DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lord, Speak Again
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When God had formed the Universe, He thought
Of all the marvels therein to be wrought
And to His aid then Motherhood was brought.
'My lesser self, the feminine of Me,
She will go forth throughout all time,' quoth He,
'And make My world what I would have it be.
'For I am weary, having laboured so,
And for a cycle of repose would go
Into that silence which but God may know.
'Therefore I leave the rounding of My plan
To Motherhood; and that which I began
Let woman finish in perfecting man.
'She is the soil:    the human Mother Earth:
She is the sun, that calls the seed to earth.
She is the gardener, who knows its worth.
'From Me, all seed, of any kind must spring.
Divine the growth such seed and soil will bring.
For all is Me, and I am everything.'
Thus having spoken to Himself aloud,
His glorious face upon His breast He bowed,
And sought repose behind a wall of cloud.
Come forth, O God! though great Thy thought and good,
In shaping woman for true Motherhood,
Lord, speak again; she has not understood.
The centuries pass:    the cycles roll along - 
The earth is peopled with a mighty throng,
Yet men are fighting and the world goes wrong.
Lord, speak again, ere yet it be too late,
Unloved, unwanted souls come through earth's gate:
The unborn child is given a dower of hate.
Thy world progresses in all ways save one.
In Motherhood, for which it was begun,
Lord, Lord, behold how little has been done!
Children are spawned like fishes in the sand.
With ignorance and crime they fill the land.
Lord, speak again, till mothers understand.
It is not all of Motherhood to know
Conception pleasure or deliverance woe.
Who plants the seed should help the shoot to grow.
Better a barren soil than weed and tare,
Or sickly plants that die for want of care
In poisonous jungles, void of sun and air.
True Motherhood is not alone to breed
The human race; it is to know and heed
Its holiest purpose and its highest need.
Lord, speak again, so woman shall be stirred
With the full meaning of that mighty word
True Motherhood.    She has not rightly heard.
Sunrise. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning sun,
That, glorious in the eastern skies,
Its journey has begun,
I think of the Almighty Power
Which called this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.
And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the Hand
Which gives their daily bread.
A Lost Angel
by Ellis Parker Butler

When first we met she seemed so white
I feared her;
As one might near a spirit bright
I neared her;
An angel pure from heaven above
I dreamed her,
And far too good for human love
I deemed her.
A spirit free from mortal taint
I thought her,
And incense as unto a saint
I brought her.
Well, incense burning did not seem
To please her,
And insolence I feared she'd deem
To squeeze her;
Nor did I dare for that same why
To kiss her,
Lest, shocked, she'd cause my eager eye
To miss her.
I sickened thinking of some way
To win her,
When lo! she asked me, one fine day,
To dinner!
Twas thus that made of common flesh
I found her,
And in a mortal lover's mesh
I wound her.
Embraces, kisses, loving looks
I gave her,
And buying bon-bons, flowers and books,
I save her;
For her few honest, human taints
I love her,
Nor would I change for all the saints
Above her
Those eyes, that little face, that so
Endear her,
And all the human joy I know
When near her;
And I am glad, when to my breast
I press her,
She's just a woman, like the rest,
God bless her!
The American Flag.
by Joseph Rodman Drake

I.
When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand,
The symbol of her chosen land.
II.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!
III.
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
IV.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendours fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
V.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;
The stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
For ever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
Romero.
by William Cullen Bryant

When freedom, from the land of Spain,
By Spain's degenerate sons was driven,
Who gave their willing limbs again
To wear the chain so lately riven;
Romero broke the sword he wore,
"Go, faithful brand," the warrior said,
"Go, undishonoured, never more
The blood of man shall make thee red:
I grieve for that already shed;
And I am sick at heart to know,
That faithful friend and noble foe
Have only bled to make more strong
The yoke that Spain has worn so long.
Wear it who will, in abject fear,
I wear it not who have been free;
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear
No oath of loyalty from me."
Then, hunted by the hounds of power,
Romero chose a safe retreat,
Where bleak Nevada's summits tower
Above the beauty at their feet.
There once, when on his cabin lay
The crimson light of setting day,
When even on the mountain's breast
The chainless winds were all at rest,
And he could hear the river's flow
From the calm paradise below;
Warmed with his former fires again,
He framed this rude but solemn strain:
I.
"Here will I make my home, for here at least I see,
Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty;
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime,
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain thyme;
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild vine gads at will,
An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.
II.
"I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty rivers run,
And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun,
And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the green,
Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades between:
I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near,
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here.
III.
"Fair, fair, but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart,
That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look at what thou art;
But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave,
That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the grave.
Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast,
And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest.
IV.
"But I shall see the day, it will come before I die,
I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed eye;
When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound,
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the ground:
And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free
Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea."
The Men We Might Have Been
by Henry Lawson

