DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Brook! Whose Society The Poet Seeks
by William Wordsworth

Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If wish were mine some type of thee to view,
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs:
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - II. - Bruges
by William Wordsworth

Bruges I saw attired with golden light
(Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power:
The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour,
That, slowly making way for peaceful night,
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight
Offers the beauty, the magnificence,
And sober graces, left her for defense
Against the injuries of time, the spite
Of fortune, and the desolating storms
Of future war. Advance not, spare to hide,
O gentle Power of darkness! these mild hues;
Obscure not yet these silent avenues
Of stateliest architecture, where the Forms
Of nun-like females, with soft motion, glide!
The Melbourne International Exhibition
by Henry Kendall

I
Brothers from far-away lands,
Sons of the fathers of fame,
Here are our hearts and our hands
This is our song of acclaim.
Lords from magnificent zones,
Shores of superlative sway,
Awful with lustre of thrones,
This is our greeting to-day.
Europe and Asia are here
Shining they enter our ports!
She that is half of the sphere
Beams like a sun in our courts.
Children of elders whose day
Shone to the planet's white ends,
Meet, in the noble old way,
Sons of your forefather's friends.
II
Dressed is the beautiful city the spires of it
Burn in the firmament stately and still;
Forest has vanished the wood and the lyres of it,
Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill.
This is the region, and here is the bay by it,
Collins, the deathless, beheld in a dream:
Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it
Paused in the hush of a season supreme.
Here, on the waters of majesty near to us,
Lingered the leaders by towers of flame:
Elders who turn from the lordly old year to us
Crowned with the lights of ineffable fame.
III
Nine and seventy years ago,
Up the blaze of yonder bay,
On a great exalted day,
Came from seas august with snow
Waters where the whirlwinds blow
First of England's sons who stood
By the deep green, bygone wood
Where the wild song used to flow
Nine and seventy years ago.
Five and forty years ago,
On a grand auspicious morn
When the South Wind blew his horn,
Where the splendid mountains glow
Peaks that God and Sunrise know
Came the fearless, famous band,
Founders of our radiant land,
From the lawns where roses grow,
Five and forty years ago.
IV
By gracious slopes of fair green hills,
In shadows cool and deep,
Where floats the psalm of many rills,
The noble elders sleep.
But while their children's children last,
While seed from seedling springs,
The print and perfume of their past
Will be as deathless things.
Their voices are with vanished years,
With other days and hours;
Their homes are sanctified by tears
They sleep amongst the flowers.
They do not walk by street or stream,
Or tread by grove or shore,
But, in the nation's highest dream,
They shine for evermore.
V
By lawny slope and lucent strand
Are singing flags of every land;
On streams of splendour bays impearled
The keels are here of all the world.
With lutes of light and cymbals clear
We waft goodwill to every sphere.
The links of love to-day are thrown
From sea to sea from zone to zone;
And, lo! we greet, in glory drest,
The lords that come from east and west,
And march like noble children forth
To meet our fathers from the North!
VI
To Thee be the glory, All-Bountiful Giver!
The song that we sing is an anthem to Thee,
Whose blessing is shed on Thy people for ever,
Whose love is like beautiful light on the sea.
Behold, with high sense of Thy mercy unsleeping,
We come to Thee, kneel to Thee, praise Thee, and pray,
O Lord, in whose hand is the strength that is keeping
The storm from the wave and the night from the day!
An Excellent New Song[1]; On A Seditious Pamphlet.
by Jonathan Swift

1720-21
To the tune of "Packington's Pound."
Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,
Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over,
With forty things more: now hear what the law says,
Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover.
Though a printer and Dean,
Seditiously mean,
Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean,
We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
In England the dead in woollen are clad,
The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on;
To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,
Since a living dog better is than a dead lion.
Our wives they grow sullen
At wearing of woollen,
And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in.
Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire,
Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder,
And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire.
Therefore, I assure ye,
Our noble grand jury,
When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury;
They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning,
And before coram nobis so oft has been call'd,
Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen,
And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'd:
And as for the Dean,
You know whom I mean,
If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean.
Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.
Sonnet To George Keats: Written In Sickness
by John Keats

Brother belov'd if health shall smile again,
Upon this wasted form and fever'd cheek:
If e'er returning vigour bid these weak
And languid limbs their gladsome strength regain,
Well may thy brow the placid glow retain
Of sweet content and thy pleas'd eye may speak
The conscious self applause, but should I seek
To utter what this heart can feel, Ah! vain
Were the attempt! Yet kindest friends while o'er
My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness
The being whom your cares could e'en restore,
From the cold grasp of Death, say can you guess
The feelings which these lips can ne'er express;
Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store.
Truly He Hath A Sweet Bed
by Thomas Moult

