DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Hohenlinden
by Thomas Campbell

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stain'd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
After Tibullus
by Richard Le Gallienne

Illius est nobis lege colendus amor
On her own terms, O lover, must thou take
The heart's beloved: be she kind, 'tis well,
Cruel, expect no more; not for thy sake
But for the fire in thee that melts her snows
For a brief spell
She loves thee - "loves" thee!    Though thy heart should break,
Though thou shouldst lie athirst for her in hell,
She could not pity thee: who of the Rose,
Or of the Moon, asks pity, or return
Of love for love? and she is even as those.
Beauty is she, thou Love, and thou must learn,
O lover, this:
Thine is she for the music thou canst pour
Through her white limbs, the madness, the deep dream;
Thine, while thy kiss
Can sweep her flaming with thee down the stream
That is not thou nor she but merely bliss;
The music ended, she is thine no more.
In her Eternal Beauty bends o'er thee,
Be thou content;
She is the evening star in thy hushed lake
Mirrored, - be glad;
A soul-less creature of the element,
Nor good, nor bad;
That which thou callest to in the far skies
Comes to thee in her eyes;
That thou mayst slake
Thy love of lilies, lo! her breasts!    Be wise,
Ask not that she, as thou, should human be,
She that doth smell so sweet of distant heaven;
Pity is mortal leaven,
Dews know it not, nor morning on the hills,
And who hath yet found pity of the sea
That blesses, knowing not, and, not knowing, kills;
And sister unto all of these is she,
Whose face, as theirs, none reads; whose heart none knows;
Whose words are as the wind's words, and whose ways,
O lover, learn,
Swerve not, or turn
Aside for prayers, or broken-hearted praise:
The young moon looks not back as on she goes.
On their own terms, O lover! - Girl, Moon, Rose.
Tortoise Family Connections
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

On he goes, the little one,
Bud of the universe,
Pediment of life.
Setting off somewhere, apparently.
Whither away, brisk egg?
His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings,
And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.
A mere obstacle,
He veers round the slow great mound of her.
Tortoises always foresee obstacles.
It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice:
"This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an egg."
He does not even trouble to answer:     "Woman, what have I to do with thee?"
He wearily looks the other way,
And she even more wearily looks another way still,
Each with the utmost apathy,
Incognizant,
Unaware,
Nothing.
As for papa,
He snaps when I offer him his offspring,
Just as he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him,
Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible tortoise
Being touched with love, and devoid of fatherliness.
Father and mother,
And three little brothers,
And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles scattered in the garden,
Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old tins.
Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, of course,
But family feeling there is none, not even the beginnings.
Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless
Little tortoise.
Row on then, small pebble,
Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine,
Young gayety.
Does he look for a companion?
No, no, don't think it.
He doesn't know he is alone;
Isolation is his birthright,
This atom.
To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny toes,
To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of the night,
To crop a little substance,
To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving:
Basta!
To be a tortoise!
Think of it, in a garden of inert clods
A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself - 
Croesus!
In a garden of pebbles and insects
To roam, and feel the slow heart beat
Tortoise-wise, the first bell sounding
From     the     warm    blood,     in     the     dark-creation morning.
Moving, and being himself,
Slow, and unquestioned,
And inordinately there, O stoic!
Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence,
Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos,
And biting the frail grass arrogantly,
Decidedly arrogantly.
The Mask Of Evil
by Bertolt Brecht

On my wall hangs a Japanese carving,
The mask of an evil demon, decorated with gold lacquer.
Sympathetically I observe
The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating
What a strain it is to be evil.
Epitaph On A Certain Physiognomist.
by Friedrich Schiller

On every nose he rightly read
What intellects were in the head
And yet that he was not the one
By whom God meant it to be done,
This on his own he never read.
A Garden Party in the Temple
by James Williams

