DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Foreboding
by Walter De La Mare

Thou canst not see him standing by - 
Time - with a poppied hand
Stealing thy youth's simplicity,
Even as falls unceasingly
His waning sand.
He will pluck thy childish roses, as
Summer from her bush
Strips all the loveliness that was;
Even to the silence evening has
Thy laughter hush.
Thy locks too faint for earthly gold,
The meekness of thine eyes,
He will darken and dim, and to his fold
Drive, 'gainst the night, thy stainless, old
Innocencies;
Thy simple words confuse and mar,
Thy tenderest thoughts delude,
Draw a long cloud athwart thy star,
Still with loud timbrels heaven's far
Faint interlude.
Thou canst not see; I see, dearest;
O, then, yet patient be,
Though love refuse thy heart all rest,
Though even love wax angry, lest
Love should lose thee ?
Unknown
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Thou hast marked the lonely river,
On whose waveless bosom lay
Some deep mountain-shadow ever,
Dark'ning e'en the ripples' play - 
Didst thou deem it had no murmur
Of soft music, though unheard?
Deem that, 'neath the quiet surface,
The calm waters never stirred?
Thou hast marked the pensive forest,
Where the moonbeams slept by night,
While the elm and drooping willow
Sorrowed in the misty light - 
Didst thou think those depths so silent
Held no fount of tender song
That awoke to hallowed utt'rance
As the hushed hours swept along?
So, the heart hath much of music,
Deep within its fountains lone,
Very passionate and tender,
Never shaped to human tone!
Dream not that its depths are silent,
Though thou ne'er hast stooped to hear;
Haply, even thence some music
Floats to the All-Hearing ear!
A Prayer In Sickness.
by George MacDonald

Thou foldest me in sickness;
Thou callest through the cloud;
I batter with the thickness
Of the swathing, blinding shroud:
Oh, let me see thy face,
The only perfect grace
That thou canst show thy child.
0 father, being-giver,
Take off the sickness-cloud;
Saviour, my life deliver
From this dull body-shroud:
Till I can see thy face
I am not full of grace,
I am not reconciled.
Upon A Physician.
by Robert Herrick

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold,
And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold:
Prithee go home; and for thy credit be
First cured thyself, then come and cure me.
Ireland.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily,
And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain,
When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,
Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.
Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors,
And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn,
Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors,
Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.
E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains,
Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow,
Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn
Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.
And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger,
With kind word of welcome, is met at the door;
The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger,
When foemen invaded thy sea-beaten shore.
Oh, Erin, I roam, in my thoughts, by thy rivers,
I stand by thy lakes, in delight at the view,
And ever I pray for the time, that delivers
This nation from strife, and from misery, too.
From Shannon's green banks unto Erne's limpid waters,
I've travell'd in thought, while this was my pray'r:
That sons of Fermanagh, and Limerick's daughters.
Should join in a union of loyalty, there.
For what loyal maid, from the banks of the Shannon,
Or what Irish lad, from the slopes of the Bann,
Would not dread the day, when the boom of the cannon
Should speak of destruction and death, from the van?
And what loyal son of old Ireland's glory,
From Cork's cove of beauty, to Foyle's distant shore,
Would not mourn the day, when, cold, lifeless and gory,
Brave forms downfallen, should rise never more?
And who would not hail, throughout Erin's dominion,
The time when Religion's bright form should arise,
And sail o'er the land; with her blest, healing pinion,
And bring to all hearts the truth in one guise?
And then, in his home, afar o'er the ocean,
Or by the turf fire, upon Erin's old sod,
Each Irishman, kneeling in humble devotion,
Would love all his brothers, while praying to God.
Oh Erin, mavourneen! Let Love's joyous fingers
Strike out from your harps, one glad, resonant strain,
And, if one discordant, harsh, jarring note lingers,
Oh, strike for your country, together again!
And then, when your hands and your hearts are united,
When you kneel at one shrine, when you bow to one law.
With a sea of glad brightness, your isle shall be lighted,
While thunders the chorus, of Erin-go-bragh.
On The Blank Leaf Of A Work By Hannah More. Presented By Mrs C----.
by Robert Burns

Thou flattering work of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor;
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart,
Does both the sexes honour.
She showed her taste refined and just,
When she selected thee,
Yet deviating, own I must,
For so approving me!
But kind still, I'll mind still
The giver in the gift;
I'll bless her, and wiss her
A Friend above the Lift.
Mossgiel, April, 1786.
Ode, To Hope
by Thomas Oldham

