scatters on the land
What well may cause alarm.
'Twill grow to nets and snares,
To catch you unawares,
And work you fatal harm!
Great multitudes I fear,
Of you, my birdies dear,
That falling seed, so little,
Will bring to cage or kettle!
But though so perilous the plot,
You now may easily defeat it:
All lighting on the seeded spot,
Just scratch up every seed and eat it.'
The little birds took little heed,
So fed were they with other seed.
Anon the field was seen
Bedeck'd in tender green.
The swallow's warning voice was heard again:
'My friends, the product of that deadly grain,
Seize now, and pull it root by root,
Or surely you'll repent its fruit.'
'False, babbling prophetess,' says one,
'You'd set us at some pretty fun!
To pull this field a thousand birds are needed,
While thousands more with hemp are seeded.'
The crop now quite mature,
The swallow adds, 'Thus far I've fail'd of cure;
I've prophesied in vain
Against this fatal grain:
It's grown. And now, my bonny birds,
Though you have disbelieved my words
Thus far, take heed at last, - 
When you shall see the seed-time past,
And men, no crops to labour for,
On birds shall wage their cruel war,
With deadly net and noose;
Of flying then beware,
Unless you take the air,
Like woodcock, crane, or goose.
But stop; you're not in plight
For such adventurous flight,
O'er desert waves and sands,
In search of other lands.
Hence, then, to save your precious souls,
Remaineth but to say,
'Twill be the safest way,
To chuck yourselves in holes.'
Before she had thus far gone,
The birdlings, tired of hearing,
And laughing more than fearing,
Set up a greater jargon
Than did, before the Trojan slaughter,
The Trojans round old Priam's daughter.[2]
And many a bird, in prison grate,
Lamented soon a Trojan fate.
'Tis thus we heed no instincts but our own;
Believe no evil till the evil's done.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCII. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Bye, O my baby!
When I was a lady,
O then my poor baby did'nt cry!
But my baby is weeping,
For want of good keeping,
Oh, I fear my poor baby will die!
Call Not The Royal Swede Unfortunate
by William Wordsworth

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"
Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted Potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great Servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathising spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
Queen's Jubilee Ode, 1887.
by James McIntyre

Canada proves her devotion
To her who rules o'er land and sea,
For loyal thoughts do hearts inspire,
To make more glorious empire.
'Tis fifty years since Queen was crowned,
Her brow with golden circlet bound,
She was a girl, graceful, fair,
And has felt joy and anxious care.
Happy years of married life
She enjoyed as Albert's wife,
But Albert died, the wise and good,
And she was left in widowhood.
In her reign the power of steam
On land and sea became supreme,
And all now have strong reliance
In fresh victories of science.
For man doth lightning now employ
And uses it for message boy,
And when he wants a brilliant light,
Electric orbs do shine most bright.
Britain's empire is extending,
Truth and justice ever blending,
May strife and discord ever cease,
And jubilee inaugurate peace.
Coon Hunting.
by James McIntyre

Canadians oft by light of moon
Love to go a hunting coon,
But this our tale it is no yarn,
While chopping down tree Henry Karn
Found therein a hollow chamber
Full of coons who there did clamber,
It made them a home superior,
Warm and snug in the interior.
And he did count therein eleven
Who long had found it a safe haven,
But it is sad to read their fate,
For out of them he slaughtered eight.
But trouble to him now occurs
What shall he do with those fine furs,
Shall he grand overcoat display
Or make them into robe for sleigh.
Dream-Song.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Cam'st thou not nigh to me
In that one glimpse of thee
When thy lips, tremblingly,
Said: "My Beloved."
'Twas but a moment's space,
And in that crowded place
I dared not scan thy face
O! my Beloved.
Yet there may come a time
(Though loving be a crime
Only allowed in rhyme
To us, Beloved),
When safe 'neath sheltering arm
I may, without alarm,
Hear thy lips, close and warm,
Murmur: "Beloved!"
Papa Poodle.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?
How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read?
You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was a baby:
And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book before you like a regular gaby.
You've not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago;
Bill and I've fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you've not learned BA BE BI BO.
Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged to be the French;
And I've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting for me in the trench.
And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice, and as grave a face,
Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in the deepest disgrace.
Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle.
Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it that which makes you such a noodle?
You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep wondering why;
But I'm afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you're uncommonly sly.
You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning till night,
Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one ear bleeding from a fight,
Looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home to see.
But your watch keeps very good meal-time, Papa Poodle, for you're always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea.
No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your tongue,--I know you can do that;
But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to spell C A T, Cat.
I wonder, if I let you off lessons, whether I could teach you to pull the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun?
If I could, you might be the Artillery all to yourself, and it would be capital fun.
You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal better?
But I can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and yet I don't believe you'll ever learn a letter.
Aunt Jemima is going to make me a new cocked hat out of the next old newspaper, for I want to have a review;
But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a fool's cap for you.
N.N.
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Calmly and gracefully thou movest along the path of life, tearless and smileless, and scarce a heedless glance of indifferent attention ruffles thy calm.
Thou art good and wise ... and all things are remote from thee, and of no one hast thou need.
Thou art fair, and no one can say, whether thou prizest thy beauty or not.
No sympathy hast thou to give; none dost thou desire.
Thy glance is deep, and no thought is in it; in that clear depth is emptiness.
So in the Elysian field, to the solemn strains of Gluck's melodies, move without grief or bliss the graceful shades.
November 1879.
Wilder Music
by John Frederick Freeman

Came the same cuckoo's cry
All day across the mead.
Flitted the butterfly
All day dittering over my head.
Came a bleak crawk-caw
Between tall broad trees.
Came shadows, floating, drifting slowly down
Large leaves from darker trees.
Rose the lark with the rising sun,
Rose the mist after the lark,
O wild and sweet the clamour begun
Round the heels of the limping dark.
Rose after white cloud white cloud,
Nodded green cloud to green;
The stiff and dark earth stirred, breathing aloud,
And dew shook from the green.
Remained the eyes that stared,
Ears that ached to hear;
Remained the nerve of being, bared,
Stung with delight and fear.
Beauty flushed, ran and returned,
Like a music rose and fell;
Staring and blind and deaf I listened and burned--
A wilder music fell.