Brown earth, sun-soaked,
Beneath his head
And over the quiet limbs....
Through time unreckoned
Lay this brown earth for him. Now is he come.
Truly he hath a sweet bed.
The perfume shed
From invisible gardens is chaliced by kindly airs
And carried for welcome to the stranger.
Long seasons ere he came, this wilderness
They habited.
They, and the mist of stars
Down-spread
About him as a hush of vespering birds.
They, and the sun, the moon:
Naught now denies him the moon's coming,
Nor the morning trail of gold,
The luminous print of evening, red
At the sun's tread.
The brown earth holds him.
The stars and little winds, the friendly moon
And sun attend in turn his rest.
They linger above him, softly moving. They are gracious,
And gently-wise: as though remembering how his hunger,
His kinship, knew them once but blindly
In thoughts unsaid,
As a dream that fled.
So is he theirs assuredly as the seasons.
So is his sleep by them for ever companioned.
...And, perchance, by the voices of bright children playing
And knowing not: by the echo of young laughter
When their dancing is sped.
Truly he hath a sweet bed.
Lines, To The Memory Of A Lady.
by Thomas Gent

Bring the sad cypress wreath to grace the tomb,
Where rests the liberal friend of human kind,
Around its base let deathless flow'rets bloom,
Wet with the off'rings of the grateful mind.
Firm was thy friendship, ardent, and sincere;
Gen'rous thy soul, to ev'ry suff'rer prov'd:
Rest, sainted shade! blest with the heart-felt tear,
On earth lamented, and in heaven belov'd.
Now will the widow weep that thou art gone,
Who oft her unprotected babes hast fed:
While tottering age shall heave the sigh forlorn,
As slow they move to beg their bitter bread.
Long shall the memory of thy worth survive,
Grav'd on the heart, when sinks the trophied stone;
Oh! may the plenty-bless'd as freely give,
And from thy life of virtue form their own.
Broceliande
by Alan Seeger

Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and menacing shade,
Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze
of horizons untravelled, unscanned.
Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world
are the moon-marshalled hosts that invade
Broceliande.
Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight disband,
Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted in solemn parade,
Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the valleys of Fairyland - - 
Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the horn of a huntsman strayed,
Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage fitfully fanned,
Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle,
disturbed and affrayed:
Broceliande - 
Broceliande - 
Broceliande. . . .
Anacreontic Verse.
by Robert Herrick

Brisk methinks I am, and fine
When I drink my cap'ring wine:
Then to love I do incline,
When I drink my wanton wine:
And I wish all maidens mine,
When I drink my sprightly wine:
Well I sup and well I dine,
When I drink my frolic wine;
But I languish, lower, and pine,
When I want my fragrant wine.
Alison's Mother To The Brook
by Josephine Preston Peabody