Thou Cherub fair! in whose blue, sparkling eye
New joys, anticipated, ever play;
Celestial Hope! with whose all-potent sway
The moral elements of life comply;
At thy melodious voice their jarrings cease,
And settle into order, beauty, peace;
How dear to memory that thrice-hallow'd hour
Which gave Thee to the world, auspicious Power!
Sent by thy parent, Mercy, from the sky,
Invested with her own all-cheering ray,
To dissipate the thick, black cloud of fate
Which long had shrouded this terrestrial state,
What time fair Virtue, struggling with despair,
Pour'd forth to pitying heaven her saddest soul in prayer:
Then, then she saw the brightening gloom divide,
And Thee, sweet Comforter! adown thy rainbow glide.
From the veil'd awful future, to her view
Scenes of immortal bliss thou didst disclose;
With faith's rapt eye she hail'd the vision true,
Spurn'd the base earth, and smiled upon her woes.
Thou Sovereign of the human soul
Whose influence rules without controul!
Unlike thy gloomy rival, Fear,
Abhorr'd, usurping Demon! who constrains
The shuddering spirit in his icy chains:
O Hope! be thou for ever near;
Keep the dread tyrant far away,
And all my willing, grateful bosom sway.
Each coming hour, that smiles with promise sweet,
In thy bright, spotless mirror let me greet,
And fondly passive to thy dictates, deem
Those smiling hours all heavenly as they seem:
Should changeful Fortune, hostile in her mood,
With storms and thunder arm her meteor-car,
And 'gainst me summon all her host to war,
Rouse thou, kind Power! the champion Fortitude,
With his well-tempered shield
To brave the threatening field.
Amid that scene of woes and mental strife
Let thy sweet, distant whisper soothe my ear,
Inviting Fancy far from mortal life,
To wander, blest, her own-created sphere.
Do thou her glowing thought possess,
And let her fairy pencil draw,
Free, and unconscious of thy law,
Fair images of Happiness;
Of that celestial form which lives imprest
Indelible, eternal, in thy breast.
E'en in the dead calm of the mind,
When Fancy sleeps, thou yet be kind;
O Hope! still let thy golden pinions play,
The unbreathing void to cheer, and shed a glancing ray!
Excuse.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Thou dost complain of woman for changing from one to another?
Censure her not: for she seeks one who will constant remain.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CIX
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Thou blind mans marke, thou fooles selfe-chosen snare,
Fond fancies scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought:
Band of all euils, cradle of causelesse care;
Thou web of will, whose end is neuer wrought:
Desire! Desire! I haue too dearly bought,
With prise of mangled mind, thy worthlesse ware;
Too long, too long, asleepe thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vaine thou hast my ruine sought;
In vaine thou madest me to vaine things aspire;
In vaine thou kindlest all thy smokie fire;
For Vertue hath this better lesson taught,--
Within my selfe to seeke my onelie hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.
To The Fringed Gentian.
by William Cullen Bryant

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
On Hearing It Said "That It Was Unreasonable To Suppose Man Should Believe What He Could Not Comprehend."
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

"Thou great First Cause," Creator, King, and Lord,
The worm that breathed at Thy commanding word,
And dies whene'er Thou wilt, presumptuous man,
Has dared the mazes of Thy path to scan;
Guided by reason's powerless rays alone,
Would pierce the veil of mystery round Thee thrown.
Tell me, proud being! flutterer of an hour 
(Who thus would comprehend creative power),
Why worlds were made, why man was formed at all,
Or crimeless once, permitted then to fall,
The why, the wherefore, boots not us to know,
Enough that God ordained it to be so.
Go thou, and cull the simplest flower that blows,
The hillside daisy or the wilding rose,
And tell me why so bright their hues appear,
Why they return with each revolving year;
Or how, when countless worlds are all in bloom,
O'er every bud is breathed its own perfume.
Yes, solve me this, and I'll believe with thee,
'Twas meant that man should doubt all mystery.
Presumptuous worm! enough to know is given 
'Tis fearful meddling with the things of Heaven;
Its sacred mysteries belong alone
To Him whose paths are awful and unknown;
Who wings the storm, or whispers "Peace, be still;"
Cradling to rest the mountain wave at will;
Who for our souls his Son a ransom gave,
And guards "his fold" from childhood to the grave.
Confess, proud man, all his known ways are just,
And what thou canst not fathom "learn to trust."
Lament VIII
by Jan Kochanowski

Thou hast made all the house an empty thing,
Dear Ursula, by this thy vanishing.
Though we are here, 'tis yet a vacant place,
One little soul had filled so great a space.
For thou didst sing thy joyousness to all,
Running through every nook of house and hall.
Thou wouldst not have thy mother grieve, nor let
Thy father with too solemn thinking fret
His head, but thou must kiss them, daughter mine,
And all with that entrancing laugh of thine!
Now on the house has fallen a dumb blight:
Thou wilt not come with archness and delight,
But every corner lodges lurking grief
And all in vain the heart would seek relief.
The Bedman, Or Gravemaker.
by Robert Herrick

