DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Freemen
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Let no man stand between my God and me!
I claim a Free man's right
Of intercourse direct with Him,
Who gave me Freedom with the air and light.
God made me free.--
Let no man stand between
Me and my liberty!
We need no priest to tell us God is Love.--
Have we not eyes to see,
And minds to apprehend, and hearts
That leap responsive to His Charity?
God's gifts are free.--
Let no man stand between
Us and His liberty!
We need no priest to point a way to heaven.--
God's heaven is here,--is there,--
Man's birthright, with the light and air,--
"God is His own and best interpreter."
His ways are free.--
Let no man stand between
Us and His liberty!
Let no man strive to rob us of this right!
For this, from age to age,
Our fathers did a mighty warfare wage,
And, by God's help, we'll keep our heritage!
God says--"Be Free!"
And we,--
"NO MAN SHALL STAND BETWEEN
OUR SONS AND LIBERTY!"
Only a Story
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

Let me tell you a story, dear,
Of someone I saw to-day,
Only a man with a pale worn face,
And auburn locks grown gray,
One, I thought would never again,
Come over my pathway here,
One, I still hope to meet forgiven,
In a better brighter sphere.
Why did you start, he knew me, yes,
A flush as of pain, or pride,
Pass'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face,
And the high white forehead dyed,
I heard the roll of carriage wheels,
Unthinkingly raised my eyes,
One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows,
Like lightening across the skies.
Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves,
Not I in my lonely life,
I have a calm bright future now,
He? well, he has gold and strife,
They say that oft by the heaving lake,
He wanders about alone,
Waves that dash on the sandy beach,
Answer his throbbing heart's moan.
Once or twice has been heard a name
As if wrung with torturous pain,
From lips to sacred silence sworn,
Told only to storms and rain.
He leaves the light of gilded halls,
To clasp in the midnight air,
Some flowers that faded years ago,
One lock of a girl's dark hair.
Ask me not with those pleading eyes,
If I dream about him yet;
Is anything colder to your touch,
Than ashes with rain-drops wet?
What is harder to kindle up,
Than lava grown black and cold,
That once from burning mountain's heart,
In fiery grandeur rolled.
Pity him, pray for him, that is well,
Married for jewels and gold,
Vipers crawl from the caskets bright,
And they keep his fingers cold.
Only a flush of pain or pride,
When to-day our glances met,
He in his gorgeous wealth arrayed,
I, out in the cold and wet.
Hush; as we sow we surely reap,
Yes, he has a wife and gold,
Broad lands, a mansion white and tall
Like an iceberg grand and cold,
I? I've the blessings of the poor,
Which fall like the gentle dew,
I've claims on mansions far away,
I have life, and love, and you.
Our Own Again.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

I.
Let the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride--
Here's for our own again!
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy--
Yet we'll have our own again!
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne:
Let him come with bugles blown--
We shall have our own again!
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again!
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again!
II.
Send the cry throughout the land,
"Who's for our own again?"
Summon all men to our band,--
Why not our own again?
Rich and poor, and old and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue,
Soul and sinew firmly strung--
All to get our own again!
Brothers strive by brotherhood--
Trees in a stormy wood--
Riches come from Nationhood--
Sha'n't we have our own again?
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!
Join for our own again--
Tyrants rob as well as reign--
We'll have our own again!
III.
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,
"Rise for our own again!"
Often passed the signal word,
"Strike for our own again!"
Rudely, rashly, and untaught,
Uprose they, ere they ought,
Failing, though they nobly fought--
Dying for their own again!
Mind will rule and muscle yield
In senate, ship, and field:
When we've skill our strength to wield,
Let us take our own again!
By the slave his chain is wrought--
Strive for our own again.
Thunder is less strong than thought--
We'll have our own again!
IV.
Calm as granite to our foes,
Stand for our own again;
Till his wrath to madness grows,
Firm for our own again.
Bravely hope, and wisely wait,
Toil, join, and educate;
Man is master of his fate;
We'll enjoy our own again!
With a keen constrained thirst--
Powder's calm ere it burst--
Making ready for the worst--
So we'll get our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again!
God is on the righteous side,
We'll have our own again!
Laudabunt Alii
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