Brook, of the listening grass,
Brook of the sun-fleckt wings,
Brook of the same wild way and flickering spell!
Must you begone? Will you forever pass,
After so many years and dear to tell?--
Brook of all hoverings ...
Brook that I kneel above;
Brook of my love.
Ah, but I have a charm to trouble you;
A spell that shall subdue
Your all-escaping heart, unheedful one
And unremembering!
Now, when I make my prayer
To your wild brightness there
That will but run and run,
O mindless Water!--
Hark,--now will I bring
A grace as wild,--my little yearling daughter,
My Alison.
Heed well that threat;
And tremble for your hill-born liberty
So bright to see!--
Your shadow-dappled way, unthwarted yet,
And the high hills whence all your dearness bubbled;--
You, never to possess!
For let her dip but once--O fair and fleet,--
Here in your shallows, yes,
Here in your silverness
Her two blithe feet,--
O Brook of mine, how shall your heart be troubled!
The heart, the bright unmothering heart of you,
That never knew.--
(O never, more than mine of long ago.
How could we know?--)
For who should guess
The shock and smiting of that perfectness?--
The lily-thrust of those ecstatic feet
Unpityingly sweet?--
Sweet beyond all the blurred blind dreams that grope
The upward paths of hope?
And who could guess
The dulcet holiness,
The lilt and gladness of those jocund feet,
Unpityingly sweet?
Ah, for your coolness that shall change and stir
With every glee of her!--
Under the fresh amaze
That drips and glistens from her wiles and ways;
When the endearing air
That everywhere
Must twine and fold and follow her, shall be
Rippled to ring on ring of melody,--
Music, like shadows from the joy of her,
Small starry Reveller!--
When from her triumphings,--
All frolic wings--
There soars beyond the glories of the height,
The laugh of her delight!
And it shall sound, until
Your heart stand still;
Shaken to human sight;
Struck through with tears and light;
One with the one desire
Unto that central Fire
Of Love the Sun, whence all we lighted are
Even from clod to star.
And all your glory, O most swift and sweet!--
And all your exultation only this;
To be the lowly and forgotten kiss
Beneath those feet.
You that must ever pass,--
You of the same wild way,--
The silver-bright good-bye without a look!--
You that would never stay,
For the beseeching grass ...
Brook!--
You, Four Walls,
Wall not in my heart!
When the lovely night-time falls
All so welcomely,
Blinding, sweet hearth-fire,
Light of heart's desire,
Blind not, blind not me!
Unto them that weep apart,--
While you glow, within,
Wreckt, despairing kin,--
Dark with misery:
--Do not blind my heart!
You, close Heart!
Never hide from mine
Worlds that I divine
Through thy human dearness.
O belov'd Nearness,
Hallow all I understand
With thy hand-in-hand;--
All the lights I seek,
With thy cheek-to-cheek;
All the loveliness I loved apart.
You, heart's Home!--
Wall not in my heart.
Olaf Trygvason
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 10)
Broad the sails o'er the North Sea go;
High on deck in the morning glow
Erling Skjalgsson from Sole
Scans all the sea toward Denmark:
"Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?"
Six and fifty the ships are there,
Sails are let down, toward Denmark stare
Sun-reddened men; - then murmur:
"Where is the great Long Serpent?
Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?"
When the sun in the second dawn
Cloudward rising no mast had drawn,
Grew to a storm their clamor:
"Where is the great Long Serpent?
Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?"
Silent, silent that moment bound,
Stood they all; for from ocean's ground
Sighed round the fleet a muffled:
"Taken the great Long Serpent,
Fallen is Olaf Trygvason."
Ever since, through so many a year,
Norway's ships must beside them hear,
Clearest in nights of moonshine:
"Taken the great Long Serpent,
Fallen is Olaf Trygvason."
Leander To Hero.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Brows wan thro' blue-black tresses
Wet with sharp rain and kisses;
Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,
Like torn wings fierce for flight;
Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,
One kiss and then - good-night.
II.
Can this thy love undo me
When in the heavy waves?
Nay; it must make unto me
Their groaning backs but slaves!
For its magic doth indue me
With strength o'er all their graves.
III.
Weep not as heavy-hearted
Before I go! For thou
Wilt follow as we parted - 
A something hollow-hearted,
Dark eyes whence cold tears started,
Gray, ghostly arms out-darted
To take me, even as now,
To drag me, their weak lover,
To caves where sirens hover,
Deep caves the dark waves cover,
Down! throat and hair and brow.
IV.
But in thy sleep shalt follow - 
Thy bosom fierce to mine,
Long arms wound warm and hollow, - 
In sleep, in sleep shalt follow, - 
To save me from the brine;
Dim eyes on mine divine;
Deep breath at mine like wine;
Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses
To dream me onward home,
White in white foam that hisses,
Love's creature safe in foam.
V.
What, Hero, else for weeping
Than long, lost hours of sleeping
And vestal-vestured Dreams,
Where thy Leander stooping
Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping;
No harsh, hard looks accusing;
No curls with ocean oozing;
But then as now he seems,
Sweet-favored as can make him
Thy smile, which is a might,
A hope, a god to take him
Thro' all this hell of night.
VI.
Then where thy breasts are hollow
One kiss! one kiss! I go!
Sweet soul! a kiss to follow
Up whence thy breasts bud hollow,
Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,
Eyes than dark waters brighter
Wherein the far stars glow.
Look lovely when I leave thee! - 
I go, my love, I go!
Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,
That I must leave thee so.
Farewell Lines To Bristol Hot Wells.
by John Carr (Sir)

Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;
And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below; - 
In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
Th' expected vessel proudly glides along,
While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song; - 
For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,
Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.
Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.
Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.
Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,
Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.
Despair across his joys now intervenes,
And sternly bids the little cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.
His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.
Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom,
Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,
And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.
Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near,
Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!
Upon One-Ey'd Broomsted. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Broomsted a lameness got by cold and beer:
And to the bath went, to be cured there:
His feet were helped, and left his crutch behind;
But home returned, as he went forth, half blind.
Rondeau. - Brother And Friend.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Brother and friend I found thee in the hour
Of need and day of trouble, strong and true. - 
In June's fair mirth, and when the sunrise hue
Shewed bright where joy had built his thoughtless bower,
Thou wert a child to sport with, something lower
Than a friend's need. I gave, methought, thy due, - 
An elder sister's gentleness, nor knew
That ere Spring dawned my soul would feel thy power.
Brother and Friend!
A man, with a man's strength, and will, and fire,
I know thee, my Alcides; thus a god
For some fair soul to reverence, and desire
To own and worship. I can place thee higher
To-day, in naming thee, - pain's paths just trod - 
Brother and Friend.
The New Husbandman
by Richard Le Gallienne

Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,
God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,
Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,
And all about it ever the birds sing.
Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine
That sowed there stars along with good white grain,
But reaped thereof - be better fortune thine - 
Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.
Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,
Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,
Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance,
And took to other furrows my laughing toil.
And other men as I that ploughed before
Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap
Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor
Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.
The Wood-God.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Brother, lost brother!
Thou of mine ancient kin!
Thou of the swift will that no ponderings smother!
The dumb life in me fumbles out to the shade
Thou lurkest in.
In vain--evasive ever through the glade
Departing footsteps fail;
And only where the grasses have been pressed,
Or by snapped twigs I follow a fruitless trail.
So--give o'er the quest!
Sprawl on the roots and moss!
Let the lithe garter squirm across my throat!
Let the slow clouds and leaves above me float
Into mine eyeballs and across,--
Nor think them further! Lo, the marvel! now,
Thou whom my soul desireth, even thou
Sprawl'st by my side, who fled'st at my pursuit.
I hear thy fluting; at my shoulder there
I see the sharp ears through the tangled hair,
And birds and bunnies at thy music mute.
At The Banquet To The Chinese Embassy
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Brothers, whom we may not reach
Through the veil of alien speech,
Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell
What the lips in vain would spell, - 
Words that hearts can understand,
Brothers from the Flowery Land!
We, the evening's latest born,
Hail the children of the morn!
We, the new creation's birth,
Greet the lords of ancient earth,
From their storied walls and towers
Wandering to these tents of ours!
Land of wonders, fair Cathay,
Who long hast shunned the staring day,
Hid in mists of poet's dreams
By thy blue and yellow streams, - 
Let us thy shadowed form behold, - 
Teach us as thou didst of old.
Knowledge dwells with length of days;
Wisdom walks in ancient ways;
Thine the compass that could guide
A nation o'er the stormy tide,
Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears,
Safe through thrice a thousand years!
Looking from thy turrets gray
Thou hast seen the world's decay, - 
Egypt drowning in her sands, - 
Athens rent by robbers' hands, - 
Rome, the wild barbarian's prey,
Like a storm-cloud swept away:
Looking from thy turrets gray
Still we see thee. Where are they?
And to I a new-born nation waits,
Sitting at the golden gates
That glitter by the sunset sea, - 
Waits with outspread arms for thee!
Open wide, ye gates of gold,
To the Dragon's banner-fold!
Builders of the mighty wall,
Bid your mountain barriers fall!
So may the girdle of the sun.
Bind the East and West in one,
Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan
The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan, - 
Till Erie blends its waters blue
With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu, - 
Till deep Missouri lends its flow
To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho!
The Weeds
by Edward Dyson

Brown passed away, and Mrs Brown,
In weeds all smothered, went through town
By Brown's neat grave to take her stand,
And hold a metaphoric hand.
She diligently drove away
The sorrel springing every day.
When Mrs. Robert Wittle died
Poor Bob would sit her grave beside
On Sunday afternoons, and shed
His briny tribute to the dead;
And dimpled Mrs. brown and he
Had quite a bond of sympathy.
But presently, I understand,
'Twas Bob who held the widow's hand.
She decker herself in orange spray,
And all her weeds she cast away.
Now where the sorrel sheds its seeds
Brown's grave is thick with widow's weeds.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Ben Jonson
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform,
With many a valley impleached with ivy and vine,
Wherein the springs of all the streams run wine,
And many a crag full-faced against the storm,
The mountain where thy Muse's feet made warm
Those lawns that revelled with her dance divine
Shines yet with fire as it was wont to shine
From tossing torches round the dance aswarm.
Nor less, high-stationed on the grey grave heights,
High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart-kindling lights
Hold converse: and the herd of meaner things
Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft
When wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughed,
Darkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings.