DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Love And Death.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Ognor che l' idol mio.
Whene'er the idol of these eyes appears
Unto my musing heart so weak and strong,
Death comes between her and my soul ere long
Chasing her thence with troops of gathering fears.
Nathless this violence my spirit cheers
With better hope than if she had no wrong;
While Love invincible arrays the throng
Of dauntless thoughts, and thus harangues his peers:
But once, he argues, can a mortal die;
But once be born: and he who dies afire,
What shall he gain if erst he dwelt with me?
That burning love whereby the soul flies free,
Doth lure each fervent spirit to aspire
Like gold refined in flame to God on high.
The Hill
by Edgar Lee Masters

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife - 
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one? - 
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire;
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag - 
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution? - 
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying - 
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
A Question
by Ellis Parker Butler

Whene'er I feed the barnyard folk
My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
And I am sore perplexed.
The rooster so politely stands
While waiting for his food,
But when I feed him, what a change!
He then is rough and rude.
He crowds his gentle wives aside
Or pecks them on the head;
Sometimes I think it would be best
If he were never fed.
And so I often stand for hours
Deciding which is right'
To impolitely have enough,
Or starve and be polite.
Song, Of One Eleven Years In Prison
by George Canning

I
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds]
II
Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!
Alas! Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.]
III
Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew,
Her neat post-wagon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish'd at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
IV
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many, they were few
When first I entered at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
V
There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottengen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu
tor, law professor at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
VI
Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water gru
el, never shall I see the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]
Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes.
by Thomas Moore

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
To dim a heaven so purely bright--
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights,
The ruined hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
A chilled or burning heart behind:--
While youth, that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears
Can ever shine so bright again.
The Lamplight Camp
by Madison Julius Cawein

Whenever on the windowpane
I hear the fingers of the rain,
And in the old trees, near the door,
The wind that whispers more and more,
Bright in the light made by the lamp
I make myself a hunter's camp.
The shadows of the desk and chairs
Are trees and woods; the corners, lairs
Where wolves and wildcats lie in wait
For any one who walks too late;
Upon my knees with my toy-gun
I hunt and slaughter many a one.
And now I rescue Riding Hood
From the great Wolf within the wood;
Now little Silver Locks, who flies
From the Three Bears with angry eyes;
And many a little girl who dwells
In story books, as mother tells.
So up and down and all around
My wildwood camp I prowl or bound,
From corner unto corner till
I reach the door and windowsill,
Where Jack-o'-Lantern hides, I know,
Outside the lamplight's steady glow.
And he, the goblin-fiend, my nurse
Once scared me with, when I was worse
Than naughty; would not go to sleep,
But keep awake; and cry and creep
Out of my bed, the goblin black,
The foul fiend, Flibberty-Jibberty Jack.
And when I think perhaps that these
May catch me, on my father's knees
I climb and listen to the rain
And wind outside the windowpane,
And feel so safe with him that I
Go right to sleep, and never cry.
The Boys
by James Whitcomb Riley

Where are they? - the friends of my childhood enchanted -
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?
Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?
Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's - I have wept at it over and over; -
I want the glad luster
Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!
Our Guardian Angels and Their Children
by Vachel Lindsay

Where a river roars in rapids
And doves in maples fret,
Where peace has decked the pastures
Our guardian angels met.
Long they had sought each other
In God's mysterious name,
Had climbed the solemn chaos tides
Alone, with hope aflame:
Amid the demon deeps had wound
By many a fearful way.
As they beheld each other
Their shout made glad the day.
No need of purse delayed them,
No hand of friend or kin - 
Nor menace of the bell and book,
Nor fear of mortal sin.
You did not speak, my girl,
At this, our parting hour.
Long we held each other
And watched their deeds of power.
They made a curious Eden.
We saw that it was good.
We thought with them in unison.
We proudly understood
Their amaranth eternal,
Their roses strange and fair,
The asphodels they scattered
Upon the living air.
They built a house of clouds
With skilled immortal hands.
They entered through the silver doors.
Their wings were wedded brands.
I labored up the valley
To granite mountains free.
You hurried down the river
To Zidon by the sea.
But at their place of meeting
They keep a home and shrine.
Your angel twists a purple flax,
Then weaves a mantle fine.
My angel, her defender
Upstanding, spreads the light
On painted clouds of fancy
And mists that touch the height.
Their sturdy babes speak kindly
And fly and run with joy,
Shepherding the helpless lambs - 
A Grecian girl and boy.
These children visit Heaven
Each year and make of worth
All we planned and wrought in youth
And all our tears on earth.
From books our God has written
They sing of high desire.
They turn the leaves in gentleness.
Their wings are folded fire.
Proem (AKA "Afterwhiles")
by James Whitcomb Riley

