DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Living And A Dead Faith.
by William Cowper

The Lord receives his highest praise
From humble minds and hearts sincere;
While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judge's ear.
To walk as children of the day,
To mark the precepts' holy light,
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.
Not words alone it cost the Lord,
To purchase pardon for his own;
Nor will a soul, by grace restored,
Return the Saviour words alone.
With golden bells, the priestly vest,
And rich pomegranates border'd round,[1]
The need of holiness express'd,
And call'd for fruit, as well as sound.
Easy, indeed, it were to reach
A mansion in the courts above,
If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve, instead of faith and love.
But none shall gain the blissful place,
Or God's unclouded glory see,
Who talks of free and sovereign grace,
Unless that grace has made him free!
The Loveliest Face And The Wild Rose
by Richard Le Gallienne

The loveliest face! I turned to her
Shut in 'mid savage rocks and trees; - 
'Twas in the May-time of the year,
And our two hearts were filled with ease - 
And pointed where a wild-rose grew,
Suddenly fair in that grim place:
"We should know all, if we but knew
Whence came this flower, and whence - this face."
The loveliest face!    My thoughts went around:
"Strange sister of this little rose,
So softly 'scaped from underground;
O tell me if your beauty knows,
Being itself so fair a thing,
How came this lovely thing so fair,
How came it to such blossoming,
Leaning so strangely from the air?
"The wonder of its being born,
So lone and lovely - even as you - 
Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn,
And delicately sad with dew;
How came it in this rocky place?
Or shall I ask the rose if she
Knows how this marvel of your face
On this harsh planet came to be?"
Earth's bluest eyes gazed into mine,
And on her head Earth's brightest gold
Made all the rocks with glory shine - 
But still the secret went untold;
For rose nor girl, no more than I,
Their own mysterious meaning knew,
Save that alike from earth and sky
Each her enchanted being drew.
Both from deep wells of wonder sprang,
Both children of the cosmic dream,
Alike with yonder bird that sang,
And little lives that flit and gleam;
Sparks from the central rose of fire
That at the heart of being burns,
That draws the lily from the mire
And trodden dust to beauty turns.
Strange wand of Beauty - that transforms
Old dross to dreams, that softly glows
On the fierce rainbowed front of storms,
And smiles on unascended snows,
That from the travail of lone seas
Wrests sighing shell and moonlit pearl,
And gathers up all sorceries
In the white being of one girl.
Sunday Afternoon In Italy
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

The man and the maid go side by side
With an interval of space between;
And his hands are awkward and want to hide,
She braves it out since she must be seen.
When some one passes he drops his head
Shading his face in his black felt hat,
While the hard girl hardens; nothing is said,
There is nothing to wonder or cavil at.
Alone on the open road again
With the mountain snows across the lake
Flushing the afternoon, they are uncomfortable,
The loneliness daunts them, their stiff throats ache.
And he sighs with relief when she parts from him;
Her proud head held in its black silk scarf
Gone under the archway, home, he can join
The men that lounge in a group on the wharf.
His evening is a flame of wine
Among the eager, cordial men.
And she with her women hot and hard
Moves at her ease again.
She is marked, she is singled out
For the fire:
The brand is upon him, look - you,
Of desire.
They are chosen, ah, they are fated
For the fight!
Champion her, all you women! Men, menfolk
Hold him your light!
Nourish her, train her, harden her
Women all!
Fold him, be good to him, cherish him
Men, ere he fall.
Women, another champion!
This, men, is yours!
Wreathe and enlap and anoint them
Behind separate doors.
GARGNANO
Bargaining Unit
by Paul Cameron Brown

The man about to become a sparrow
is shouting his head off
wearing green trousers
with red eyes framing mustier tweed,
he lambasts the lad
for not conducting
his person properly
in showing up for work
in a white shirt.
The fact the future labour
requires only lifting boxes
to a shed
is a fine point
about as important
as the man himself
who has transformed
himself into that sparrow
where several would not
span the breadth of a
bigger man's hand
or four could be had
in the Biblical sense
for less than a penny.
My Friends
by Robert William Service

