DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Gelert
by R. C. Lehmann

Tested and staunch through many a changing year,
Gelert, his master's faithful hound, lies here.
Humble in friendship, but in service proud,
He gave to man whate'er his lot allowed;
And, rich in love, on each well-trusted friend
Spent all his wealth and still had more to spend.
Now, reft beyond the unfriendly Stygian tide,
For these he yearns and has no wish beside.
Thank God For Little Children.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Thank God for little children,
Bright flowers by earth's wayside,
The dancing, joyous lifeboats
Upon life's stormy tide.
Thank God for little children;
When our skies are cold and gray,
They come as sunshine to our hearts,
And charm our cares away.
I almost think the angels,
Who tend life's garden fair,
Drop down the sweet wild blossoms
That bloom around us here.
It seems a breath of heaven
Round many a cradle lies,
And every little baby
Brings a message from the skies.
Dear mothers, guard these jewels.
As sacred offerings meet,
A wealth of household treasures
To lay at Jesus' feet.
November Skies
by John Frederick Freeman

Than these November skies
Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;
Into their gray the subtle spies
Of colour creep,
Changing that high austerity to delight,
Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.
And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers
Ere a thin flushing cloud again
Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.
The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as
Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,
Holding in bright caprice their rain.
And when of colours none,
Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,
Is truly seen,--
In all the myriad gray,
In silver height and dusky deep, remain
The loveliest,
Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
A Lucky Dog.
by John Hartley

Tha'rt a rough en; - aye tha art, - an aw'll bet
Just as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet,
Aw can tell.
Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead;
Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead,
Like mysel.
Tha'rt noa beauty; - nivver wor; - nivver will;
Ther's lots like thee amang men, - but then still,
Sich is fate;
An its fooilish for to be discontent
At a thing we've noa paar to prevent.
That's true mate.
Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell;
If tha'rt seekin better luck, - its a sell,
As tha'll find;
Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet,
Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet.
Nivver mind.
Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part, - 
Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art;
That's thy share.
Are ta chooakin? Sarve thi reight! Tak thi time!
Why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime.
Aw declare.
Are ta lukkin for some mooar? Tha's a cheek
Tha mud nivver had a taste for a week,
Tha'rt soa small;
Aw've net tasted sin this nooin, - soa tha knows!
Thi maath watters, - awm a fooil, - but here gooas,
Tak it all.
Tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believe
Tha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give,
But it's done.
Are ta lost? Aw'll tell thi what tha'd best do
Draand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two,
Just for fun.
Come, heead or tail? If its heead then its thee,
But net furst time, - we'll have two aght o' three, - 
One to me.
Nah, it's tail, - one an one, - -fairly tost, - 
If its tail a second time, then aw've lost;
Two to thee.
Soa it's sattled, an tha's won; - aw've to dee,
But aw think it weant meean mich to thee
If aw dull;
For if awm poor, life is still sweet to all,
Deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call,
Sooin enuff.
Aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet,
Aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet
Aw expect.
If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog,
Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog,
Recollect.
Terminus
by Edgar Lee Masters

Terminus shows the ways and says,
"All things must have an end."
Oh, bitter thought we hid away
When first you were my friend.
We hid it in the darkest place
Our hearts had place to hide,
And took the sweet as from a spring
Whose waters would abide.
For neither life nor the wide world
Has greater store than this: - 
The thought that runs through hands and eyes
And fills the silences.
There is a void the ag'd world
Throws over the spent heart;
When Life has given all she has,
And Terminus says depart.
When we must sit with folded hands,
And see with inward eye
A void rise like an arctic breath
To hollow the morrow's sky.
To-morrow is, and trembling leaves,
And 'wildered winds from Thrace
Look for you where your face has bloomed,
And where may bloom your face.
Beyond the city, over the hill,
Under the anguished moon,
The winds and my dreams seek after you
By meadow, water and dune.
All things must have an end, we know;
But oh, the dreaded end;
Whether in life, whether in death,
To lose the cherished friend.
To lose in life the cherished friend,
While the myrtle tree is green;
To live and have the cherished friend
With only the world between.
With only the wide, wide world between,
Where memory has mortmain.
Life pours more wine in the heart of man
Than the heart of man can contain.
Oh, heart of man and heart of woman,
Thirsting for blood of the vine,
Life waits till the heart has lived too much
And then pours in new wine!
Still True To Nell.
by John Hartley