On hospitable thoughts intent
To me the Inner Temple sent
An invitation,
A garden party 'twas to be,
And I accepted readily
And with elation;
Good reason too, but oft the seeds
Of reason flower in senseless deeds.
I stood as savage as a bear,
For not a human being there
Knew I from Adam
I heard around in various tones,
"So glad to see you, Mr. Jones;"
"Good morning, Madam."
It seemed so painfully absurd
To stand and never speak a word.
I brought my doom upon myself,
And there I was upon the shelf
In melancholy.
Why, say you, did I go at all?
I once met Chloris at a ball,
And in my folly
I went and suffered all this pain
In hopes to see her once again.
Of strawberries a pound at least
I ate, and made myself a beast
With tea and sherry;
And raspberries I ate and trembled,
Until I felt that I resembled
Myself a berry,
But 'twas the berry that at school
We used to call a gooseberry fool.
The I. C. R. V.[F] band droned on,
While guests had come and guests had gone
Since my arrival;
My brow grew gloomier with despair,
And on it sat the guilty air
Of a survival
Of some remorse for ancient crimes
Wrought in the pre-historic times.
My seventh cup of tea was done,
My seventh glass of wine begun,
Then of her coming
I was aware, nor shall forget
How she and that brown sherry set
My brains a-humming;
Well should I be rewarded soon
For all the weary afternoon.
Her eyes looked vaguely into mine
Without as much as half a sign
Of recognition.
My heart, my heart! the blow was sore,
But you have often been before
In this condition;
As said the bard of old, those eyes
Are not my only Paradise.[G]
On the Banks of the Calder.
by John Hartley

On Calder's green banks I stroll sadly and lonely,
The flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet,
The river's low murmur seems whispering only,
The name of the laddie I came here to meet.
He promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom,
He'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest,
And a sprig of May blossom he put on my bosom,
As his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest.
Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie?
Oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free?
He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny,
Oh, Johnnie, - my Johnnie, - I'm waiting for thee.
The night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie,
The stars now peep out from the blue vault above;
Oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie?
Oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love?
I know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue, - 
And his tones were sincere when he called me his own;
Oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true, - 
But why does he leave me to wander alone?
Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie?
Oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free?
He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny,
Oh, Johnnie, - my Johnnie, I'm waiting for thee.
The moon now is up, - the owl hoots in the wood,
The trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black;
The tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood, - 
And my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back.
Oh, woe, woe is me! Did he mean to betray?
Must my ruin the price of his perfidy be?
No, the river shall hide me and bear me away;
Cold Calder receive me, I'm coming to thee.
Oh, where is her laddie? Oh, where is her Johnnie?
Oh, where is her laddie that treated her so?
But the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever,
And his base heart shall never more happiness know.
Art Colours
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

On must we go: we search dead leaves,
We chase the sunset's saddest flames,
The nameless hues that o'er and o'er
In lawless wedding lost their names.
God of the daybreak! Better be
Black savages; and grin to gird
Our limbs in gaudy rags of red,
The laughing-stock of brute and bird;
And feel again the fierce old feast,
Blue for seven heavens that had sufficed,
A gold like shining hoards, a red
Like roses from the blood of Christ.
A London Idyll
by Arthur Hugh Clough

On grass, on gravel, in the sun,
Or now beneath the shade,
They went, in pleasant Kensington,
A prentice and a maid.
That Sunday morning's April glow,
How should it not impart
A stir about the veins that flow
To feed the youthful heart.
Ah! years may come, and years may bring
The truth that is not bliss,
But will they bring another thing
That can compare with this?
I read it in that arm she lays
So soft on his; her mien,
Her step, her very gown betrays
(What in her eyes were seen)
That not in vain the young buds round,
The cawing birds above,
The air, the incense of the ground,
Are whispering, breathing love.
Ah I years may come, &c.
To inclination, young and blind,
So perfect, as they lent,
By purest innocence confined
Unconscious free consent.
Persuasive power of vernal change,
On this, thine earliest day,
Canst thou have found in all thy range
One fitter type than they?
Ah! years may come, &c.
Th' high-titled cares of adult strife,
Which we our duties call,
Trades, arts, and politics of life,
Say, have they after all,
One other object, end or use
Than that, for girl and boy,
The punctual earth may still produce
This golden flower of joy.
Ah! years may come, &c.
O odours of new-budding rose,
O lily's chaste perfume,
O fragrance that didst first unclose
The young Creation's bloom!
Ye hang around me, while in sun
Anon and now in shade,
I watched in pleasant Kensington
The prentice and the maid.
Ah! years may come, and years may bring
The truth that is not bliss,
But will they bring another thing
That will compare with this?
Time Flies
by Richard Le Gallienne