(After Horace)
Let others praise, as fancy wills,
Berlin beneath her trees,
Or Rome upon her seven hills,
Or Venice by her seas;
Stamboul by double tides embraced,
Or green Damascus in the waste.
For me there's nought I would not leave
For the good Devon land,
Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve
Bedewed with spray-drift stand,
And hardly bear the red fruit up
That shall be next year's cider-cup.
You too, my friend, may wisely mark
How clear skies follow rain,
And, lingering in your own green park
Or drilled on Laffan's Plain,
Forget not with the festal bowl
To soothe at times your weary soul.
When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe
Good-bye for many a day,
And some were sad and feared to go,
And some that dared not stay,
Be sure he bade them broach the best,
And raised his tankard with the rest.
"Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake
For promised lands of gold!
Brave lads, whatever storms may break,
We've weathered worse of old!
To-night the loving-cup we'll drain,
To-morrow for the Spanish Main!"
A Ballade of Home
by Enid Derham

Let others prate of Greece and Rome,
And towns where they may never be,
The muse should wander nearer home.
My country is enough for me;
Her wooded hills that watch the sea,
Her inland miles of springing corn,
At Macedon or Barrakee,
I love the land where I was born.
On Juliet smile the autumn stars
And windswept plains by Winchelsea,
In summer on their sandy bars
Her rivers loiter languidly.
Where singing waters fall and flee
The gullied ranges dip to Lorne
With musk and gum and myrtle tree,
I love the land where I was born.
The wild things in her tangles move
As blithe as fauns in Sicily,
Where Melbourne rises roof by roof
The tall ships serve her at the quay,
And hers the yoke of liberty
On stalwart shoulders lightly worn,
Where thought and speech and prayer are free,
I love the land where I was born.
Princes and lords of high degree,
Smile, and we fling you scorn for scorn,
In hope and faith and memory
I love the land where I was born.
On the Building of Springfield
by Vachel Lindsay

Let not our town be large, remembering
That little Athens was the Muses' home,
That Oxford rules the heart of London still,
That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.
Record it for the grandson of your son - 
A city is not builded in a day:
Our little town cannot complete her soul
Till countless generations pass away.
Now let each child be joined as to a church
To her perpetual hopes, each man ordained:
Let every street be made a reverent aisle
Where Music grows and Beauty is unchained.
Let Science and Machinery and Trade
Be slaves of her, and make her all in all,
Building against our blatant, restless time
An unseen, skilful, medieval wall.
Let every citizen be rich toward God.
Let Christ the beggar, teach divinity.
Let no man rule who holds his money dear.
Let this, our city, be our luxury.
We should build parks that students from afar
Would choose to starve in, rather than go home,
Fair little squares, with Phidian ornament,
Food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb.
Songs shall be sung by us in that good day,
Songs we have written, blood within the rhyme
Beating, as when Old England still was glad, - 
The purple, rich Elizabethan time.
.        .        .        .        .
Say, is my prophecy too fair and far?
I only know, unless her faith be high,
The soul of this, our Nineveh, is doomed,
Our little Babylon will surely die.
Some city on the breast of Illinois
No wiser and no better at the start
By faith shall rise redeemed, by faith shall rise
Bearing the western glory in her heart.
The genius of the Maple, Elm and Oak,
The secret hidden in each grain of corn,
The glory that the prairie angels sing
At night when sons of Life and Love are born,
Born but to struggle, squalid and alone,
Broken and wandering in their early years.
When will they make our dusty streets their goal,
Within our attics hide their sacred tears?
When will they start our vulgar blood athrill
With living language, words that set us free?
When will they make a path of beauty clear
Between our riches and our liberty?
We must have many Lincoln-hearted men.
A city is not builded in a day.
And they must do their work, and come and go
While countless generations pass away.
Posting To Printing
by Robert Herrick

Let others to the printing-press run fast;
Since after death comes glory, I'll not haste.
Lay Of The Spring.
by James McIntyre

Let others sing their favourite lay,
From early morn till close of day,
More useful themes engage our pen,
We sing the lay of our good hen.
For she doth lay each morn an egg,
And it is full and large and big,
Abroad she doth never travel,
Happy she when scratching gravel.
And she loud cackles songs of praise
Every morn when e'er she lays,
Proud she is when she finds pickings
For to feed her brood of chickens.
It greatly puzzled her one day
When she found white nest egg of clay,
She knew some one did trick play her,
For she was no brick layer.
Vain and stately male bird stalks,
Leading his hens along the walks,
Proudly each feather in his tail
Makes rival roosters for to quail.
Our muse now soars on feathery wing,
And cheerful it doth hail the spring,
Bringing the sunshine and showers,
Green grass and buds and leafy bowers.
So pleasant is the month of May,
When bushes shoot out blooming spray,
'Ere spring we're tired of winter's white,
Spring's varied colours do delight.
My Religion
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
From all these I differ'truly wise is my plan,
With my doctrine, perhaps, you'll agree,
To be upright and downright and act like a man,
That's the religion for me.
I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
To see a white shirt on a preacher.
And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
To injure a poor fellow-creature.
For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
Their hands must be greased by a fee;
But with the poor toiler to share your last 'toke'*
That's the religion for me.
[Footnote: 'Toke' is a slang word for bread.]
Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
They can't deceive God with their blarney;
They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
But let man unto man like brethren act,
My doctrine this suits to a T,
The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
Oh, that's the religion for me.
O Germany, Pale Mother!
by Bertolt Brecht