Th' sun wor settin, - red an gold,
Wi splendor paintin th' west,
An purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd,
As daan he sank to rest.
Yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav
A world soa sweet an fair,
Wol silent burds a pathway cleave,
Throo th' still an slumb'rin air.
Aw stroll'd along a country rooad,
Hedged in wi thorn an vine;
Which wild flower scents an shadows broad,
Converted to a shrine.
As twileet's deeper curtains fell
Aw sat mi daan an sighed;
Mi thowts went back to th' time when Nell,
Had rambled bi mi side.
Aw seemed to hear her voice agean,
Soft whisperin i' mi ear,
Recallin things 'at once had been,
When th' futur all wor clear.
When love, - pure, honest, youthful love
Had left us nowt to crave;
An fancies full ov bliss we wove; - 
Alas! Nell's in her grave.
Oh, Nell! I' that fair hooam ov thine,
Whear all is breet an pure, - -
Say, - is ther room for love like mine?
Can earthborn love endure?
Do angels' hearts past vows renew,
To mortals here who dwell?
It must be soa; - if my heart's true,
Aw cannot daat thee, Nell.
It's weel we cannot see beyond
That curtain Deeath lets fall;
Lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond,
Should be denied us all.
Better to live i' hooap nor fear, - 
'Tis Mercy plan'd it soa;
For if my Nelly isn't thear,
Aw shouldn't care to goa.
To a Roadside Flower.
by John Hartley

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined
To tak thee wi' me:
But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind,
Tha'd ne'er forgie me;
For i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee,
An life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee.
Here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish,
Whear scoors may pass thee;
Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish
May stop an bless thee:
Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty!
Sent here to bless: Smile on - tha does thi duty.
Aw wodn't rob another of a joy
Sich as tha's gien me;
For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy
Until aw'd seen thee.
An may each passin, careworn, lowly brother,
Feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another.
Thank God for Pleasant Weather.
by George Pope Morris

Thank God for pleasant weather!
Chant it, merry rills!
And clap your hands together,
Ye exulting hills!
Thank Him, teeming valley!
Thank Him, fruitful plain!
For the golden sunshine,
And the silver rain.
Thank God, of good the giver!
Shout it, sportive breeze!
Respond, oh, tuneful river!
To the nodding tees.
Thank Him, bud and birdling!
As ye grow and sing!
Mingle in thanksgiving
Every living thing!
Thank God, with cheerful spirit,
In a glow of love,
For what we here inherit,
And our hopes above!--
Universal Nature
Revels in her birth,
When God, in pleasant weather,
Smiles upon the earth!
Ternissa! you are fled!
by Walter Savage Landor

Ternissa! you are fled!
I say not to the dead,
But to the happy ones who rest below:
For, surely, surely, where
Your voice and graces are,
Nothing of death can any feel or know.
Girls who delight to dwell
Where grows most asphodel,
Gather to their calm breasts each word you speak:
The mild Persephone
Places you on her knee,
And your cool palm smooths down stern Pluto's cheek.
For Annie
by Edgar Allan Poe

Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last,
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length,
But no matter! I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead,
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness- the nausea,
The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain,
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated, the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:-
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground,
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed,
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses,
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies,
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies,
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie,
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast,
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm,
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead,
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead,
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie,
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie,
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Thank God For Peace!
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

