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

Half-hidden in a graveyard,
In the blackness of a yew,
Where never living creature stirs,
Nor sunbeam pierces through,
Is a tombstone green and crooked,
Its faded legend gone,
And but one rain-worn cherub's head
To sing of the unknown.
There, when the dusk is falling,
Silence broods so deep
It seems that every wind that breathes
Blows from the fields of sleep?
Day breaks in heedless beauty,
Kindling each drop of dew,
But unforsaking shadow dwells
Beneath this lonely yew.
And, all else lost and faded,
Only this listening head
Keeps with a strange unanswering smile
Its secret with the dead.
Sonnet LXXXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi.
TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.
Hannibal conquer'd oft, but never knew
The fruits and gain of victory to get,
Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yet
A like misfortune happen not to you.
Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] who
Rough pasturage and sour in May have met,
With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,
And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:
While this new grief disheartens and appalls,
Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,
But, boldly following where your fortune calls,
E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,
Which fame and honour to the world may give
That e'en for centuries after death will live.
MACGREGOR.
My End
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Half hands hold my fate.
Where will it sink...
My steps are tiny, like those of a woman.
One evening lay waste all dreams.
Sleep does not come to me -
To England
by William Browne

Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot
Whose equal all the world affordeth not!
Show me who can so many crystal rills,
Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills;
Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;
Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;
And if the earth can show the like again,
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
From Britannia's Pastorals.
Half The People In The World
by Yehuda Amichai

Half the people in the world love the other half,
half the people hate the other half.
Must I because of this half and that half go wandering
and changing ceaselessly like rain in its cycle,
must I sleep among rocks, and grow rugged like
the trunks of olive trees,
and hear the moon barking at me,
and camouflage my love with worries,
and sprout like frightened grass between the railroad tracks,
and live underground like a mole,
and remain with roots and not with branches, and not
feel my cheek against the cheek of angels, and
love in the first cave, and marry my wife
beneath a canopy of beams that support the earth,
and act out my death, always till the last breath and
the last words    and without ever understandig,
and put flagpoles on top of my house and a bob shelter
underneath.    And go out on rads made only for
returning and go through all the apalling
stationscat,stick,fire,water,butcher,
between the kid and the angel of death?
Half the people love,
half the people hate.
And where is my place between such well-matched halves,
and through what crack will I see the white housing
projects of my dreams and the bare foot runners
on the sands or, at least, the waving of a girl's
kerchief, beside the mound?
Beyond.
by Madison Julius Cawein

1
Hangs stormed with stars the night,
Deep over deep,
A majesty, a might,
To feel and keep.
2
Ah! what is such and such,
Love, canst thou tell?
That shrinks - though 'tis not much - 
To weep farewell.
3
That hates the dawn and lark;
Would have the wail, - 
Sobbed through the ceaseless dark, - 
O' the nightingale.
4
Yes, earth, thy life were worth
Not much to me,
Were there not after earth
Eternity.
5
God gave thee life to keep - 
And what hath life? - 
Love, faith, and care, and sleep
Where dreams are rife.
6
Death's sleep, whose shadows start
The tears in eyes
Of love, that fill the heart
That breaks and dies.
7
And faith is never given
Without some care,
That leadeth us to heaven
By ways of prayer.
8
The nightingale and dark
Are thine then here;
Beyond, the light and lark
Eternal there.
Aedh Thinks Of Those Who Have Spoken Evil Of His Beloved
by William Butler Yeats

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair,
And dream about the great and their pride;
They have spoken against you everywhere,
But weigh this song with the great and their pride;
I made it out of a mouthful of air,
Their children's children shall say they have lied.
Guard Of The Eastern Gate
by Emily Pauline Johnson

Halifax sits on her hills by the sea
In the might of her pride, - 
Invincible, terrible, beautiful, she
With a sword at her side.
To right and to left of her, battlements rear
And fortresses frown;
While she sits on her throne without favour or fear
With her cannon as crown.
Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the weal
Of a nation she keeps;
But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel,
And her thunder but sleeps.
Peace.
by Robert Bloomfield

