DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Patroling Barnegat
by Walt Whitman

Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.
Stanzas, Written Impromtu On The Late Peace.
by Thomas Gent

"Why, there's Peace, Jack, come damme let's push round the grog,
And awhile altogether in good humor jog,
For they say we shall soon go ashore;
Where the anchor of friendship may drift or be lost,
As on life's troubled ocean at random we're tost,
And, perhaps, we may never meet more."
Thus spoke Tom; while each messmate approvingly heard
That the contest was ended, their courage ne'er fear'd,
And soon Peace would restore them to love;
And the hearts by wrongs rous'd, that no fear could assuage,
At Humanity's shrine dropt the thunder of rage,
And the Lion resign'd to the Dove!
Heaven smil'd on the olive that Reason had rear'd,
With her rich pearly tribute sweet Pity appear'd,
And plac'd it on each brilliant eye;
'Twas the tear that Compassion had nurs'd in her breast,
To bestow on the friend, or the foe, if distress'd.
Like dew-drops distill'd from the sky!
Next on friends lost in battle they mournfully dwelt
'Twas a theme that together the heart and eye felt,
And a bumper to valor they gave;
While the liquor that flow'd in the bless'd circling bowl
Was enrich'd by a tribute that flow'd from the soul,
"A tear for the tomb of the brave!"
To The Lady Crewe, Upon The Death Of Her Child
by Robert Herrick

Why, Madam, will ye longer weep,
Whenas your baby's lull'd asleep?
And, pretty child, feels now no more
Those pains it lately felt before.
All now is silent; groans are fled;
Your child lies still, yet is not dead,
But rather like a flower hid here,
To spring again another year.
Years That Are To Be.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Wild years that are to be
The sad completion of my weary life,
In ghostly mantles of despairing strife
Your phanton dimness darkly shadows me!
Gaunt demons dancing from your horrid halls
Entwine my soul in gloomy arms of woe,
While mystic fancies to my madness show
The monsters on your walls.
Your forms are skeletons,
Whose bony hands with mortal fingers play,
Where grinning skulls are heaping on the way,
And airy specters meet the timid ones;
Death drops his arrows from your sullen skies,
Destruction dances in your noisome shades,
And in the dreadful darkness of your glades
The horrid shriekings rise.
There in your cycles are
Dark valleys where my weary feet must go,
Though devils of disaster hurl and throw
Their awful sorrows from the fortunes far;
No hands of pleasure can presume to part
The clouded curtains of impending care,
And hissing serpents of insane despair
Pour poison in my heart.
O, years that are to be,
Among your solitudes I, dreaming, grope;
My life's the shade of unaccomplished hope,
My heart's a ghoul that feeds on agony!
No strains of music call my tears away,
No smiling star illumes the awful night;
Ambition weeps; my soul draws without light
My shameless feet astray!
No soothing welcome floats
Between your marble lips, nor sweetly rise
The tender songs of gentle melodies
From croaking caverns of your iron throats;
But from your dirges of destructive pain,
Wild clash of wretched sound is borne to me,
Where death and failure, tears and misery,
In robes or anguish reign.
But my heart hopes to find
Some infant joy for woes that sorrow did,
Some faded garland on some coffin lid,
To cheer the wildness of my broken mind;
Some angel pleasures in your realms must roll,
Some laughing life, some music, in your glooms,
Shall gladness give, amid your ghostly tombs,
Mad Future, to my soul!
Willie Chalmers.
by Robert Burns

I.
Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush
The doitie beastie stammers;
Then up he gets and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.
II.
I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm urged wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,
Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.
III.
Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.
IV.
I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie:
But Oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.
V.
Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird,
May warstle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.
VI.
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues,
For de'il a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.
Wanderers
by Walter De La Mare

Wide are the meadows of night,
And daisies are shining there,
Tossing their lovely dews,
Lustrous and fair;
And through these sweet fields go,
Wanderers amid the stars - 
Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,
Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.
'Tired in their silver, they move,
And circling, whisper and say,
Fair are the blossoming meads of delight
Through which we stray.
To the Right Honourable The Countess Dowager Of Devonshire, On A Piece Of Wiessen's
by Matthew Prior