JUNE, 1902
Thank God for Peace!
Up to the sombre sky
Rolled one great thankful sigh,
Rolled one great gladsome cry--
The soul's deliverance of a mighty people.
Thank God for Peace!
The long-low-hanging war-cloud rolled away,
And night glowed brighter than the brightest day.
For Peace is Light,
And War is grimmer than the Night.
Thank God for Peace!
Great ocean, was your mighty calm unstirred
As through your depths, unseen, unheard,
Sped on its way the glorious word
That called a weary nation to ungird,
And sheathed once more the keen, reluctant sword?
Thank God for Peace!
The word came to us as we knelt in prayer
That wars might cease.
Peace found us on our knees, and prayer for Peace
Was changed to prayer of deepest thankfulness.
We knelt in War, we rose in Peace to bless
Thy grace, Thy care, Thy tenderness.
Thank God for Peace!
No matter now the rights and wrongs of it;
You fought us bravely, and we fought you fair.
The fight is done. Grip hands! No malice bear!
We greet you, brothers, to the nobler strife
Of building up the newer, larger life!
Join hands! Join hands! Ye nations of the stock!
And make henceforth a mighty Trust for Peace.
A great enduring peace that shall withstand
The shocks of time and circumstance; and every land
Shall rise and bless you--and shall never cease
To bless you--for that glorious gift of Peace.
Thank God For Life
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thank God for life, in such an age as this,
Rich with the promises of better things.
Thank God for being part of this great nation's heart,
Whose strong pulsations are not ruled by kings.
Our thanks for fearless and protesting speech
When cloven hoofs show 'neath the robes of state.
For us no servile song of 'Kings can do no wrong.'
Not royal birth, but worth, makes rulers great.
Thank God for peace within our border lands,
And for the love of peace within each soul.
Who thinks on peace has wrought, mosaic-squares of thought
In the foundation of our future goal.
Our thanks for love, and knowledge of love's laws.
Love is a greater power than vested might.
Love is the central source of all enduring force.
Love is the law that sets the whole world right.
Our thanks for that increasing torch of light
The tireless hand of science holds abroad.
And may its growing blaze shine on all hidden ways
Till man beholds the silhouette of God.
On Hearing The Nightingale
by Thomas Oldham

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!
O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost
As in a blissful dream! how has my soul
Been wafted in a sea of melody!
Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:
Still with the enchanting music's dying breath
The air is kept in motion, and conveys
Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;
Or is it but an echo from the cell
Of memory that deludes my doating sense?
Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,
And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;
But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,
More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd
With the departed soul of harmony.
Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves
All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd
Its anxious throbbings, and removed the load
Of sadness that oppress'd the springs of life:
More lightly now it beats, and welcomes back
The glowing tide of health, and conscious feels
The blessing of existence. It imparts
To all my frame reanimating force;
My nerves partake of its elastic spring;
No longer falsely sentient, they receive
The just impression from external things,
Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch,
And in her general concert bear a part.
Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!
How by the magic influence of thy song,
How am I changed from what, of late, I was!
And every object, too, how seems it changed!
This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'd
To Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy,
Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood,
The Goddess loved to dwell; 'twas lonesome gloom,
And awful stillness all: I felt her power;
The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'd
With a mysterious load of shapeless feeling:
Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart;
Upon the ground I sank, scarce sensible,
And buried, as it were, in conscious death.
With what soft influence, what resistless power,
Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!
Insinuate itself into my ear,
Melting its dull unwillingness to listen,
And opening soon a passage to my heart!
But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!
O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!
See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night,
Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws,
And pays thee with a smile of gratitude;
A smile that to her beauty adds new charms,
Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy,
Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head,
And, gazing on her tutelary Power
With eyes reflecting soft her dewy light,
Feels her divinest inspiration steal
Into her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.
My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.
Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!
Long on this night shall grateful memory doat;
And oft to this loved wood will I return.
Thanksgiving.
by Robert Herrick

Thanksgiving for a former, doth invite
God to bestow a second benefit.
Love An' Labor.
by John Hartley