On drives the road - another mile! and still
Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill
O why such haste, with nothing at the end!
Fain are we all, grim driver, to descend
And stretch with lingering feet the little way
That yet is ours - O stop thy horses, pray!
Yet, sister dear, if we indeed had grace
To win from Time one lasting halting-place,
Which out of all life's valleys would we choose,
And, choosing - which with willingness would lose?
Would we as children be content to stay,
Because the children are as birds all day;
Or would we still as youngling lovers kiss,
Fearing the ardours of the greater bliss?
The maid be still a maid and never know
Why mothers love their little blossoms so
Or can the mother be content her bud
Shall never open out of babyhood?
Ah yes, Time flies because we fain would fly,
It is such ardent souls as you and I,
Greedy of living, give his wings to him -
And now we grumble that he uses them!
Song Of Spring
by Helen Leah Reed

On every bush are roses blooming, everywhere the nightingale
To his love again is warbling plaintively his oft-told tale.
Now within our balmy garden dances the tall cypress tree,
And the poplar never ceases clapping his slim hands in glee.
From the height of every bough-tip you can hear the turtle sing,
With loud voice proclaiming gaily the glad coming of the spring.
On the head of the narcissus gleams as bright his diadem,
As the crown of China's Emperor decked with many a costly gem.
Here the west wind, there the north wind, in true token of their love,
At the feet of yonder rose lay treasure poured down from above.
All the earth with musk is scented, and musk-laden is the air.
Everything proclaims that daily now draws nearer spring the fair.
(Versified from a Persian paraphrase.)
Tiger And Elephant.
by James McIntyre

On Ganges banks roams the tiger,
And lion rules by the Niger,
Hunter heard shrill cry of peacocks,
In Indian jungles go in flocks.
And he saw tiger crouch and spring,
To crush a bird with beauteous wing,
But the tiger missed his aim,
And he hung his head with shame.
Then there came a mighty crush,
Of elephants rush through the bush,
The tiger cat-like crouched on ground,
And elephants rushed in with bound.
In front was baby elephant,
To crush its bones did tiger want,
But mother saw fierce forest ranger,
And she gave a cry of danger.
Leader of herd he madly rushed,
Resolved the tiger should be crushed,
But tiger strove to run away,
Willing to relinquish prey.
But when he found that he must fight,
On elephant's back he strove to light,
But elephant struck him with his foot,
And then with tusks he did him root.
So now once more must praise be sung,
To beasts who nobly fight for young,
And grateful feelings were now stirred,
Towards the leader of the herd.
Nobody Cometh To Woo
by John Clare