Thou hast made many houses for the dead;
When my lot calls me to be buried,
For love or pity, prithee let there be
I' th' churchyard made one tenement for me.
Lament IV
by Jan Kochanowski

Thou hast constrained mine eyes, unholy Death,
To watch my dear child breathe her dying breath:
To watch thee shake the fruit unripe and clinging
While fear and grief her parents' hearts were wringing.
Ah, never, never could my well-loved child
Have died and left her father reconciled:
Never but with a heart like heavy lead
Could I have watched her go, abandoned.
And yet at no time could her death have brought
More cruel ache than now, nor bitterer thought;
For had God granted to her ample days
I might have walked with her down flowered ways
And left this life at last, content, descending
To realms of dark Persephone, the all-ending,
Without such grievous sorrow in my heart,
Of which earth holdeth not the counterpart.
I marvel not that Niobe, alone
Amid her dear, dead children, turned to stone.
May.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

Thou comest to the year,
And bringest all things beautiful and sweet;
Thy lovely miracles themselves repeat
In the green glory of the grass,
And peeping flowers that stay our lingering feet
With their soft eyes, blue like the sky and clear;
Thou bringest not, alas,
Our lily, our May-blossom, O New Year!
Thou bringest all things fair,
And bright, and gentle, but thou bring'st not her:
The May-birds warble, and May breezes stir
In the sweet-scented lilac boughs;
But our one May--our gentlest minister
Of gladness, with the beauty of her hair.
Her place in our still house
Is empty,--and the world is bleak and bare.
The Old Ash Tree.
by Susanna Moodie

Thou beautiful Ash! thou art lowly laid,
And my eyes shall hail no more
From afar thy cool and refreshing shade,
When the toilsome journey's o'er.
The winged and the wandering tribes of air
A home 'mid thy foliage found,
But thy graceful boughs, all broken and bare,
The wild winds are scattering round.
The storm-demon sent up his loudest shout
When he levelled his bolt at thee,
When thy massy trunk and thy branches stout
Were riven by the blast, old tree!
It has bowed to the dust thy stately form,
Which for many an age defied
The rush and the roar of the midnight storm,
When it swept through thy branches wide.
I have gazed on thee with a fond delight
In childhood's happier day,
And watched the moonbeams of a summer night
Through thy quivering branches play.
I have gathered the ivy wreaths that bound
Thy old fantastic roots,
And wove the wild flowers that blossomed round
With spring's first tender shoots.
And when youth with its glowing visions came,
Thou wert still my favourite seat;
And the ardent dreams of future fame
Were formed at thy hoary feet.
Farewell--farewell--the wintry wind
Has waged unsparing war on thee,
And only pictured on my mind
Remains thy form, time-honoured tree!
Wedding-Hymn.
by Sidney Lanier

Thou God, whose high, eternal Love
Is the only blue sky of our life,
Clear all the Heaven that bends above
The life-road of this man and wife.
May these two lives be but one note
In the world's strange-sounding harmony,
Whose sacred music e'er shall float
Through every discord up to Thee.
As when from separate stars two beams
Unite to form one tender ray:
As when two sweet but shadowy dreams
Explain each other in the day:
So may these two dear hearts one light
Emit, and each interpret each.
Let an angel come and dwell to-night
In this dear double-heart, and teach!
Macon, Georgia, September, 1865.
Chop-Cherry.
by Robert Herrick

Thou gav'st me leave to kiss,
Thou gav'st me leave to woo;
Thou mad'st me think, by this
And that, thou lov'dst me too.
But I shall ne'er forget
How, for to make thee merry,
Thou mad'st me chop, but yet
Another snapp'd the cherry.
Second Ode.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Thou go'st! I murmur 
Go! let me murmur.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!
Deadly marshes,
Steaming mists of October
Here interweave their currents,
Blending for ever.
Noisome insects
Here are engender'd;
Fatal darkness
Veils their malice.
The fiery-tongued serpent,
Hard by the sedgy bank,
Stretches his pamper'd body,
Caress'd by the sun's bright beams.
Tempt no gentle night-rambles
Under the moon's cold twilight!
Loathsome toads hold their meetings
Yonder at every crossway.
Injuring not,
Fear will they cause thee.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!
Another. (Upon M. Ben. Jonson. Epig.)
by Robert Herrick

Thou had'st the wreath before, now take the tree,
That henceforth none be laurel-crown'd but thee.
Thou Bidst Me Sing.
by Thomas Moore

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.
Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.
The Sonnets CXXXVII - Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
by William Shakespeare