Th' swallows are buildin ther nests, Jenny,
Th' springtime has come with its flowers;
Th' fields in ther greenest are drest, Jenny,
An th' songsters mak music ith' bowers.
Daisies an buttercups smile, Jenny,
Laughingly th' brook flows along; - 
An awm havin a smook set oth' stile, Jenny,
But this bacca's uncommonly strong.
Aw wonder if thy heart like mine, Jenny,
Finds its love-burden hard to be borne;
Do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, Jenny,
As they glistened an shone yestermorn?
Ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, Jenny,
Aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate; - 
But aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, Jenny,
For aw can't live baght summat to ait.
Like a nightingale if aw could sing, Jenny,
Aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet,
An mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, Jenny,
An lull thi to rest soft an sweet.
Or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, Jenny,
Aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish; - 
But theas porridge are salty as brine, Jenny,
An they'll mak me as dry as a fish.
A garland ov lillies aw'd twine, Jenny,
An place on thy curls golden bright,
But aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, Jenny,
I' despair at thy brow's purer white.
Them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, Jenny,
Wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt; - 
But yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, Jenny,
Aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt.
Varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, Jenny,
An awr cot shall a paradise be;
Tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, Jenny,
If aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee.
If ther's happiness this side oth' grave, Jenny,
Tha shall sewerly come in for thi share; - 
An aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, Jenny,
When aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare.
The Peace Autumn
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Thank God for rest, where none molest,
And none can make afraid;
For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest
Beneath the homestead shade!
Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge,
The negro's broken chains,
And beat them at the blacksmith's forge
To ploughshares for our plains.
Alike henceforth our hills of snow,
And vales where cotton flowers;
All streams that flow, all winds that blow,
Are Freedom's motive-powers.
Henceforth to Labor's chivalry
Be knightly honors paid;
For nobler than the sword's shall be
The sickle's accolade.
Build up an altar to the Lord,
O grateful hearts of ours!
And shape it of the greenest sward
That ever drank the showers.
Lay all the bloom of gardens there,
And there the orchard fruits;
Bring golden grain from sun and air,
From earth her goodly roots.
There let our banners droop and flow,
The stars uprise and fall;
Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow,
Let sighing breezes call.
Their names let hands of horn and tan
And rough-shod feet applaud,
Who died to make the slave a man,
And link with toil reward.
There let the common heart keep time
To such an anthem sung
As never swelled on poet's rhyme,
Or thrilled on singer's tongue.
Song of our burden and relief,
Of peace and long annoy;
The passion of our mighty grief
And our exceeding joy!
A song of praise to Him who filled
The harvests sown in years,
And gave each field a double yield
To feed our battle-years!
A song of faith that trusts the end
To match the good begun,
Nor doubts the power of Love to blend
The hearts of men as one
Jackson. A Sonnet.
by Margaret J. Preston

Thank God for such a Hero! - Fearless hold
His diamond character beneath the sun,
And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
Diviner courage: never martyr knew
Trust more sublime, - nor patriot, zeal more true, - 
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim, - 
Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - LXII
by Alfred Edward Housman

"Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.
There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
-I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
Jones's Private Argyment.
by Sidney Lanier

That air same Jones, which lived in Jones,
He had this pint about him:
He'd swear with a hundred sighs and groans,
That farmers MUST stop gittin' loans,
And git along without 'em:
That bankers, warehousemen, and sich
Was fatt'nin' on the planter,
And Tennessy was rotten-rich
A-raisin' meat and corn, all which
Draw'd money to Atlanta:
And the only thing (says Jones) to do
Is, eat no meat that's boughten:
`But tear up every I, O, U,
And plant all corn and swear for true
To quit a-raisin' cotton!'
Thus spouted Jones (whar folks could hear,
- At Court and other gatherin's),
And thus kep' spoutin' many a year,
Proclaimin' loudly far and near
Sich fiddlesticks and blatherin's.
But, one all-fired sweatin' day,
It happened I was hoein'
My lower corn-field, which it lay
'Longside the road that runs my way
Whar I can see what's goin'.
And a'ter twelve o'clock had come
I felt a kinder faggin',
And laid myself un'neath a plum
To let my dinner settle sum,
When 'long come Jones's waggin,
And Jones was settin' in it, SO:
A-readin' of a paper.
His mules was goin' powerful slow,
Fur he had tied the lines onto
The staple of the scraper.
The mules they stopped about a rod
From me, and went to feedin'
'Longside the road, upon the sod,
But Jones (which he had tuck a tod)
Not knowin', kept a-readin'.
And presently says he: "Hit's true;
That Clisby's head is level.
Thar's one thing farmers all must do,
To keep themselves from goin' tew
Bankruptcy and the devil!
"More corn! more corn! MUST plant less ground,
And MUSTN'T eat what's boughten!
Next year they'll do it: reasonin's sound:
(And, cotton will fetch 'bout a dollar a pound),
THARFORE, I'LL plant ALL cotton!"
Macon, Georgia, 1870.
The Resurrection.
by Robert Herrick

That Christ did die, the pagan saith;
But that He rose, that's Christians' faith.