Halt! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel:
Blood grows precious; shed no more:
Cease your toils; your wounds to heal
Lo! beams of Mercy reach the shore!
From Realms of everlasting light
The favour'd guest of Heaven is come:
Prostrate your Banners at the sight,
And bear the glorious tidings home.
The plunging corpse with half-clos'd eyes,
No more shall stain th' unconscious brine;
Yon pendant gay, that streaming flies,
Around its idle Staff shall twine.
Behold! along th' etherial sky
Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread;
Peace! Peace! the leaping Sailors cry,
With shouts that might arouse the dead.
Then forth Britannia's thunder pours;
A vast reiterated sound!
From Line to Line the Cannon roars,
And spreads the blazing joy around.
Return, ye brave! your Country calls;
Return; return, your task is done:
While here the tear of transport falls,
To grace your Laurels nobly won.
Albion Cliffs - from age to age,
That bear the roaring storms of Heav'n,
Did ever fiercer Warfare rage?
Was ever Peace more timely given?
Wake! sounds of Joy: rouse, generous Isle;
Let every patriot bosom glow.
Beauty, resume thy wonted smile,
And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow.
Boast, Britain, of thy glorious Guests;
Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own:
Still on contented Labour rests
The basis of a lasting Throne.
Shout, Poverty! 'tis Heaven that saves;
Protected Wealth, the chorus raise:
Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves,
Accept a prostrate Nation's praise.
The Night Journey
by Rupert Brooke

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;
The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.
Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,
Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.
Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train
Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,
Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,
Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;
And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,
Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;
And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,
Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,
Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,
Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .
There is an end appointed, O my soul!
Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.
Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,
Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.
The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.
Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,
The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.
The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
Used Up.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Hand me my light gloves, James;
I'm off for the waltzing world,
The kingdom of Strauss and that - 
Where is my old crush-hat?
Is my hair properly curled?
Call in the daytime, James.
Think of me, won't you, James,
When I am rosily twirling
The "Rose of a garden of girls,"
The Pearl among circling pearls,
In a mesh of melodious whirling?
Envy me, won't you, James?
For a heart lost along with her fan,
For a nice sense of honor flown,
For the care of an invalid soul,
And tastes far beyond my control, - 
I have for my precious own
The fame of a "waltzing man."
If I don't come, come for me, James.
Ah, the waltz is my mastering passion!
The trip-tripping airs are as sweet
As love to my turning feet,
While I clasp the fair doll of fashion,
My fianc'e. But come for me, James.
The heart which I lost - it is strange - 
I've been told it will yet be my death;
And I think it quite likely I might
Waltz once too often to-night,
In spite of the music and Beth.
Death's a difficult move to arrange.
Pray smoke by the fire, old boy,
And find yourself whiskey and books.
If I should not turn up, then, at two
Or three, you will know I need you.
If I'm dead, you must pardon my looks
As I lie in the ball-room, old boy.
Wednesday
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Half-way unto the end - the week's high noon.
The morning hours do speed away so soon!
And, when the noon is reached, however bright,
Instinctively we look toward the night.
The glow is lost
Once the meridian cross'd.
Epistle To Major Logan.
by Robert Burns

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
Proud o' her speed.
When idly goavan whyles we saunter
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
We're forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',
Until you on a crummock driddle
A gray-hair'd carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune,
And screw your temper pins aboon
A fifth or mair,
The melancholious, lazy croon
O' cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day
Nae "lente largo" in the play,
But "allegretto forte" gay
Harmonious flow:
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey,
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never think o' right an' wrang
By square an' rule,
But as the clegs o' feeling stang
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace,
Their tuneless hearts!
May fireside discords jar a base
To a' their parts!
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,
An' that there is I've little swither
About the matter;
We check for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.
We've faults and failings, granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';
But stilt, but still, I like them dearly,
God bless them a'!
Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnan spite.
But by yon moon! and that's high swearin' 
An' every star within my hearin'!
An' by her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll ne'er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, vive l'amour!
Faites mes baisemains respectueuse,
To sentimental sister Susie,
An' honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple fate allows ye
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.
ROBERT BURNS.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
Our Boys
by Alan L. Strang

Written after the United States entered the war, fighting on the side of the Entente Allies.
Halt! Attention! Salute the flag,
The boys are marching by;
They're going forth to win the war
For us to do or die.
Our country needed fighting men,
Her liberty to save;
These boys responded to the call,
And all they had they gave.
All loyal hearts are beating fast,
And hope our bosoms fill;
For liberty shall reign supreme
O'er ocean, dale and hill.
With no regrets for parted hopes
Or futures cast aside,
Our soldier boys are marching by;
They are our country's pride.
To The Most Comely And Proper M. Elizabeth Finch.
by Robert Herrick

Handsome you are, and proper you will be
Despite of all your infortunity:
Live long and lovely, but yet grow no less
In that your own prefixed comeliness:
Spend on that stock: and when your life must fall,
Leave others beauty to set up withal.
A Plantation Portrait
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Hain't you see my Mandy Lou,
Is it true?
Whaih you been f'om day to day,
Whaih, I say?
Dat you say you nevah seen
Dis hyeah queen
Walkin' roun' f'om fiel' to street
Smilin' sweet?
Slendah ez a saplin' tree;
Seems to me
Wen de win' blow f'om de bay
She jes' sway
Lak de reg'lar saplin' do
Ef hit's grew
Straight an' graceful, 'dout a limb,
Sweet an' slim.
Browner den de frush's wing,
An' she sing
Lak he mek his wa'ble ring
In de spring;
But she sholy beat de frush,
Hyeah me, hush:
Wen she sing, huh teef kin show
White ez snow.
Eyes ez big an' roun' an' bright
Ez de light
Whut de moon gives in de prime
Harvest time.
An' huh haih a woolly skein,
Black an' plain.
Hol's you wid a natchul twis'
Close to bliss.
Tendah han's dat mek yo' own
Feel lak stone;
Easy steppin', blessid feet,
Small an' sweet.
Hain't you seen my Mandy Lou,
Is it true?
Look at huh befo' she's gone,
Den pass on!
Living Remembrance.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

HALF vex'd, half pleased, thy love will feel,
Shouldst thou her knot or ribbon steal;
To thee they're much I won't conceal;
Such self-deceit may pardon'd be;
A veil, a kerchief, garter, rings,
In truth are no mean trifling things,
But still they're not enough for me.
She who is dearest to my heart,
Gave me, with well dissembled smart,
Of her own life, a living part,
No charm in aught beside I trace;
How do I scorn thy paltry ware!
A lock she gave me of the hair
That wantons o'er her beauteous face.
If, loved one, we must sever'd be,
Wouldst thou not wholly fly from me,
I still possess this legacy,
To look at, and to kiss in play. 
My fate is to the hair's allied,
We used to woo her with like pride,
And now we both are far away.
Her charms with equal joy we press'd,
Her swelling cheeks anon caress'd,
Lured onward by a yearning blest,
Upon her heaving bosom fell.
Oh rival, free from envy's sway,
Thou precious gift, thou beauteous prey.
Remain my joy and bliss to tell!
To Health.
by John Clare

Hail, soothing balm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.
And may this blessing long be mine,
May I this favour still enjoy;
Then never shall my heart repine,
Nor yet its long continuance cloy.
And though I cannot boast, O Health!
Of aught beside, but only thee;
I would not change this bliss for wealth,
No, not for all the eye can see.
Wealth without thee is useless made,
Void of the smallest happy spark;
Yes, just as useless to give aid,
As mirrors set to light the dark.
Thy voice I hear, thy form I see,
In silence, echo, stream, or cloud;
Now, that strong voice belongs to thee
Which woods and hills repeat so loud.
The leaf, the flower, the spiry blade,
The hanging drops of pearly dew,
The russet heath, the woodland shade,
All, all can bring thee in my view.
With thee I seek the woodland shade
Beset in briery wilds among;
With thee I tread the tufted glade,
Transported by the woodlark's song.
With thee I wander where the sheep
In groups display a checquer'd train,
Where weedy waters winding creep;
Nor wilt thou fallow-clod disdain.
Then hail, sweet charm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.
Counting Sheep
by William Kerr

Half-awake I walked
A dimly-seen sweet hawthorn lane
Until sleep came;
I lingered at a gate and talked
A little with a lonely lamb.
He told me of the great still night,
Of calm starlight,
And of the lady moon, who'd stoop
For a kiss sometimes;
Of grass as soft as sleep, of rhymes
The tired flowers sang:
The ageless April tales
Of how, when sheep grew old,
As their faith told,
They went without a pang
To far green fields, where fall
Perpetual streams that call
To deathless nightingales.
And then I saw, hard by,
A shepherd lad with shining eyes,
And round him gathered one by one
Countless sheep, snow-white;
More and more they crowded
With tender cries,
Till all the field was full
Of voices and of coming sheep.
Countless they came, and I
Watched, until deep
As dream-fields lie
I was asleep.
Spring Offensive
by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
And, finding comfortable chests and knees
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like the injected drug for their bones' pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder the warm field--
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,
Where even the little brambles would not yield,
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;
They breathe like trees unstirred.
Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste--
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun,--
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence' brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink.
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames--
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder--
Why speak they not of comrades that went under?
To The Chosen One.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

HAND in hand! and lip to lip!
Oh, be faithful, maiden dear!
Fare thee well! thy lover's ship
Past full many a rock must steers
But should he the haven see,
When the storm has ceased to break,
And be happy, reft of thee, 
May the Gods fierce vengeance take!
Boldly dared is well nigh won!
Half my task is solved aright;
Ev'ry star's to me a sun,
Only cowards deem it night.
Stood I idly by thy side,
Sorrow still would sadden me;
But when seas our paths divide,
Gladly toil I, toil for thee!
Now the valley I perceive,
Where together we will go,
And the streamlet watch each eve,
Gliding peacefully below
Oh, the poplars on yon spot!
Oh, the beech trees in yon grove!
And behind we'll build a cot,
Where to taste the joys of love!
[This sweet song is doubtless one of those addressed to Frederica.]
The Balloon Of The Mind
by William Butler Yeats

Hands, do what you're bid;
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.
Hanch, A Schoolmaster. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Hanch, since he lately did inter his wife,
He weeps and sighs, as weary of his life.
Say, is't for real grief he mourns? not so;
Tears have their springs from joy, as well as woe.
Hans Breitmann's Barty.
by Charles G. Leland

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dey had biano-blayin',
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,
Her name vas Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und vhen dey looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I vent dere you'll pe pound;
I valtzet mit Matilda Yane,
Und vent shpinnen' round und round.
De pootiest Fraulein in de house,
She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I dells you it cost him dear;
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate lager beer.
Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in
De deutschers gifes a cheer;
I dinks dot so vine a barty
Nefer coom to a het dis year.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dere all vas Souse and Brouse,
Vhen de sooper comed in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,
De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Ve all cot troonk ash bigs.
I poot mine mout' to a parrel of beer,
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane,
Und she shlog me on de kop,
Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks
Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty
Vhere ish dot barty now?
Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud
Dot float on de moundain's prow?
Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern
De shtar of de shpirit's light?
All goned afay mit de lager beer
Afay in de ewigkeit!
On The Slain At Chickamauga
by Herman Melville

Happy are they and charmed in life
Who through long wars arrive unscarred
At peace. To such the wreath be given,
If they unfalteringly have striven--
In honor, as in limb, unmarred.
Let cheerful praise be rife,
And let them live their years at ease,
Musing on brothers who victorious died--
Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.
And yet mischance is honorable too--
Seeming defeat in conflict justified
Whose end to closing eyes is hid from view.
The will, that never can relent--
The aim, survivor of the bafflement,
Make this memorial due.