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;
And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;
A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.
My feet were froze, and the lifeless toes were purple and green and gray;
The little flesh that clung to my bones, you could punch it in holes like clay;
The skin on my gums was a sullen black, and slowly peeling away.
I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why
They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die,
Or finish me off with a dose of dope - so utterly lost was I.
But no; they brewed me the green-spruce tea, and nursed me there like a child;
And the homicide he was good to me, and bathed my sores and smiled;
And the thief he starved that I might be fed, and his eyes were kind and mild.
Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain
I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again;
I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.
I'll never forget that bitter dawn, so evil, askew and gray,
When they wrapped me round in the skins of beasts and they bore me to a sleigh,
And we started out with the nearest post an hundred miles away.
I'll never forget the trail they broke, with its tense, unuttered woe;
And the crunch, crunch, crunch as their snowshoes sank through the crust of the hollow snow;
And my breath would fail, and every beat of my heart was like a blow.
And oftentimes I would die the death, yet wake up to life anew;
The sun would be all ablaze on the waste, and the sky a blighting blue,
And the tears would rise in my snow-blind eyes and furrow my cheeks like dew.
And the camps we made when their strength outplayed and the day was pinched and wan;
And oh, the joy of that blessed halt, and how I did dread the dawn;
And how I hated the weary men who rose and dragged me on.
And oh, how I begged to rest, to rest - the snow was so sweet a shroud;
And oh, how I cried when they urged me on, cried and cursed them aloud;
Yet on they strained, all racked and pained, and sorely their backs were bowed.
And then it was all like a lurid dream, and I prayed for a swift release
From the ruthless ones who would not leave me to die alone in peace;
Till I wakened up and I found myself at the post of the Mounted Police.
And there was my friend the murderer, and there was my friend the thief,
With bracelets of steel around their wrists, and wicked beyond belief:
But when they come to God's judgment seat - may I be allowed the brief.
Lullaby.
by James Whitcomb Riley

The maple strews the embers of its leaves
O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves;
And the moody cricket falters in his cry - Baby-bye! -
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky - Baby-bye! -
The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!
The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!
Yet, Baby - O my Baby, for your sake
This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXXIII. Relics.
by Unknown

[The following is quoted in the song of Mad Tom.]
The man in the moon drinks claret,
But he is a dull Jack-a-Dandy;
Would he know a sheep's head from a carrot,
He should learn to drink cider and brandy.
Feathers And Moss.
by Jean Ingelow

The marten flew to the finch's nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day."
"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom."
She beateth her wings, and away, away.
"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!"
The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.
The Measureless Gulfs Of Air Are Full Of Thee. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"In Him we live, and move, and have our being."
The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:
Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait,
And swim, and shine in God who bade them be,
And hold their sundering voids inviolate.
A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless,
With sweet revealing of His love, the soul;
Toward things piteous, full of piteousness;
The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.
He is more present to all things He made
Than anything unto itself can be;
Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade
Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree.
Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not
Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest.
There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot
Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast.
Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart
Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb;
I need no search afar; to me Thou art
Father, Redeemer, and Renewer - come.
Horace, Ode XXII. Lib. I. Freely Translated By Lord Eldon.
by Thomas Moore

The man who keeps a conscience pure,
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Thro' toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black and never winces.
No want has he of sword or dagger,
Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,
He doesn't care one single damn.
Whether midst Irish chairmen going.
Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim,
Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
No matter, 'tis all one to him.
For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.
When lo! an Irish Papist darted
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big--
I did but frown and off he started,
Scared at me even without my wig.
Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.
Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal-blood of Tara;
Or place me where Dick Martin rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]
Of Church and State I'll warble still,
Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble;
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill--
Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]
Follow Me
by Abram Joseph Ryan

