DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
And Doth Not A Meeting Like This.
by Thomas Moore

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.
And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining thro';
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.
But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.
Emer's Lament For Cuchulain
by Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

And Emer took the head of Cuchulain in her hands, and she washed it clean, and put a silk cloth about it, and she held it to her breast, and she began to cry heavily over it, and she made this complaint:
Och, head! Ochone, O head! you gave death to great heroes, to many hundreds; my head will lie in the same grave, the one stone will be made for both of us.
Och, hand! Ochone, hand, that was once gentle. It is often it was put under my head; it is dear that hand was to me.
Dear mouth! Ochone, kind mouth that was sweet-voiced telling stories; since the time love first came on your face, you never refused either weak or strong.
Dear the man, dear the man, that would kill the whole of a great army; dear his cold bright hair, and dear his bright cheeks!
Dear the king, dear the king, that never gave a refusal to any; thirty days it is to-night since my body lay beside your body.
Och, two spears! Ochone, two spears! Och, shield! Och, deadly sword! Let them be given, to Conall of the battles; there was never any wage given the like of that.
I am glad, I am glad, Cuchulain of Muirthemne, I never brought red shame on your face, for any unfaithfulness against you.
Happy are they, happy are they, who will never hear the cuckoo again for ever, now that the Hound has died from us.
I am carried away like a branch on the stream; I will not bind up my hair to-day. From this day I have nothing to say that is better than Ochone! "And oh! my love," she said, "we were often in one another's company, and it was happy for us; for if the world had been searched from the rising of the sun to sunset, the like would never have been found in one place, of the Black Sainglain and the Grey of Macha, and Laeg the chariot-driver, and myself and Cuchulain. And it is breaking my heart is in my body, to be listening to the pity and the sorrowing of women and men, and the harsh crying of the young men of Ulster keening Cuchulain." And after that Emer bade Conall to make a wide, very deep grave for Cuchulain; and she laid herself down beside her gentle comrade, and she put her mouth to his mouth, and she said: "Love of my life, my friend, my sweetheart, my one choice of the men of the earth, many is the woman, wed or unwed, envied me till to-day; and now I will not stay living after you."
Epitaph For Maria Wentworth
by Thomas Carew

And here the precious dust is laid;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.
Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
In height, it soar'd to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.
Before, a pious duty shin'd
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.
Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.
So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To ev'ry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.
Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust.
Canvassing
by Paul Cameron Brown

And I thought of things,
things that come in small clutches,
tiny memories,
thoughts evoking the
approach of time or
footsteps about to open graves.
More things than the troubled
single entities we attach to them;
things marbled with the elasticity of rain,
rumours of war, pitch black leaves in the
bottom of a pond where the whelp of a dog
tries to outrun night.
United Front Song
by Bertolt Brecht

And because a man is human
He'll want to eat, and thanks a lot
But talk can't take the place of meat
or fill an empty pot.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a man is human
he won't care for a kick in the face.
He doesn't want slaves under him
Or above him a ruling class.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
And because a worker's a worker
No one else will bring him liberty.
It's nobody's work but the worker' own
To set the worker free.
So left, two, three!
So left, two, three!
Comrade, there's a place for you.
Take your stand in the workers united front
For you are a worker too.
Despair.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Posthumous Fragments Of Margaret Mcholson.
Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.
[The "Posthumous Fragments", published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810.]
Despair.
And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm
In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night?
Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm
Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright?
And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still
Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high?
Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill,
And, in the eternal mansions of the sky,
Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?
Hark! I hear music on the zephyr's wing,
Louder it floats along the unruffled sky;
Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string -
Now faint in distant air the murmurs die.
Awhile it stills the tide of agony.
Now - now it loftier swells - again stern woe
Arises with the awakening melody.
Again fierce torments, such as demons know,
In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.
Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm,
Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song,
Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form,
And roll the tempest's wildest swell along.
Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash,
Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder's roar;
Arouse the whirlwind - and let ocean dash
In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore, -
Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more.
Yes! every tie that links me here is dead;
Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey,
Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled,
I come, terrific power, I come away.
Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell,
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain;
And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell,
I'll echo back their deadly yells again,
Cursing the power that ne'er made aught in vain.
The New Jerusalem
by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my charriot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Inconstancy.
by Thomas Moore

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me--
And could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute--
If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.
Lines On Seeing My Wife And Two Children Sleeping In The Same Chamber.[1]
by Thomas Hood

And has the earth lost its so spacious round,
The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heaven - my universe of love!
All that my God can give me, or remove,
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.
Sweet that in this small compass I behove
To live their living and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh,
We might resign all mundane care and strife,
And seek together that transcendent sky,
Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!
To The Distant One.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

And have I lost thee evermore?
Hast thou, oh fair one, from me flown?
Still in mine ear sounds, as of yore,
Thine ev'ry word, thine ev'ry tone.
As when at morn the wand'rer's eye
Attempts to pierce the air in vain,
When, hidden in the azure sky,
The lark high o'er him chaunts his strain:
So do I cast my troubled gaze
Through bush, through forest, o'er the lea;
Thou art invoked by all my lays;
Oh, come then, loved one, back to me!
The Wife Of Llew
by Francis Ledwidge

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring:
"Come now and let us make a wife for Llew."
And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew,
And in a shadow made a magic ring:
They took the violet and the meadow-sweet
To form her pretty face, and for her feet
They built a mound of daisies on a wing,
And for her voice they made a linnet sing
In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth.
And over all they chanted twenty hours.
And Llew came singing from the azure south
And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.
The Tell-Tale Flowers
by John Clare

And has the Spring's all glorious eye
No lesson to the mind?
The birds that cleave the golden sky--
Things to the earth resigned--
Wild flowers that dance to every wind--
Do they no memory leave behind?
Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers,
That bloom in wood and glen,
Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours,
And childhood's dreams again.
The primrose on the woodland lea
Was more than gold and lands to me.
The violets by the woodland side
Are thick as they could thrive;
I've talked to them with childish pride
As things that were alive:
I find them now in my distress--
They seem as sweet, yet valueless.
The cowslips on the meadow lea,
How have I run for them!
I looked with wild and childish glee
Upon each golden gem:
And when they bowed their heads so shy
I laughed, and thought they danced for joy.
And when a man, in early years,
How sweet they used to come,
And give me tales of smiles and tears,
And thoughts more dear than home:
Secrets which words would then reprove--
They told the names of early love.
The primrose turned a babbling flower
Within its sweet recess:
I blushed to see its secret bower,
And turned her name to bless.
The violets said the eyes were blue:
I loved, and did they tell me true?
The cowslips, blooming everywhere,
My heart's own thoughts could steal:
I nip't them that they should not hear:
They smiled, and would reveal;
And o'er each meadow, right or wrong,
They sing the name I've worshipped long.
The brook that mirrored clear the sky--
Full well I know the spot;
The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye,
And said "Forget-me-not."
And from the brook I turned away,
But heard it many an after day.
The king-cup on its slender stalk,
Within the pasture dell,
Would picture there a pleasant walk
With one I loved so well.
It said "How sweet at eventide
'T would be, with true love at thy side."
And on the pasture's woody knoll
I saw the wild bluebell,
On Sundays where I used to stroll
With her I loved so well:
She culled the flowers the year before;
These bowed, and told the story o'er.
And every flower that had a name
Would tell me who was fair;
But those without, as strangers, came
And blossomed silent there:
I stood to hear, but all alone:
They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.
But seasons now have nought to say,
The flowers no news to bring:
Alone I live from day to day--
Flowers deck the bier of Spring;
And birds upon the bush or tree
All sing a different tale to me.
The New Ghost
by Fredegond Shove

'And he, casting away his garment, rose and came to Jesus.'
And he cast it down, down, on the green grass,
Over the young crocuses, where the dew was -
He cast the garment of his flesh that was full of death,
And like a sword his spirit showed out of the cold sheath.
He went a pace or two, he went to meet his Lord,
And, as I said, his spirit looked like a clean sword,
And seeing him the naked trees began shivering,
And all the birds cried out aloud as it were late spring.
And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw
That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw,
And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play,
And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away.
The Lord held his head fast, and you could see
That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free -
As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground;
And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found.
The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord's word -
As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird -
So the ghost's feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord's cheek,
And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak.
But the Lord went then, to show him the way,
Over the young crocuses, under the green may
That was not quite in flower yet - to a far-distant land;
And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun's hand.
A Valentine
by Lewis Carroll

Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full Dolorum Omnium,
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find your heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
In Memoriam. - Colonel Samuel Colt,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.
And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw
In manly vigor bold?
That stately form,--that noble face,
Shall we no more behold?--
Not now of the renown we speak
That gathers round his name,
For other climes beside our own
Bear witness to his fame;
Nor of the high inventive power
That stretched from zone to zone,
And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,--
For these to all are known;--
Nor of the love his liberal soul
His native City bore,
For she hath monuments of this
Till memory is no more;
Nor of the self-reliant force
By which his way he told,
Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd
All enterprise to gold,
And made the indignant River yield
Unto the ozier'd plain,--
For these would ask a wider range
Than waits the lyric strain:
We choose those unobtrusive traits
That dawn'd with influence mild,
When in his noble Mother's arms
We saw the noble child,
And noted mid the changeful scenes
Of boyhood's sport or strife,
That quiet, firm and ruling mind
Which marked advancing life.
So onward as he held his course
Through hardship to renown,
He kept fresh sympathy for those
Who cope with fortune's frown,
The kind regard for honest toil,
The joy to see it rise,
The fearless truth that never sought
His frailties to disguise,
The lofty mind that all alone
Gigantic plans sustain'd,
Yet turned unboastfully away
From fame and honors gained;
The tender love for her who blest
His home with angel-care,
And for the infant buds that rose
In opening beauty fair.
Deep in the heart whence flows this lay,
Is many a grateful trace
Of friendship's warm and earnest deed
Which nought can e'er replace;
For in the glory of his prime
The pulse forsakes his breast,
And by his buried little ones
He lays him down to rest.
And thousand stand with drooping head
Beside his open grave,
To whose industrious, faithful hands,
The daily bread he gave,
The daily bread that wife and babe
Or aged parent cheer'd,
Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs,
Which he for them had rear'd.
There's mourning in the princely halls
So late with gladness gay,
A tear within the heart of love
That will not dry away;
A sense of loss on all around,
A sigh of grief and pain--
"The like of him we lose to day,
We ne'er shall see again."
And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time
by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Arms And The Man. - The French In The Trenches.
by James Barron Hope

And as the allied hosts advance
All the left wing is given to France,
Is given to France and - Fame!
Yes, these together always ride
The Dioscouroi of the tide
Where War plays out the game!
And that broad front 'tis her's to hold
With hand of iron, heart of gold
And helmet plumed with flame.
Across the river broad she sends
DeChoisy and Lauzun where ends
The leaguer far and wide,
While Weedon seconds as he may
The gallant Frenchmen in array
Upon the Gloucester side.
As waves hurled on a stranded keel
Make all the oaken timbers reel
With many a pond'rous blow,
So day by day, and night by night
The French like billows foaming white
Thunder against the foe.
To This End
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

And hast Thou help for such as me,
Sin-weary, stained, forlorn?
"Yea then,--if not for such as thee
To what end was I born?"
But I have strayed so far away,
So oft forgotten Thee.
"No smallest thing that thou hast done
But was all known to Me."
And I have followed other gods,
And brought Thy name to scorn.
"It was to win thee back from them
I wore the crown of thorn."
And, spite of all, Thou canst forgive,
And still attend my cry?
"Dear heart, for this end I did live,
To this end did I die."
And if I fall away again,
And bring Thy Love to shame?
"I'll find thee out where'er thou art,
And still thy love will claim."
All this for me, whose constant lack
Doth cause Thee constant pain?
"For this I lived, for this I died,
For this I live again."
To Rosa.
by Thomas Moore

A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.
"Past. Fid."
And are you then a thing of art,
Seducing all, and loving none;
And have I strove to gain a heart
Which every coxcomb thinks his own?
Tell me at once if this be true,
And I will calm my jealous breast;
Will learn to join the dangling crew,
And share your simpers with the rest.
But if your heart be not so free,--
Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the hateful tale to me,
But mingle mercy with your art.
I'd rather think you "false as hell,"
Than find you to be all divine,--
Than know that heart could love so well,
Yet know that heart would not be mine!
The Boy Columbus
by Madison Julius Cawein

And he had mused on lands each bird,
That winged from realms of Falerina,
O'er seas of the Enchanted Sword,
In romance sang him, till he heard
Vague foam on Islands of Alcina.
For rich Levant and old Castile
Let other seamen freight their galleys;
With Polo he and Mandeville
Through stranger seas a dreamy keel
Sailed into wonder-peopled valleys.
Far continents of flow'r and fruit,
Of everlasting spring; where fountains
'Mid flow'rs, with human faces, shoot;
Where races dwell, both man and brute,
In cities under golden mountains.
Where cataracts their thunders hurl
From heights the tempest has at mercy;
Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirl
Their torrents down of gold and pearl;
And forests strange as those of Circe.
Let rapiered Love lute, in the shade
Of royal gardens, to the Palace
And Court, that haunt the balustrade
Of terraces and still parade
Their vanity and guile and malice.
Him something calls diviner yet
Than Love, more mighty than a lover;
Heroic Truth that will not let
Deed lag; a purpose, westward set,
In eyes far-seeing to discover.
Milton: And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time
by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
And Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

'Te somnia nostra reducunt.'
OVID.
And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream'a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.
I saw her as 'twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play'd a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.
With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath'd with lambent fire
And amaranth was woven round it.
I saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.
I strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air'a lovely vision!
And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.