Let others speak of her shame,
I speak of my own.
O Germany, pale mother!
How soiled you are
As you sit among the peoples.
You flaunt yourself
Among the besmirched.
The poorest of your sons
Lies struck down.
When his hunger was great.
Your other sons
Raised their hands against him.
This is notorious.
With their hands thus raised,
Raised against their brother,
They march insolently around you
And laugh in your face.
This is well known.
In your house
Lies are roared aloud.
But the truth
Must be silent.
Is it so?
Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere,
The oppressed accuse you?
The plundered
Point to you with their fingers, but
The plunderer praises the system
That was invented in your house!
Whereupon everyone sees you
Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody
With the blood
Of your best sons.
Hearing the harangues which echo from your house,
men laugh.
But whoever sees you reaches for a knife
As at the approach of a robber.
O Germany, pale mother!
How have your sons arrayed you
That you sit among the peoples
A thing of scorn and fear!
Inscription
by Herman Melville

For Graves at Pea Ridge, Arkansas
Let none misgive we died amiss
When here we strove in furious fight:
Furious it was; nathless was this
Better than tranquil plight,
And tame surrender of the Cause
Hallowed by hearts and by the laws.
We here who warred for Man and Right,
The choice of warring never laid with us.
There we were ruled by the traitor's choice.
Nor long we stood to trim and poise,
But marched and fell--victorious!
Moderation.
by Robert Herrick

Let moderation on thy passions wait;
Who loves too much, too much the lov'd will hate.
Songs Set To Music: 5. Set By Mr. De Fesch
by Matthew Prior

Let perjured fair Amynta know
What for her sake I undergo;
Tell her, for her how I sustain
A lingering fever's wasting pain;
Tell her the torments I endure,
Which only, only she can cure.
But, oh! she scorns to hear or see
The wretch that lies so low as me;
Her sudden greatness turns her brain,
And Strephon hopes, alas! in vain;
For ne'er 'twas found (though often tried)
That Pity ever dwelt with Pride.
The Farmer.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Let nations encircle the brows of the brave
With glory the greatest that glitters below,
Who make in the blood of the battle a grave
For all that are found in the ranks of the foe;
But I from the greatness, the grandeur, and gleam,
Would turn to the light of clear-glowing hearth,
And choose from his joy for the soul of my theme
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
Let millions give worship to riches and wealth,
That gay in their brilliancy sparkle and gleam,
And serve with the hands of their happiest health
The haughty who idle and revel and dream;
In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave,
Or sickened with sorrow or maddened with mirth,
There's none I shall serve with the will of a slave
But the farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
Let poets in praises heart-swelling and sweet
With rapture that rises in beautiful song,
Make sages immortal and ages replete
With hundreds of heroes who wrestled the wrong;
All honest men well from the Muses may claim
The numbers that murmur to merit and worth,
And so I would fold in the mantles of fame
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
Let orators over the deeds of the great
Re-echo the tributes of tenderest praise,
And over the ashes that slumber in state
Let peoples their marbles and monuments raise;
But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth,
To those who are chained in the bondage of birth,
Would flee to surround with the lilies of truth
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude crown
The friend of the many and foe of the few;
Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone
Whatever a martyr or minion may do;
But down in my bosom while reasonings reign,
Of friendship and love there is never a dearth
For him who is toiling in pleasure or pain,
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
The Phoenix and the Turtle
by William Shakespeare

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near!
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender makest
With the breath thou givest and takest,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
'Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix' sight;
Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together,
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS.
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix' nest
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
Over The Ranges And Into The West
by Henry Lawson