Where are they - the Afterwhiles -
Luring us the lengthening miles
Of our lives? Where is the dawn
With the dew across the lawn
Stroked with eager feet the far
Way the hills and valleys are?
Were the sun that smites the frown
Of the eastward-gazer down?
Where the rifted wreaths of mist
O'er us, tinged with amethyst,
Round the mountain's steep defiles?
Where are the afterwhiles?
Afterwhile - and we will go
Thither, yon, and too and fro -
From the stifling city streets
To the country's cool retreats -
From the riot to the rest
Were hearts beat the placidest:
Afterwhile, and we will fall
Under breezy trees, and loll
In the shade, with thirsty sight
Drinking deep the blue delight
Of the skies that will beguile
Us as children - afterwhile.
Afterwhile - and one intends
To be gentler to his friends - ,
To walk with them, in the hush
Of still evenings, o'er the plush
Of home-leading fields, and stand
Long at parting, hand in hand:
One, in time, will joy to take
New resolves for some one's sake,
And wear then the look that lies
Clear and pure in other eyes -
We will soothe and reconcile
His own conscience - afterwhile.
Afterwhile - we have in view
A far scene to journey to - ,
Where the old home is, and where
The old mother waits us there,
Peering, as the time grows late,
Down the old path to the gate - .
How we'll click the latch that locks
In the pinks and hollyhocks,
And leap up the path once more
Where she waits us at the door - !
How we'll greet the dear old smile,
And the warm tears - afterwhile!
Ah, the endless afterwhiles - !
Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles,
In distance far withdrawn,
Stretching on, and on, and on,
Till the fancy is footsore
And faints in the dust before
The last milestone's granite face,
Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space.
O far glimmering worlds and wings,
Mystic smiles and beckonings,
Lead us through the shadowy aisles
Out into the afterwhiles.
Sonnet CXI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quand' io v' odo parlar si dolcemente.
TO ONE WHO SPOKE TO HIM OF LAURA.
Whene'er you speak of her in that soft tone
Which Love himself his votaries surely taught,
My ardent passion to such fire is wrought,
That e'en the dead reviving warmth might own:
Where'er to me she, dear or kind, was known
There the bright lady is to mind now brought,
In the same bearing which, to waken thought,
Needed no sound but of my sighs alone.
Half-turn'd I see her looking, on the breeze
Her light hair flung; so true her memories roll
On my fond heart of which she keeps the keys;
But the surpassing bliss which floods my soul
So checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there,
She sits as on her throne, I never dare.
MACGREGOR.
A Curate's Complaint.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.
On A Change Of Masters At A Great Public School. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her C'sar's place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.)
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name,
Right In Front Of The Army
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

"Where 'ave you been this week or more,
'Aven't seen you about the war'?
Thought perhaps you was at the rear
Guarding the waggons." "What, us? No fear!
Where have we been? Why, bless my heart,
Where have we been since the bloomin' start?
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army
Teaching 'em how to fight!"
Every separate man you see,
Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V.,
Every one of 'em seems to be
Right in front of the army!
Most of the troops to the camp had gone,
When we met with a cow-gun toiling on;
And we said to the boys, as they walked her past,
"Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!"
"Here at last! Why, what d'yer mean?
Ain't we just where we've always been?
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army,
Teaching'em bow to fight!"
Correspondents and Vets in force,
Mounted foot and dismounted horse,
All of them were, as a matter of course,
Right in the front of the army.
Old Lord Roberts will have to mind
If ever the enemy get behind;
For they'll smash him up with a rear attack,
Because his army has got no back!
Think of the horrors that might befall
An army without any rear at all!
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army,
Teaching 'em how to fight!
Swede attaches and German counts,
Yeomen (known as De Wet's Remounts),
All of them were, by their own accounts,
Right in the front of the army!
Lines Written On Leaving New Rochelle.
by Joseph Rodman Drake