When God's wrath-cloud is o'er me,
Affrighting heart and mind;
When days seem dark before me,
And days seem black behind;
Those friends who think they know me,
Who deem their insight keen,
They ne'er forget to show me
The man I might have been.
He's rich and independent,
Or rising fast to fame;
His bright star is ascendant,
The country knows his name;
His houses and his gardens
Are splendid to be seen;
His fault the wise world pardons,
The man I might have been.
His fame and fortune haunt me;
His virtues wave me back;
His name and prestige daunt me
When I would take the track;
But you, my friend true-hearted,
God keep our friendship green!,
You know how I was parted
From all I might have been.
But what avails the ache of
Remorse or weak regret?
We'll battle for the sake of
The men we might be yet!
We'll strive to keep in sight of
The brave, the true, and clean,
And triumph yet in spite of
The men we might have been.
The Moral Warfare
by John Greenleaf Whittier

When Freedom, on her natal day,
Within her war-rocked cradle lay,
An iron race around her stood,
Baptized her infant brow in blood;
And, through the storm which round her swept,
Their constant ward and watching kept.
Then, where our quiet herds repose,
The roar of baleful battle rose,
And brethren of a common tongue
To mortal strife as tigers sprung,
And every gift on Freedom's shrine
Was man for beast, and blood for wine!
Our fathers to their graves have gone;
Their strife is past, their triumph won;
But sterner trials wait the race
Which rises in their honored place;
A moral warfare with the crime
And folly of an evil time.
So let it be. In God's own might
We gird us for the coming fight,
And, strong in Him whose cause is ours
In conflict with unholy powers,
We grasp the weapons He has given,
The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven
Simple Sister Goes To Sydney
by Edward Dyson

When Flo resolved to go to town from brothers three a yell went up,
Predicting ruin and distress. Bill in his horror dropped a cup.
'Gorstruth!' he said, 'in Sydney there what is a simple girl to do?
They took me down. I lost me watch and seven quid. What 'ope for you?'
Ben turned on her in pale dismay. 'Look here, me girl, ain't you bin told
How one iv them there spieler blokes done me for twenty pound in gold?
He was as nice a gentleman as any in the blessed shops:
He got away with all I had, and took a luner at the cops.'
'Me, too,' said Dave, 'that time I went to Sydney town to see the Show
One trimmed me for me bran' new suit. You stay where we can watch you, Flo.'
Flo packed. 'If spieler comes at me his finish will be sharp,' she said;
And when the boys next heard of her she'd got a bloke, and then was wed.
She wrote: 'He's rather nice, I think, and I am putting him to work.
Next Chrissmiss we are comin' up to see yous people back o' Bourke.'
And when he came he brought for Bill a silver watch and seven quid,
For Dave a bran' new suit of check, a ruby tie-pin and a lid.
To Ben he handed twenty pounds, in nice new minted sovereigns, too.
And still the brothers gaped at him, and still their great amazement grew.
He was a natty kind of chap, with gentle manners, small and slim.
And when they spoke 'twas as one man. 'So 'elp me cat,' they said, 'it's 'im!'
A Father To A Mother
by George MacDonald

When God's own child came down to earth,
High heaven was very glad;
The angels sang for holy mirth;
Not God himself was sad!
Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
The little one will not forget;
It's only till to-morrow!
Lost in the Flood
by Henry Kendall

When God drave the ruthless waters
From our cornfields to the sea,
Came she where our wives and daughters
Sobbed their thanks on bended knee.
Hidden faces! there ye found her
Mute as death, and staring wild
At the shadow waxing round her
Like the presence of her child
Of her drenched and drowning child!
Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
Who can tell us what she felt?
It was human, O my Father,
If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
Ever, as a benediction
Fell like balm on all and each,
Rose a young face whose affliction
Choked and stayed the founts of speech
Stayed and shut the founts of speech!
Often doth she sit and ponder
Over gleams of happy hair!
How her white hands used to wander,
Like a flood of moonlight there!
Lord our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
Give her faith that she may pray;
And the subtle strength of meekness,
Lest she falter by the way
Falter, fainting, by the way!
'Darling!' saith she, wildly moaning
Where the grass-grown silence lies,
'Is there rest from sobs and groaning
Rest with you beyond the skies?
Child of mine, so far above me!
Late it waxeth dark and late;
Will the love with which I love thee,
Lift me where you sit and wait
Darling! where you sit and wait?'
Old Tunes
by Henry Lawson

When friends are listening round me, Jack, to hear my dying breath,
And I am lying in a sleep they say will end in death,
Don't notice what the doctor says, and let the nurse complain,
I'll tell you how to rouse me if I'll ever wake again.
Just you bring in your fiddle, Jack, and set your heart in tune,
And strike up 'Annie Laurie', or 'The Rising of the Moon';
And if you see no token of a rising in my throat,
You'll need to brace your mouth, old man'I'm booked by Charon's boat.
And if you are not satisfied that I am off the scene,
Strike up 'The Marseillaise', or else 'The Wearing of the Green';
And should my fingers tremble not, then I have crossed the line,
But keep your fingers steady, Jack, and strike up 'Auld Lang Syne'.
Kapiolani
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
When from the terrors of Nature a people have fashion'd and worship a Spirit of Evil,
Blest he the Voice of the Teacher who calls to them
'Set yourselves free!'
II.
Noble the Saxon who hurl'd at his Idol a valorous weapon in olden England!
Great and greater, and greatest of women, island heroine, Kapiolani
Clomb the mountain, and flung the berries, and dared the Goddess, and freed the people
Of Hawa-i-ee!
III.
A people believing that Peel' the Goddess would wallow in fiery riot and revel
On Kilaue-',
Dance in a fountain of flame with her devils, or shake with tier thunders and shatter her island,
Rolling her anger
Thro' blasted valley and flaring forest in blood-red cataracts down to the sea!
IV.
Long as the lava-light
Glares from the lava-lake
Dazing the starlight,
Long as the silvery vapour in daylight
Over the mountain
Floats, will the glory of Kapiolani be mingled with either on Hawa-i-ee.
V.
What said her Priesthood?
'Woe to this island if ever a woman should handle or gather the berries of Peel'!
Accurs'd were she!
And woe to this island if ever a woman should climb to the dwelling of Peel' the Goddess!
Accurs'd were she!'
VI.
One from the Sunrise
Dawn'd on His people, and slowly before him
Vanish'd shadow-like
Gods and Goddesses,
None but the terrible Peel' remaining as Kapiolani ascended her mountain,
Baffled her priesthood,
Broke the Taboo,
Dipt to the crater,
Call'd on the Power adored by the Christian, and crying 'I dare her, let Peel' avenge herself '!
Into the flame-billow dash'd the berries, and drove the demon from Hawa-i-ee.
He And She
by Eugene Fitch Ware

When I am dead you'll find it hard,
Said he,
To ever find another man
Like me.
What makes you think, as I suppose
You do,
I'd ever want another man
Like you?
The Joy of Flying
by Paul Bewsher

When heavy on my tired mind
The world, and worldly things, do weigh,
And some sweet solace I would find,
Into the sky I love to stray,
And, all alone, to wander round
In lone seclusion from the ground.
Ah! Then what solitude is mine - 
From grovelling mankind aloof!
Their road is but a thin-drawn line:
Their busy house a scarce-seen roof.
That little stain of red and brown
They boast about! - It is their town!
How small their petty quarrels seem!
Poor, crawling multitudes below;
Which, like the ants, in feverish stream
From place to place move to and fro!
Like ants they work: like ants they fight,
Assuming blindly they are right.
Soon their existence I forget,
In joy that on these flashing wings
I cleave the skies - O! let them fret - 
Now know I why the skylark sings
Untrammelled in the boundless air - 
For mine it is his bliss to share!
Now do I mount a billowy cloud,
Now do I sail low o'er a hill,
And with a seagull's skill endowed
Circle, and wheel, and drop at will - 
Above the villages asleep,
Above the valleys, shadowed deep,
Above the water-meadows green
Whose streams, which intermingled flow,
Like silver lattice-work are seen
A-gleam upon the plain below - 
Above the woods, whose naked trees
Move new-born buds upon the breeze.
And far away above the haze
I see white mountain-summits rise,
Whose snow with sunlight is ablaze
And shines against the distant skies.
Such thoughts those towering ranges bring
That I float on a-wondering!
So do I love to travel on
Through lonely skies, myself alone;
For then the feverish fret is gone
Which on this earth I oft have known.
Kind is the God who lets me fly
In sweet seclusion through the sky!
France, 1917.
Arab Song
by John Collings Squire, Sir

When her eyes' sudden challenge first halted my feet on the path,
I stood like a shivering caught fugitive, and strained at my breath,
And the Truth in her eyes was the portent of Love and of Death,
For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.
O you who have faded because girls were contemptuous and cold,
I pitied you; but mine I have won, and her breast I enfold
Despairing, and in agony long for the thing that I hold:
For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.
She is fair; and her eyes in her hair are like stars in a stream.
She is kind: never vaporous sleep-eddying maid in a dream
Leaning over my darkness-drowned pillow more tender did seem.
But her beauty and sweetness are as blasts from the sands of the South.
Drink me, palsy me, flay me, bleed my veins, chain my limbs, choke my mouth,
And make salt to my lips the wine that should temper my drouth:
For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.
Death must come: it were best by a knife in her hand or my own.
She'd not strike and I dare not, but here, as I wander alone,
Should the wood topple over at a beast flying out like a stone
I shall smile in its face at her image bending down from the sky,
And its teeth in my neck will be hers, and its snarls as I die
Will be gentle and sweet to my ears as the voice of the dove:
For I am of the tribe of Ben Asra, who die when they love.
Hannibal
by Paul Cameron Brown