Let others sing praise of their sea-girted isles,
But give me the bush with its limitless miles;
Then it's over the ranges and into the West,
To the scenes of wild boyhood; we love them the best.
We'll ride and we'll ride from the city afar,
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are;
Where stockmen ride hard, and the drover starts forth
On his long, lonely journey 'way up in the North.
When your money is low, and your luck has gone down,
There's no place so lone as the streets of a town;
There's nothing but worry, and dread and unrest,
So we'll over the ranges and into the West.
The drought in the West may spread ruin around,
But the dread drought of life in the city is found;
And I'd far sooner tread on the long dusty way,
Where each one you meet says, 'Good day, mate, good day.'
Morning Meditations.
by Thomas Hood

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying - 
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out - 
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime - 
Only lee long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about, - 
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl;
What then, - if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
"Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?"
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn" - 
Well - he died young.
With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
"All up - all up!"
So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon; - 
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.
A Hero of the Revolution.
by George Pope Morris

Let not a tear be shed!
Of grief give not a token,
Although the silver thread
And golden bowl be broken!
A warrior lived--a Christian died!
Sorrow's forgotten in our pride!
Go, bring his battle-blade,
His helmet and his plume!
And be his trophies laid
Beside him in the tomb,
Where files of time-marked veterans come
With martial tramp and muffled drum!
Give to the earth his frame,
To moulder and decay;
But not his deathless name--
That can not pass away!
In youth, in manhood, and in age,
He dignified his country's page!
Green be the willow-bough
Above the swelling mound,
Where sleeps the hero now
In consecrated ground:
Thy epitaph, O Delavan!
God's noblest work--an honest man!
Inscription for Graves at Pea Ridge, Arkansas.
by Herman Melville

Let none misgive we died amiss
When here we strove in furious fight:
Furious it was; nathless was this
Better than tranquil plight,
And tame surrender of the Cause
Hallowed by hearts and by the laws.
We here who warred for Man and Right,
The choice of warring never laid with us.
There we were ruled by the traitor's choice.
Nor long we stood to trim and poise,
But marched, and fell - victorious!
The Sonnets CV - Let not my love be call'd idolatry
by William Shakespeare

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
The New-Year's Gift
by Robert Herrick

Let others look for pearl and gold,
Tissues, or tabbies manifold:
One only lock of that sweet hay
Whereon the blessed Baby lay,
Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be
The richest New-Year's gift to me.
The Sparrow
by R. C. Lehmann

Let others from the feathered brood
Which through the garden seeks its food
Pick out for a commending word
Each one his own peculiar bird;
Hail the plump tit, or fitly sing
The finch's crest and flashing wing;
Exalt the rook's black satin dress-coat,
The thrush's speckled fancy waistcoat;
Or praise the robin, meek, but sly,
For breast and tail and friendly eye - 
These have their place within my heart;
The sparrow owns the larger part,
And, for no virtues, rules in it,
My reckless cheerful favourite!
Friend sparrow, let the world contemn
Your ways and make a mock of them,
And dub you, if it has a mind,
Low, quarrelsome, and unrefined;
And let it, if it will, pursue
With harsh abuse the troops of you
Who through the orchard and the field
Their busy bills in mischief wield;
Who strip the tilth and bare the tree,
And make the gardener's face to be
Expressive of the words he could,
But must not, utter, though he would
(For gardeners still, where'er they go,
Whate'er they do, in weal or woe,
Through every chance of life retain
Their ancient Puritanic strain;
Tried by the weather they control
Each day their angry human soul,
And, by the sparrow teased, may tear
Their careworn locks, but never swear).
Let us admit - alas,'tis true - 
You are not adequately few;
That half your little life is spent
In furious strife or argument;
Still, though your wickedness must harrow
All feeling souls, I love my sparrow;
Still, though I oft and gravely doubt you,
I really could not do without you.
Your pluck, your wit, your nonchalance,
Your cheerful confidence in chance,
Your darting flight, your bouts of play,
Your chirp, so sociable and gay - 
These, and no beauty soft or striking,
Make up your passport to my liking;
And for your faults I'll still defend you,
My little sparrow, and befriend you.
Once There Was Time
by John Frederick Freeman

Let no tears fall
If then they fell not.
If eyes told nothing,
Now let them tell not.
Once there was time
For words, looks and tears:
That time is past, is past--
Heart, thou shalt tell not!
Beyond any speech
Is silence bitter,
As between love and love
Nothing is sweeter.
Once there was time, time yet
For words, looks and tears ...
Past, past, past, past--
Nothing so bitter!
Now if tears come
That then fell never;
If eyes such sad, sad things
Look now for ever;
If words, looks or tears
Tremble with telling,
Oh, what returning voice is it whispers
Never, never, never!