Whene'er thy wandering footstep bends
Its pathway to the Hermit tree,
Among its cordial band of friends,
Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me?
Though all too few the hours have roll'd
That saw the stranger linger here,
In memory's volume let them hold
One little spot to friendship dear.
I oft have thought how sweet 'twould be
To steal the bird of Eden's art;
And leave behind a trace of me
On every kind and friendly heart,
And like the breeze in fragrance rolled,
To gather as I wander by,
From every soul of kindred mould,
Some touch of cordial sympathy.
'Tis the best charm in life's dull dream,
To feel that yet there linger here
Bright eyes that look with fond esteem,
And feeling hearts that hold me dear.
To M. S. G.
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were - unhallow'd bliss.
2.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that, - would banish its repose.
3.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love, - and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
4.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
5.
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.
6.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
7.
I will not ease my tortur'd heart,
By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
8.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save, - 
I bid thee now a last farewell.
9.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
10.
At least from guilt shall thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shall thou be to love.
The House with Nobody in It
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.
But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.
Lament XIV
by Jan Kochanowski

Where are those gates through which so long ago
Orpheus descended to the realms below
To seek his lost one? Little daughter, I
Would find that path and pass that ford whereby
The grim-faced boatman ferries pallid shades
And drives them forth to joyless cypress glades.
But do thou not desert me, lovely lute!
Be thou the furtherance of my mournful suit
Before dread Pluto, till he shall give ear
To our complaints and render up my dear.
To his dim dwelling all men must repair,
And so must she, her father's joy and heir;
But let him grant the fruit now scarce in flower
To fill and ripen till the harvest hour!
Yet if that god doth bear a heart within
So hard that one in grief can nothing win,
What can I but renounce this upper air
And lose my soul, but also lose my care.
Credit Valley Trip.
by James McIntyre

The Credit Valley Railway Company having placed a car at the service of the council we were kindly invited to accompany them to Toronto.
Whene'er we take a tour abroad
We love to travel o'er new road,
Where scenery to us is new
And landscape pleasing to the view,
When invited for to rally
And take a trip on Credit Valley,
We resolved for to afford
A day with Council and School Board,
For to view the rural charms
Of hills and dales and fertile farms,
With joy we saw the sunbeams gleam
On Grand River beauteous stream,
And those perpendicular walls
Of rock, like old baronial halls,
We saw the great lake ebb and flow,
And queen city of Ontario,
While some enjoyed the genial smile
Of Hanlon on his lake girt isle,
Returning home each one exclaims
"Happiest spot is banks of Thames."
Reason
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

... Finally, what is Reason? You have often asked me; and this is my answer:
Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee,
[Sublimates] to a pure transparency,
That intercepts no light and adds no stain
There Reason is, and then begins her reign!
But alas!
------`tu stesso, ti fai grosso
Col falso immaginar, s' che non vedi
Ci' che vedresti, se l'avessi scosso.'
(Dante, Paradiso, Canto 1, lines 88-90)
My Pretty Maid
by Walter Crane

1.
"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?"
"I'm going a-milking, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"I'm going a-milking, Sir," she said.
2.
"Shall I go with you, my pretty maid?"
"Yes, if you please, kind Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"Yes, if you please, kind Sir," she said.
3.
"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?"
"My face is my fortune, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"My face is my fortune, Sir," she said.
4.
"Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid."
"Nobody asked you, Sir," she said,
"Sir," she said, "Sir," she said,
"Nobody asked you, Sir," she said.
The Key-Note.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Where are the songs I used to know,
Where are the notes I used to sing?
I have forgotten everything
I used to know so long ago;
Summer has followed after Spring;
Now Autumn is so shrunk and sere,
I scarcely think a sadder thing
Can be the Winter of my year.
Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest,
When bushes put their berries on;
While they their ruddy jewels don,
He sings out of a ruddy breast;
The hips and haws and ruddy breast
Make one spot warm where snowflakes lie
They break and cheer the unlovely rest
Of Winter's pause - and why not I?
The Angels.
by H. P. Nichols

"Where are the angels, mother?
Though you have often said
They watched at night around me,
And safely kept my bed;
"Though every night I listen
Their voices low to hear,
Yet I have never heard them,--
Where are they, mother dear?
"And when the silver moonshine
Fills all my room with light,
And when the stars are shining,
So countless and so bright.
"I hope to see them coming,
With their fair forms, to me;
Yet I have never seen them,--
Mother, where can they be?
"I saw a cloud, this evening,
Red with the setting sun;
It was so very lovely,
I thought it might be one.
"But when it faded slowly,
I knew it could not be,
For they are always shining;
Why come they not to me?"
"My child, when through your window
Shines down the moonlight clear,--
When all is still and silent,
And no kind friend is near,--
"Are you not glad and happy,
And full of thoughts of love?
Do you not think of heaven.
That brighter land above?
"These thoughts the angels bring you;
And though the gentle tone
Of their sweet voices comes not
When you are all alone;
"Yet they are always leaving,
For earth, their homes on high;
And though you cannot see them,
You feel that they are nigh."