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,
And I opened the window to see,
When every maiden went by with her spark,
But ne'er a one came to me.
And O dear what will become of me?
And O dear what shall I do,
When nobody whispers to marry me--
Nobody cometh to woo?
None's born for such troubles as I be:
If the sun wakens first in the morn,
"Lazy hussy" my parents both call me,
And I must abide by their scorn,
For nobody cometh to marry me,
Nobody cometh to woo,
So here in distress must I tarry me--
What can a poor maiden do?
If I sigh through the window when Jerry
The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;
And if I'm disposed to be merry,
My parents do nothing but scold;
And Jerry the clown, and no other,
E'er cometh to marry or woo;
They think me the moral of mother,
And judge me a terrible shrew.
For mother she hateth all fellows,
And spinning's my father's desire,
While the old cat growls bass with the bellows
If e'er I hitch up to the fire.
I make the whole house out of humour,
I wish nothing else but to please,
Would fortune but bring a good comer
To marry, and make me at ease!
When I've nothing my leisure to hinder,
I scarce get as far as the eaves;
Her head's instant out of the window,
Calling out like a press after thieves.
The young men all fall to remarking,
And laugh till they're weary to see 't,
While the dogs at the noise begin barking,
And I slink in with shame from the street.
My mother's aye jealous of loving,
My father's aye jealous of play,
So what with them both there's no moving,
I'm in durance for life and a day.
O who shall I get for to marry me?
Who will have pity to woo?
'T is death any longer to tarry me,
And what shall a poor maiden do?
The Fourth Shepherd
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For Thomas Walsh)
I
On nights like this the huddled sheep
Are like white clouds upon the grass,
And merry herdsmen guard their sleep
And chat and watch the big stars pass.
It is a pleasant thing to lie
Upon the meadow on the hill
With kindly fellowship near by
Of sheep and men of gentle will.
I lean upon my broken crook
And dream of sheep and grass and men --
O shameful eyes that cannot look
On any honest thing again!
On bloody feet I clambered down
And fled the wages of my sin,
I am the leavings of the town,
And meanly serve its meanest inn.
I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,
While sleep takes man and beast to her.
And every cloud is calling "Thief!"
And every star calls "Murderer!"
II
The hand of God is sure and strong,
Nor shall a man forever flee
The bitter punishment of wrong.
The wrath of God is over me!
With ashen bread and wine of tears
Shall I be solaced in my pain.
I wear through black and endless years
Upon my brow the mark of Cain.
III
Poor vagabond, so old and mild,
Will they not keep him for a night?
And She, a woman great with child,
So frail and pitiful and white.
Good people, since the tavern door
Is shut to you, come here instead.
See, I have cleansed my stable floor
And piled fresh hay to make a bed.
Here is some milk and oaten cake.
Lie down and sleep and rest you fair,
Nor fear, O simple folk, to take
The bounty of a child of care.
IV
On nights like this the huddled sheep --
I never saw a night so fair.
How huge the sky is, and how deep!
And how the planets flash and glare!
At dawn beside my drowsy flock
What winged music I have heard!
But now the clouds with singing rock
As if the sky were turning bird.
O blinding Light, O blinding Light!
Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.
O flaming Song, most loudly bright,
Consume away my deadly stain!
V
The stable glows against the sky,
And who are these that throng the way?
My three old comrades hasten by
And shining angels kneel and pray.
The door swings wide -- I cannot go --
I must and yet I dare not see.
Lord, who am I that I should know --
Lord, God, be merciful to me!
VI
O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece
Of new-washed sheep on April sod!
O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace,
O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!
Summer In England, 1914
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

On London fell a clearer light;
Caressing pencils of the sun
Defined the distances, the white
Houses transfigured one by one,
The "long, unlovely street" impearled.
O what a sky has walked the world!
Most happy year!    And out of town
The hay was prosperous, and the wheat;
The silken harvest climbed the down;
Moon after moon was heavenly-sweet
Stroking the bread within the sheaves,
Looking twixt apples and their leaves.
And while this rose made round her cup,
The armies died convulsed.    And when
This chaste young silver sun went up
Softly, a thousand shattered men,
One wet corruption, heaped the plain,
After a league-long throb of pain.
Flower following tender flower; and birds,
And berries; and benignant skies
Made thrive the serried flocks and herds.-
Yonder are men shot through the eyes.
Love, hide thy face
From man's unpardonable race.
* * * * *
Who said "No man hath greater love than this,
To die to serve his friend?"
So these have loved us all unto the end.
Chide thou no more, O thou unsacrificed!
The soldier dying dies upon a kiss,
The very kiss of Christ.
St. Swithin's Chair
by Walter Scott (Sir)

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere yon boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.
For on Hollow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side.
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.
The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damped her hair:
Her cheek was pale, but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,
These three long years in battle and siege;
News are there none of his weal or his woe,
And fain the Lady his fate would know.
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;
Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form!
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXII. Natural History.
by Unknown

On Christmas eve I turn'd the spit,
I burnt my fingers, I feel it yet;
The cock sparrow flew over the table;
The pot began to play with the ladle.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.
HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.
On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
To tell her of my past and present ache,
Which never in her life my heart did dare.
I first that glance so full of love declare
Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
So to behold her weep with anger burns,
And freed from slumber to itself returns.
MACGREGOR.
On Cessnock Banks.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "If he be a butcher neat and trim."
I.
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
Could I describe her shape and mien;
Our lasses a' she far excels,
An she has twa sparkling roguish een.
II.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
III.
She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IV.
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
V.
Her looks are like the vernal May,
When evening Phoebus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray,
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VI.
Her hair is like the curling mist
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VII.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VIII.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flow'ry scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IX.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
X.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen,
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she has twa, sparkling roguish een.
XI.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An' she has twa glancin' roguish een.
XII.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIII.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIV.
But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her roguish een.