The Master's voice was sweet:
"I gave My life for thee;
Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss,
Arise and follow Me."
I clasped it in my hand --
O Thou! who diedst for me,
The day is bright, my step is light,
'Tis sweet to follow Thee!
Through the long Summer days
I followed lovingly;
'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near,
His glorious face to see.
Down where the lilies pale
Fringed the bright river's brim,
In pastures green His steps were seen --
'Twas sweet to follow Him!
Oh, sweet to follow Him!
Lord, let me here abide.
The flowers were fair; I lingered there;
I laid His cross aside --
I saw His face no more
By the bright river's brim;
Before me lay the desert way --
'Twas hard to follow Him!
Yes! hard to follow Him
Into that dreary land!
I was alone; His cross had grown
Too heavy for my hand.
I heard His voice afar
Sound thro' the night air chill;
My weary feet refused to meet
His coming o'er the hill.
The Master's voice was sad:
"I gave My life for thee;
I bore the cross thro' pain and loss,
Thou hast not followed Me."
So fair the lilies' banks,
So bleak the desert way:
The night was dark, I could not mark
Where His blessed footsteps lay.
Fairer the lilied banks
Softer the grassy lea;
"The endless bliss of those who best
Have learned to follow Me!
Canst thou not follow Me?
Hath patient love a power no more
To move thy faithless heart?
Wilt thou not follow Me?
These weary feet of Mine
Have stained, and red the pathway dread
In search of thee and thine."
O Lord! O Love divine!
Once more I follow Thee!
Let me abide so near Thy side
That I Thy face may see.
I clasp Thy pierced hand,
O Thou who diedst for me!
I'll bear Thy cross thro' pain and loss,
So let me cling to Thee.
Integer Vitae
by Thomas Campion

The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder's violence:
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.
The First Psalm.
by Robert Burns

The man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!
Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his GOD.
That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.
But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.
For why? that GOD the good adore
Hath giv'n them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.
The Man In The Moon
by Leonard Leslie Brooke

The Man in the Moon
Came tumbling down,
And asked his way to Norwich;
They told him south,
And he burnt his mouth
With eating cold pease-porridge.
Translation From Horace.
by George Gordon Byron

Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I.
1.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.
2.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.
Neighbours
by Rudyard Kipling

The man that is open of heart to his neighbour,
And stops to consider his likes and dislikes,
His blood shall be wholesome whatever his labour,
His luck shall be with him whatever he strikes.
The Splendour of Morning shall duly possess him,
That he may not be sad at the falling of eve.
And, when he has done with mere living, God bless him!
A many shall sigh, and one Woman shall grieve! 
But he that is costive of soul toward his fellow,
Through the ways, and the works, and the woes of this life,
Him food shall not fatten, him drink shall not mellow;
And his innards shall brew him perpetual strife.
His eye shall be blind to God's Glory above him;
His ear shall be deaf to Earth's Laughter around;
His Friends and his Club and his Dog shall not love him;
And his Widow shall skip when he goes underground!
The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain
by William Wordsworth

The martial courage of a day is vain,
An empty noise of death the battle's roar,
If vital hope be wanting to restore,
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
A weight of hostile corses; drenched with gore
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain.
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast)
Austria a daughter of her Throne hath sold!
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold,
To think that such assurance can stand fast!
Soft Music
by Robert Herrick

The mellow touch of music most doth wound
The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.
THE Massy Ways, Carried Across These Heights
by William Wordsworth

The massy Ways, carried across these heights
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed,
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side
A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the steps
Of that same Bard, repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies
Through the vicissitudes of many a year
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,
Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more
In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,
As from the beds and borders of a garden
Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may spring
Out of a farewell yearning, favoured more
Than kindred wishes mated suitably
With vain regrets, the Exile would consign
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.
The Witness
by Fay Inchfawn

The Master of the Garden said;
"Who, now the Earth seems cold and dead,
Will by his fearless witnessing
Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?"
"Not yet. I am but half awake,"
All drowsily the Primrose spake.
And fast the sleeping Daffodils
Had folded up their golden frills.
"Indeed," the frail Anemone
Said softly, "'tis too cold for me."
Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set,
Replied: "No ice has melted yet."
When suddenly, with smile so bright,
Up sprang a Winter Aconite,
And to the Master joyfully
She cried: "I will the witness be."
The Crystal Cabinet
by William Blake

The Maiden caught me in the wild,
Where I was dancing merrily;
She put me into her Cabinet,
And lock'd me up with a golden key.
This cabinet is form'd of gold
And pearl and crystal shining bright,
And within it opens into a world
And a little lovely moony night.
Another England there I saw
Another London with its Tower,
Another Thames and other hills,
And another pleasant Surrey bower.
Another Maiden like herself,
Translucent, lovely, shining clear,
Threefold each in the other clos'd
O, what a pleasant trembling fear!
O, what a smile! a threefold smile
Fill'd me, that like a flame I burn'd;
I bent to kiss the lovely Maid,
And found a threefold kiss return'd.
I strove to seize the inmost form
With ardor fierce and hands of flame,
But burst the Crystal Cabinet,
And like a weeping Babe became
A weeping Babe upon the wild,
And weeping Woman pale reclin'd,
And in the outward air again,
I fill'd with woes the passing wind.
Dahlias
by Edgar Lee Masters

The mad wind is the warden,
And the smiling dahlias nod
To the dahlias across the garden,
And the wastes of the golden rod.
They never pray for pardon,
Nor ask his way nor forego,
Nor close their hearts nor harden
Nor stay his hand, nor bestow
Their hearts filched out of their bosoms,
Nor plan for dahlias to be.
For the wind blows over the garden
And sets the dahlias free.
They drift to the song of the warden,
Heedless they give him heed.
And he walks and blows through the garden
Blossom and leaf and seed.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXIX. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

[The following occurs in a MS. of the seventeenth century, in the Sloane Collection, the reference to which I have mislaid.]
The man in the wilderness asked me,
How many strawberries grew in the sea?
I answered him, as I thought good,
As many as red herrings grew in the wood.
The Well And The Tree
by William Butler Yeats

'The man that I praise,'
Cries out the empty well,
'Lives all his days
Where a hand on the bell
Can call the milch-cows
To the comfortable door of his house.
Who but an idiot would praise
Dry stones in a well?'
'The Man that I praise,'
Cries out the leafless tree,
'Has married and stays
By an old hearth, and he
On naught has set store
But children and dogs on the floor.
Who but an idiot would praise
A withered tree?'
Nursery Rhyme. LXXVII. Tales.
by Unknown

The man in the moon,
Came tumbling down,
And ask'd his way to Norwich,
He went by the south,
And burnt his mouth
With supping cold pease-porridge.
The Maori's Wool
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

The Maoris are a mighty race, the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk,
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk, or anything but work.
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow,
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.
'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came,
A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name,
(The word Rerenga means a "snag", but until he was gone
This didn't strike the folk he met, it struck them later on).
He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell",
And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell.
The Bold Bank Manager looked grave, the price of wool was high.
He said, "We'll lend you what you need, we're not disposed to buy.
"You ship the wool to England, Chief!, You'll find it's good advice,
And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price."
The Chief he thanked them courteously and said he wished to state
In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be freat,
But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand
This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand.
So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow,
To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au.
They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan,
With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man.
They called themselves poetic names, "lost children in a wood";
They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai, extra good!
And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped,
To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped;
And wedged into a "Cargo Tank", full up from stern to bow,
A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au.
It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque;
Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck;
A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark,
You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark,
But still it showed his gratitude; and, as he pouched the pelf,
"I'll haka for you, sir," he said, "in honour of yourself!"
The haka is a striking dance, the sort they don't allow
In any place more civilized than Rooti-iti-au.
He "haka'd" most effectively, then, with an airy grace,
Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space.
But when the wool return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans!
For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones!
Yes, thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found;
On every rock the bank had lent just eighteen-pence a pound.
And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow,
Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au.
Stonewall Jackson
by Herman Melville

Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville
May, 1863
The Man who fiercest charged in fight,
Whose sword and prayer were long--
Stonewall!
Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong,
How can we praise? Yet coming days
Shall not forget him with this song.
Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead,
Vainly he died and set his seal--
Stonewall!
Earnest in error, as we feel;
True to the thing he deemed was due,
True as John Brown or steel.
Relentlessly he routed us;
But we relent, for he is low--
Stonewall!
Justly his fame we outlaw; so
We drop a tear on the bold Virginian's bier,
Because no wreath we owe.