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.
The Wood Fairy's Well.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,
And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.
Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers,
Of forms full of beauty - of perfumes most rare,
Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary,
No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"
"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness,
My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove,
That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness
Who first taught my young heart the power of love.
He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer
With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.
I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise,
But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?"
"Yes, simple and trusting - ah! child, the old story!
Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget?
Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly,
Ere this he's forgotten that ever you met;
But, methought, as I watch'd thee to-day slowly treading
With step full of sadness yon green shady dell,
Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure,
Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy's Well?"
"No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface,
I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled,
That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising,
Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed;
And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better,
E'en though I might grieve to my heart's inmost core,
That he should forget than, returning to seek me,
Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more."
"What! love thee no more! - say, to love thee forever!
See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side,
Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor,
To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!"
Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden,
The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown,
Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden,
With faith still unshaken and true as her own.
To M. C. N.
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Thou hast no wealth, nor any pride of power,
Thy life is offered on affection's altar.
Small sacrifices claim thee, hour by hour,
Yet on the tedious path thou dost not falter.
To the unknowing, well thy days might seem
Circled by solitude and tireless duty,
Yet is thy soul made radiant by a dream
Of delicate and rainbow-coloured beauty.
Never a flower trembles in the wind,
Never a sunset lingers on the sea,
But something of its fragrance joins thy mind,
Some sparkle of its light remains with thee.
Thus when thy spirit enters on its rest,
Thy lips shall say, "I too have known the best!"
To The Memory Of Charles B. Storrs
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Thou hast fallen in thine armor,
Thou martyr of the Lord
With thy last breath crying "Onward!"
And thy hand upon the sword.
The haughty heart derideth,
And the sinful lip reviles,
But the blessing of the perishing
Around thy pillow smiles!
When to our cup of trembling
The added drop is given,
And the long-suspended thunder
Falls terribly from Heaven,
When a new and fearful freedom
Is proffered of the Lord
To the slow-consuming Famine,
The Pestilence and Sword!
When the refuges of Falsehood
Shall be swept away in wrath,
And the temple shall be shaken,
With its idol, to the earth,
Shall not thy words of warning
Be all remembered then?
And thy now unheeded message
Burn in the hearts of men?
Oppression's hand may scatter
Its nettles on thy tomb,
And even Christian bosoms
Deny thy memory room;
For lying lips shall torture
Thy mercy into crime,
And the slanderer shall flourish
As the bay-tree for a time.
But where the south-wind lingers
On Carolina's pines,
Or falls the careless sunbeam
Down Georgia's golden mines;
Where now beneath his burthen
The toiling slave is driven;
Where now a tyrant's mockery
Is offered unto Heaven;
Where Mammon hath its altars
Wet o'er with human blood,
And pride and lust debases
The workmanship of God,
There shall thy praise be spoken,
Redeemed from Falsehood's ban,
When the fetters shall be broken,
And the slave shall be a man!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!
A thousand hearts are warm,
A thousand kindred bosoms
Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence
With secret Fraud combine?
The wall of fire is round us,
Our Present Help was thine.
Lo, the waking up of nations,
From Slavery's fatal sleep;
The murmur of a Universe,
Deep calling unto Deep!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!
On every wind of heaven
The onward cheer and summons
Of Freedom's voice is given!
Glory to God forever!
Beyond the despot's will
The soul of Freedom liveth
Imperishable still.
The words which thou hast uttered
Are of that soul a part,
And the good seed thou hast scattered
Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us,
And the trials yet to come,
In the shadow of the prison,
Or the cruel martyrdom,
We will think of thee, O brother!
And thy sainted name shall be
In the blessing of the captive,
And the anthem of the free.
Sleep
by James Whitcomb Riley

Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink
Muse on me, drifting out upon thy dreams,
I lave my soul as in enchanted streams
Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink,
And tipsy with the melody they drink,
Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams
Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems
An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink
Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly,
Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine,
And siren-arms that coil their sorcery
About my neck, with kisses so divine,
The heavens reel above me, and the sea
Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.
To The Cannon "Victor Hugo."
by Victor-Marie Hugo

[Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Ch'timents" during the Siege of Paris.]
[1872.]
Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse,
Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart,
And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart!
Hymn For The Class-Meeting
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Thou Gracious Power, whose mercy lends
The light of home, the smile of friends,
Our gathered flock thine arms infold
As in the peaceful days of old.
Wilt thou not hear us while we raise,
In sweet accord of solemn praise,
The voices that have mingled long
In joyous flow of mirth and song?
For all the blessings life has brought,
For all its sorrowing hours have taught,
For all we mourn, for all we keep,
The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep;
The noontide sunshine of the past,
These brief, bright moments fading fast,
The stars that gild our darkening years,
The twilight ray from holier spheres;
We thank thee, Father! let thy grace
Our narrowing circle still embrace,
Thy mercy shed its heavenly store,
Thy peace be with us evermore!