DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Virgin
by William Wordsworth

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied.
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
Reflections of a Jacobite.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories passed away;
Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway;
Mourn that the crown, which graced his brow by sovereign right divine,
Should e'er in regal mockery adorn an upstart line.
But mourn the more that those, who boast your blood within their veins,
To such reproaches should submit while any drop remains,
That those, whose names are heroes' names, transmitted from the free,
The subjects of a foreign lord, in cherished chains should be.
Oh! for the days when life was naught except for what it prized! -
When virtue, honour, truth, and right inspired and advised! -
When men such loyalty and love to king and country bore! -
The grand old days of chivalry! - alas! they are no more!
Hymn To Spiritual Desire
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers
Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers,
Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,
Thou comest mysterious,
In beauty imperious,
Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know:
Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,
Helplessly shaken and tossed,
And of they tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,
My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;
Mine eyes are accurst
With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;
And mine ears, in listening lost,
Yearn, waiting the note of a chord that will never awaken.
II.
Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,
Resonant bar upon bar,
The vibrating lyre
Of the spirit responds with melodious fire,
As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,
With laughter and ache,
The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,
Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded of mire.
III.
Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!
Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of Love!
Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,
A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!
Smite every rapturous wire
With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,
Crying"Awake! awake!
Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour
With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,
Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!
Come, oh, come and partake
Of necromance banquets of Beauty; and slake
Thy thirst in the waters of Art,
That are drawn from the streams
Of love and of dreams.
IV.
"Come, oh, come!
No longer shall language be dumb!
Thy vision shall grasp
As one doth the glittering hasp
Of a sword made splendid with gems and with gold
The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.
And out of the stark
Eternity, awful and dark,
Immensity silent and cold,
Universe-shaking as trumpets, or cymbaling metals,
Imperious; yet pensive and pearly
And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,
Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,
The majestic music of God, where He plays
On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."
Death
by George MacDonald

Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
A fresher birth brings every new year in.
Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
--Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:--
Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
And set upon his day night's starry crown!
Death, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!--
A woman-angel! see--in long white gown!
The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed.
The Invocation Of Lucretius
by John Collings Squire, Sir

BOOK I
Mother of Rome, delight of gods and men,
Beloved Venus, who under the fleeting stars
Fillest the freighted sea and earth's ripe fields,
O since through thee alone all forms of life
Are born, and climb into the sun's sweet light,
Goddess, before whose lovely advancing feet
The winds and towering clouds scatter and flee,
And the labouring earth discloses odorous flowers,
And the sea falls into a shining calm,
And the assuaged heavens mellow with light.
For when the spring-like face of day awakes,
And the West Wind, unloosed, flies procreant forth,
Then first the coursing birds, smitten at heart,
Betray, Lady, thy entrance and thy power,
And then the beasts caper in happy pastures
And swim swift floods; so all created things,
Captive to thee, drawn by their own desire,
Stray through the world where'er thy presence leads.
Through all the seas and hills and swelling streams,
Wing-fluttering woods and green, luxuriant plains,
Thou harryest them with lust, that none shall fail
To carry their eternal races on.
Since then thou art sole queen of all that Is,
And without thee to help can nothing rise
To cross the glorious frontiers of the light,
And nothing grow in gentleness or grace,
Thee do I pray to aid my labouring verse,
Now that of all that Is I strive to sing,
Lady, for my dear Memmian heir, whom thou
Hast blest with every constant excellence;
For his sake, chiefly, fill my words with life.
Songs of the Fleet - Farewell
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Mother, with unbowed head
Hear thou across the sea
The farewell of the dead,
The dead who died for thee.
Greet them again with tender words and grave,
For, saving thee, themselves they could not save.
To keep the house unharmed
Their fathers built so fair,
Deeming endurance armed
Better than brute despair,
They found the secret of the word that saith,
"Service is sweet, for all true life is death."
So greet thou well thy dead
Across the homeless sea,
And be thou comforted
Because they died for thee.
Far off they served, but now their deed is done
For evermore their life and thine are one.
Cuando-Cubango
by Paul Cameron Brown

1
Moths, if they dream dusk,
sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings - 
gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
traverse caravans of colour
amid silk-routes
to dazzle Prester John,
cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.
2
Compte de la Mothe
escadrilles/flotillas
D'Entrecasteaux
with Bougainville discovering
well, Bougainvillaea and I,
latter day la Perouse,
cunningly amuck on coral
adoration and wine,
(red as scarlet leaves)
chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
of the flame-bitten tropics.
3
Let me scandalize why.
Watch the sea churn
to white bubbles then coat
your nostril with brine
to run a finger
down brown skin passing
for the Bronze Age.
4
Notice the invention of sun,
a cloak suspended
in a canopy-canoe profusion
(left over from the first dawn,)
oasis of calm,
patter of motes and beams.
Garden of Shalimar.
5
My sentiments exactly.
Looking Down.
by Jean Ingelow

Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans,
And the moving of your pines; but we sit high
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky,
And pure airs visit us from all the zones.
Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh,
Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones?
No; not for all the love that counts thy stones,
While sleepy with great light the valleys lie.
Strange, rapturous peace! its sunshine doth enfold
My heart; I have escaped to the days divine,
It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled,
And all the eldest past was now, was mine;
Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old
Might here come forth to us with bread and wine.
Tears
by Robert Fuller Murray

Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awake
What lies beneath of young or fair
And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
In flowers which sweeten all the air,
And fill with life the place of death.
Vain Dreams.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

--"Throughout the day, I walk,
My path o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him."
--Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin.
Mother, gazing on thy son,
He, thy precious only one,
Look into his azure eyes,
Clearer than the summer skies.
Mark his course; on scrolls of fame
Read his proud ancestral name;
Pause! a cloud that path will dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Young bride, for the altar crowned,
Now thy lot with one is bound,
Will he keep each solemn vow?
Will he ever love as now?
Ah! a dreamy shadow lies
In the depths of those bright eyes;
Time will this day's glory dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Sister, has thy brother gone,
To the fields where fights are won;
Oh! it was an hour of pride
When he was last by thy side;
Thou dost see him coming back
In the conqueror's proud track;
Hush! the bayonets earthward turn,
Dream vain dreams, he'll not return.
Woman, on the cottage green,
Gazing at the sunset scene,
Now the vintage toil is o'er,
But the gleaner comes no more
Through the fields of burnished corn;
Lo! a peasant's bier is borne
By the sparkling river's brim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Maiden, who in every prayer
Breath'st a name thou dost not bear,
Sing again thy lover's song;
Yes, he will be back ere long,
Back in all his manhood's pride,
Back, but with another bride;
Cease those bridal robes to trim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Earthly idols! how we mould
Sand with fruit and clay with gold!
How we cherish crumbling dust,
Then lament our futile trust!
Saviour, who on earth didst prove
All the agony of love,
Fit us for that brighter shore,
Where they dream vain dreams no more.
The Shadow
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Mother, mother, what is that gazing through the darkness?
What is that that looks at me with its awful eyes?
Tell me, mother, what it is, freezing me to starkness?
Through the house it seems to go with its icy sighs,
What is that, oh, what is that, mother, in the darkness?
II
Child, my child! my little child! 'tis a waving willow,
That the night wind bows and sways near the window-pane:
Here's my breast, my little son. Let it be your pillow.
Have no fear, love, in my arms. Go to sleep again.
Go to sleep and turn your face from the windy willow.
III
Mother, mother, what is that? going round and round there?
Round the house and at the door stops and turns the knob.
Hold me close, O mother love! keep me from that sound there!
Hear it how it's knocking now? Don't you hear it sob?
Guard me from the ghostly thing that goes round and round there.
IV
Child, my child! my little child! 'tis the wind that wanders:
'Tis the wandering wind that knocks, crying at the door.
Hark no more and heed no more what the night wind maunders.
Rest your head on mother's heart, list its faery lore.
Go to sleep and have no fear of the wind that wanders.
V
Mother, mother, look and see! what is that that stands there?
With its lantern face and limbs, mantled all in black!
Gaunt and grim and horrible with its knuckled hands there!
Now before me! now beside me! now behind my back!
Mother! mother! face it now! ask it why it stands there!
VI
Child, my child! my little child! 'tis a shadow only!
Shadow of the lamp-shade here near your little bed!
No! it will not come again when the night lies lonely.
Sleep, oh, sleep, my little son. See! the thing is fled.
Mother will not leave her boy with that shadow only....
VII
Will he live? or will he die? Answer; fearful Shadow!
O thou Death who hoverest near, hold thy hands away!
Oh, that night were past and light lay on hill and meadow!
Does he sleep? or is he dead? God! that it were day!
Light to help my love to fight with that crouching shadow!
Song - Born To The Purple
by James Whitcomb Riley

[W.M.]
Most-like it was this kingly lad
Spake out of the pure joy he had
In his child-heart of the wee maid
Whose eerie beauty sudden laid
A spell upon him, and his words
Burst as a song of any bird's: - 
A peerless Princess thou shalt be,
Through wit of love's rare sorcery:
To crown the crown of thy gold hair
Thou shalt have rubies, bleeding there
Their crimson splendor midst the marred
Pulp of great pearls, and afterward
Leaking in fainter ruddy stains
Adown thy neck-and-armlet-chains
Of turquoise, chrysoprase, and mad
Light-frenzied diamonds, dartling glad
Swift spirts of shine that interfuse
As though with lucent crystal dews
That glance and glitter like split rays
Of sunshine, born of burgeoning Mays
When the first bee tilts down the lip
Of the first blossom, and the drip
Of blended dew and honey heaves
Him blinded midst the underleaves.
For raiment, Fays shall weave for thee - 
Out of the phosphor of the sea
And the frayed floss of starlight, spun
With counterwarp of the firm sun - 
A vesture of such filmy sheen
As, through all ages, never queen
Therewith strove truly to make less
One fair line of her loveliness.
Thus gowned and crowned with gems and gold,
Thou shalt, through centuries untold,
Rule, ever young and ever fair,
As now thou rulest, smiling there.
To Marry Or Not To Marry? A Girl's Reverie
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Mother says, "Be in no hurry,
Marriage oft means care and worry."
Auntie says, with manner grave,
"Wife is synonym for slave."
Father asks, in tones commanding,
"How does Bradstreet rate his standing?"
Sister crooning to her twins,
Sighs, "With marriage care begins."
Grandma, near life's closing days,
Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways."
Maud, twice widowed ("sod and grass")
Looks at me and moans "Alas!"
They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.
They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should aye be youth's adviser.
They must know - and yet, dear me,
When in Harry's eyes I see
All the world of love there burning - 
On my six advisers turning,
I make answer, "Oh, but Harry
Is not like most men who marry.
"Fate has offered me a prize,
Life with love means Paradise.
"Life without it is not worth
All the foolish joys of earth."
So, in spite of all they say,
I shall name the wedding day.
Hymn To Spiritual Desire
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers
Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers,
Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,
Thou comest mysterious,
In beauty imperious,
Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know:
Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,
Helplessly shaken and tossed,
And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,
My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;
Mine eyes are accurst
With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;
And mine ears, in listening lost,
Yearn, waiting the note of a chord that will never awaken.
II
Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far, - 
Resonant bar upon bar, - 
The vibrating lyre
Of the spirit responds with melodious fire,
As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,
With laughter and ache,
The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,
Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded of mire.
III
Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!
Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of Love!
Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,
A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!
Smite every rapturous wire
With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,
Crying - "Awake! awake!
Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour
With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,
Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!"
Come, oh, come and partake
Of necromance banquets of Beauty; and slake
Thy thirst in the waters of Art,
That are drawn from the streams
Of love and of dreams.
IV
"Come, oh, come!
No longer shall language be dumb!
Thy vision shall grasp - 
As one doth the glittering hasp
Of a sword made splendid with gems and with gold - 
The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.
And out of the stark
Eternity, awful and dark,
Immensity silent and cold, - 
Universe-shaking as trumpets, or cymbaling metals,
Imperious; yet pensive and pearly
And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,
Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early, - 
The majestic music of God, where He plays
On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."
The Helping Hand
by Edgar Lee Masters

Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars.
Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars?
Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief.
How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief?
Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life.
Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife.
Mother, your face is but a face among a million more.
You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore.
I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath.
You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death.
Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God?
Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod.
A Mother-Song
by James Whitcomb Riley

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
Mother, O mother,
Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"
Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
Mother, my mother,
And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"
Mother, O mother! of old I had never
One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
Mother, sweet mother,
O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"
Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow
Leave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet,
And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow?
Answer me, mother,
And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"
To My Mother
by Archibald Lampman

Mother, to whose valiant will,
Battling long ago,
What the heaping years fulfil,
Light and song, I owe;
Send my little book a-field,
Fronting praise or blame
With the shining flag and shield
Of your name.
Mothers Of Men
by Theodosia Garrison

Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying,
Pride in the very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then
Why is it their faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying
Ever some dear thing vanished and ever a hope delaying,
Mothers of Men?
Mothers of Men, most patient, tenderly slow to discover
The loss of the old allegiance that may not return again.
You give a man to the world, you give a woman a lover--
Where is your solace then when the time of giving is over,
Mothers of Men?
Mothers of Men, but surely, the title is worth the earning.
You who are brave in feigning must I ever behold you then
By the door of an empty heart with the lamp of faith still burning,
Watching the ways of life for the sight of a child returning,
Mothers of Men?
The Leap Of Roushan Beg
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,
Up the mountain pathway flew.
Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed
Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life
Roushan the Robber loved his horse.
In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,
Garden-girt his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan
Journeying north from Koordistan,
Gave him wealth and wine and food.
Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,
Did his bidding night and day.
Now, through regions all unknown,
He was wandering, lost, alone,
Seeking without guide his way.
Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,
Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.
Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot,
Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illah illa Allah!"
Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.
"O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,
O thou soul of Kurroglou!
"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O, life of mine,
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!"
Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,
Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embrace
Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
Roushan's tasselled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.
Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment like the glare
Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast
Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him.    "Allahu!"
Cried he.    "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man
As this Robber Kurroglou!"
Midsummer Night.
by Archibald Lampman

Mother of balms and soothings manifold,
Quiet-breath'd night whose brooding hours are seven,
To whom the voices of all rest are given,
And those few stars whose scattered names are told,
Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled,
Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even,
The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven,
And under her one star - a point of gold:
And all go slowly lingering toward the west,
As we go down forgetfully to our rest,
Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light:
Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for we
Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee,
Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night.
Steamboats, Viaducts, And Railways
by William Wordsworth

Motions and Means, on land and sea at war
With old poetic feeling, not for this,
Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss!
Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar
The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar
To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense
Of future change, that point of vision, whence
May be discovered what in soul ye are.
In spite of all that beauty may disown
In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace
Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and Time,
Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother Space,
Accepts from your bold hands the proffered crown
Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Anonymous Plays: Arden of Feversham
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Mother whose womb brought forth our man of men,
Mother of Shakespeare, whom all time acclaims
Queen therefore, sovereign queen of English dames,
Throned higher than sat thy sonless empress then,
Was it thy son's young passion-guided pen
Which drew, reflected from encircling flames,
A figure marked by the earlier of thy names
Wife, and from all her wedded kinswomen
Marked by the sign of murderess? Pale and great,
Great in her grief and sin, but in her death
And anguish of her penitential breath
Greater than all her sin or sin-born fate,
She stands, the holocaust of dark desire,
Clothed round with song for ever as with fire.