When Hannibal mowed down Romans
with elephants,
his skill, his artistry,
had the effect of a painter's brush.
He, scraping paint off an easel,
would thrust
empires down,
trample Graeco - Romish influence
into paint spattered dust.
He neither was aware nor knew,
the Alps and Sabine allies,
Capua and other Latin tribes
would ruin his oath,
cause Baal, the false god,
to desert Punic prayers.
Good King Arthur
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

Good King Arthur.
When good king Arthur ruled this land,
He was a goodly king;
He stole three pecks of barley-meal,
To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the king did make,
And stuffed it well with plums:
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.
The king and queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The queen next morning fried.
The Honest Shepherd
by Matthew Prior

When hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told,
"Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest,
"Give him one half and he'll secure the rest."
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock to ruin me,
To their commands I willingly resign,
Power is their character, and patience mine;
Though troth, to me there seems but little odds
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods.
For The Poor.
by William Cowper

When Hagar found the bottle spent,
And wept o'er Ishmael,
A message from the Lord was sent
To guide her to a well.[1]
Should not Elijah's cake and cruse[2]
Convince us at this day,
A gracious God will not refuse
Provisions by the way?
His saints and servants shall be fed,
The promise is secure;
'Bread shall be given them,' he has said,
'Their water shall be sure.'[3]
Repasts far richer they shall prove,
Than all earth's dainties are;
'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love,
Though in the meanest fare.
To Jesus then your trouble bring,
Nor murmur at your lot;
While you are poor and he is King,
You shall not be forgot.
The Eruption Of Vesuvius.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Quand longtemps a grond' la bouche du V'suve.")
[I. vii.]
When huge Vesuvius in its torment long,
Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among,
When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine,
Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine,
Then is alarm in Naples.
With dismay,
Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour,
Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay,
Implore the angry Mount - in vain implore!
For lo! a column tow'ring more and more,
Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest
Shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.
Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den
Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain,
Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then
Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane!
Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain,
The while the lava in profusion wide
Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.
It comes - it comes! that lava deep and rich,
That dower which fertilizes fields and fills
New moles upon the waters, bay and beach.
Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills
As roll the red inexorable rills;
While Naples trembles in her palaces,
More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.
Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost,
Dwellings devoured and vomited again.
Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed.
The waters boiling and the burning plain;
While clang the giant steeples as they reel,
Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.
Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride
Of the green valleys and the isles laid low,
The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide,
O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe,
Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow,
Forgetful spares - Heaven wills that it should spare,
The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.
Fraser's Magazine.
The Way.
by Robert Herrick

When I a ship see on the seas,
Cuff'd with those wat'ry savages,
And therewithal behold it hath
In all that way no beaten path,
Then, with a wonder, I confess
Thou art our way i' th' wilderness;
And while we blunder in the dark,
Thou art our candle there, or spark.
De Profundis
by George MacDonald

When I am dead unto myself, and let,
O Father, thee live on in me,
Contented to do nought but pay my debt,
And leave the house to thee,
Then shall I be thy ransomed--from the cark
Of living, from the strain for breath,
From tossing in my coffin strait and dark,
At hourly strife with death!
Have mercy! in my coffin! and awake!
A buried temple of the Lord!
Grow, Temple, grow! Heart, from thy cerements break!
Stream out, O living Sword!
When I am with thee as thou art with me,
Life will be self-forgetting power;
Love, ever conscious, buoyant, clear, and free,
Will flame in darkest hour.
Where now I sit alone, unmoving, calm,
With windows open to thy wind,
Shall I not know thee in the radiant psalm
Soaring from heart and mind?
The body of this death will melt away,
And I shall know as I am known;
Know thee my father, every hour and day,
As thou know'st me thine own!
Lines To Miss L ----  D ---- .
by John Carr (Sir)

When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind,
With genius and with taste refin'd,
As if the union were too bright,
It spread the veil of diffidence,
That ev'ry ray, at first intense,
Might shine as soft as lunar light.
To frame a form then Nature strove,
And call'd on Beauty and on Love,
To lodge the mind they priz'd so well:
Completed was the fair design;
Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine
Within the lily's spotless bell!