Wiessen and nature held a long contest
If she created or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She still form'd fairer, he still liker drew.
In these seven brethren they contended last;
With art increased their utmost skill they tried,
And both well pleased they had themselves surpass'd,
The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.
That both their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiply'd.
When heaven had you and gracious Anna made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty,
With all that world of charms which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours.
If every Cecil's face had every charm
That thought can fancy or that heaven can form,
Their beauties all become your beauty's due;
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look,
From you that air, from you the charms, they took,
In their each limb your image is exprest,
But on their brow firm courage stands confest;
There their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun with genial beams
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth and people heaven,
Her glory grew diffused; and, fuller known,
She saw the Deity in every son;
And to what god soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd and stamp'd in all your race.
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind,
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:
T'would still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate could do,
Till thine, confused with nature's pieces lie,
And Ca'ndish's name and Cecil's honour die.
Chloris.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
I.
Why, why tell thy lover,
Bliss he never must enjoy:
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes the lie?
II.
O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?
The City Of Darkness
by Madison Julius Cawein

Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands
Beside a mystic sea,
With streets strange-trod of many a god,
And templed blasphemy.
Far in the night, a rose of light
It shines beside the sea;
But overhead an unknown dread
Impends eternally.
There is a sound above, around
Of music by the sea;
And weird and wide the torches glide
Of pagan revelry.
There is a noise as of a voice
That calls beneath the sea;
And all the deep grows pale with sleep
And vague expectancy.
Then slowly up - as from a cup
Seethes poison - lifts the sea;
Wild mass on mass, as in black glass,
The town glows fiery.
Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towers
Set in the iron sea;
And monster swarms with awful forms
Roll though it cloudily.
Still overhead the unknown dread,
Whose shadow dyes the sea,
At wrath-winged wait behind its gate
Till God shall set it free.
A taloned flash, an earthquake crash,
And, lo! upon the sea,
Black wall on wall, a giant pall,
Night settles hideously.
And where it burned, a rose inurned,
Red in the vasty sea,
The phantasm of the dread above
Sits in immensity.
To A Wild Bird
by Richard Le Gallienne

Wild bird, I stole you from your nest,
And cannot find your nest again;
To hear you chirp a little while
I wrung your mother's heart with pain.
And here you sit and droop and die,
Nor any love that I can bring
Wins me forgiveness for the wrong,
Nor any kindness makes you sing.
Why, Why Repine
by Walter Savage Landor

Why, why repine, my pensive friend,
At pleasures slipp'd away?
Some the stern Fates will never lend,
And all refuse to stay.
I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon the grass,
I see them, and I ask not why
They glimmer or they pass.
With folded arms I linger not
To call them back; 'twere vain;
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.
Wild Heart
by John Frederick Freeman

Wild heart, wild heart,
Where does the wind find home?
Wild heart, wild heart,
Where does the wild blood rest?
Home, home,
Rest, rest--
Unto you I come
And catch you to my breast.
Wild heart, wild heart,
There the wind will sleep.
Wild heart, wild heart,
And the blood gently flow.
Come, come,
Unresting rest
Within my heart's cave deep
Where thoughts like bright stars glow.
Wild heart, wild heart,
Here, here is your home.
Wild heart, wild heart,
With that winged star I come.
Home, home,
Rest in unrest--
Unto you, wild heart, I come.
My wild heart is your home.
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port, --
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
Helen Of Troy
by Sara Teasdale

Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn
The flames' red wings soar upward duskily.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead
That sparkled so the day I saw it first,
And darkened slowly after. I am she
Who loves all beauty, yet I wither it.
Why have the high gods made me wreak their wrath,
Forever since my maidenhood to sow
Sorrow and blood about me? Lo, they keep
Their bitter care above me even now.
It was the gods who led me to this lair,
That tho' the burning winds should make me weak,
They should not snatch the life from out my lips.
Olympus let the other women die;
They shall be quiet when the day is done
And have no care to-morrow. Yet for me
There is no rest. The gods are not so kind
To her made half immortal like themselves.
It is to you I owe the cruel gift,
Leda, my mother, and the Swan, my sire,
To you the beauty and to you the bale;
For never woman born of man and maid
Had wrought such havoc on the earth as I,
Or troubled heaven with a sea of flame
That climbed to touch the silent whirling stars
And blotted out their brightness ere the dawn.
Have I not made the world to weep enough?
Give death to me. Yet life is more than death;
How could I leave the sound of singing winds,
The strong sweet scent that breathes from off the sea,
Or shut my eyes forever to the spring?
I will not give the grave my hands to hold,
My shining hair to light oblivion.
Have those who wander through the ways of death,
The still wan fields Elysian, any love
To lift their breasts with longing, any lips
To thirst against the quiver of a kiss?
Lo, I shall live to conquer Greece again,
To make the people love, who hate me now.
My dreams are over, I have ceased to cry
Against the fate that made men love my mouth
And left their spirits all too deaf to hear
The little songs that echoed through my soul.
I have no anger now. The dreams are done;
Yet since the Greeks and Trojans would not see
Aught but my body's fairness, till the end,
In all the islands set in all the seas,
And all the lands that lie beneath the sun,
Till light turn darkness, and till time shall sleep,
Men's lives shall waste with longing after me,
For I shall be the sum of their desire,
The whole of beauty, never seen again.
And they shall stretch their arms and starting, wake
With "Helen!" on their lips, and in their eyes
The vision of me. Always I shall be
Limned on the darkness like a shaft of light
That glimmers and is gone. They shall behold
Each one his dream that fashions me anew;,
With hair like lakes that glint beneath the stars
Dark as sweet midnight, or with hair aglow
Like burnished gold that still retains the fire.
Yea, I shall haunt until the dusk of time
The heavy eyelids filled with fleeting dreams.
I wait for one who comes with sword to slay,
The king I wronged who searches for me now;
And yet he shall not slay me. I shall stand
With lifted head and look within his eyes,
Baring my breast to him and to the sun.
He shall not have the power to stain with blood
That whiteness, for the thirsty sword shall fall
And he shall cry and catch me in his arms,
Bearing me back to Sparta on his breast.
Lo, I shall live to conquer Greece again!
Barta
by Henry Lawson

Wide solemn eyes that question me,
Wee hand that pats my head,
Where only two have stroked before,
And both of them are dead.
'Ah, poo-ah Daddy mine,' she says,
With wondrous sympathy,
Oh, baby girl, you don't know how
You break the heart in me!
Let friends and kinsfolk work their worst,
And the world say what it will,
Your baby arms go round my neck,
I'm your own Daddy still!
And you kiss me and I kiss you,
Fresh kisses frank and free,
Ah, baby girl, you don't know how
You break the heart in me!
I dreamed when I was good that when
The snow showed in my hair,
A household angel in her teens
Would flit about my chair,
To comfort me as I grew old;
But that shall never be,
Ah, baby girl, you don't know how
You break the heart in me!
But one shall love me while I live
And soothe my troubled head,
And never hear an unkind word
Of me when I am dead.
Her eyes shall light to hear my name
Howe'er disgraced it be,
Ah, baby girl, you don't know how
You help the heart in me!
A Roundelay.
by John Carr (Sir)

Wide thro' the azure blue and bright
Serenely floats the lamp of night;
The sleeping waves forget to move,
And silent is the cedar grove;
Each breeze suspended seems to say - 
"Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!"
My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest;
Ah! were her pillow but my breast!
Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,
In whispers place me by her heart;
While near her door I'll fondly stray,
And sooth her with my Roundelay.
But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,
And glimm'ring stars reluctant fade:
Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel
The pangs which griefs like mine reveal:
Adieu! for Morning's on his way,
And bids me close my Roundelay.
The Twenty-Second Of December.
by William Cullen Bryant

Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New-England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
Our fathers, trod the desert land.
They little thought how pure a light,
With years, should gather round that day;
How love should keep their memories bright,
How wide a realm their sons should sway.
Green are their bays; but greener still
Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed,
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
With reverence when their names are breathed.
Till where the sun, with softer fires,
Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,
The children of the pilgrim sires
This hallowed day like us shall keep.
The Alpine Hunter.
by Friedrich Schiller

Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?
Oh, how soft and meek they look,
Feeding on the grassy sward,
Sporting round the silvery brook!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to chase the roe!"
Wilt thou not the flock compel
With the horn's inspiring notes?
Sweet the echo of yon bell,
As across the wood it floats!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to hunt the roe!"
Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,
Smiling gently in their bed?
For no garden thou wilt find
On yon heights so wild and dread.
"Leave the flow'rets, let them blow!
Mother, mother, let me go!"
And the youth then sought the chase,
Onward pressed with headlong speed
To the mountain's gloomiest place, 
Naught his progress could impede;
And before him, like the wind,
Swiftly flies the trembling hind!
Up the naked precipice
Clambers she, with footsteps light,
O'er the chasm's dark abyss
Leaps with spring of daring might;
But behind, unweariedly,
With his death-bow follows he.
Now upon the rugged top
Stands she, on the loftiest height,
Where the cliffs abruptly stop,
And the path is lost to sight.
There she views the steeps below, 
Close behind, her mortal foe.
She, with silent, woeful gaze,
Seeks the cruel boy to move;
But, alas! in vain she prays 
To the string he fits the groove.
When from out the clefts, behold!
Steps the Mountain Genius old.
With his hand the Deity
Shields the beast that trembling sighs;
"Must thou, even up to me,
Death and anguish send?" he cries, 
Earth has room for all to dwell, 
"Why pursue my loved gazelle?"
Wilt Pray for Me?
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Wilt pray for me?
They tell me I have Fame;
I plead with thee,
Sometimes just fold my name
In beautiful "Hail Marys"!
And you give me more
Than all the world besides.
It praises Poets for the well-sung lay;
But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray.
It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride;
Some win such crowns and wear;
Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.
As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

"Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away
Will your love as of old prove true?
"For the looks may change, and the heart may range
And the love be no longer fond;
Will you love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?"
Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies,
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.
For the eyes are the signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But, my own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
A Wife Waits
by Thomas Hardy

Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,
Where the tall liquor-cups foam;
I on the pavement up here by the Bow,
Wait, wait, to steady him home.
Will and his partner are treading a tune,
Loving companions they be;
Willy, before we were married in June,
Said he loved no one but me;
Said he would let his old pleasures all go
Ever to live with his Dear.
Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,
Shivering I wait for him here.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXLI. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Willy, Willy Wilkin,
Kissed the maids a-milking,
Fa, la, la!
And with his merry daffing,
He set them all a laughing.
Ha, ha, ha!
Eagle And Salmon.
by James McIntyre

Wilmot of fish culutre fame,
To this tale he lends his name,
A pair of eagles built their nest
On a lofty pine tree's crest.
And therein they regular rear
A brood of young year after year,
One day he saw one leave its nest,
When for food it was in quest.
It did wing its flight on high,
And then on water cast its eye,
When it quickly did discover
A great salmon in the river.
Like lightning flash down it doth sweep
And its talons it buries deep,
In salmon of enormous size
He trys to rise in air with prize.
But all in vain he quickly found
He could not carry thirty pound,
And had bit more than he could chew
For in the air no more he flew.
Wilmot he did gaze with wonder
At the spot where he went under,
Resolved to know what was the matter
He poled his boat o'er the water.
And he looked down and there he found
That the eagle it was drowned,
And its wings in part outspread,
But alas it was quite dead.
With grappling hook he drew him out,
But attached to him was monster trout,
Eagle could not extract his claws,
And this the death of both did cause.
Hector And Andromache.
by Friedrich Schiller

[This and the following poem are, with some alterations, introduced in the Play of "The Robbers."]
ANDROMACHE.
Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain,
Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain,
Stalks Peleus' ruthless son?
Who, when thou glid'st amid the dark abodes,
To hurl the spear and to revere the gods,
Shall teach thine orphan one?
HECTOR.
Woman and wife beloved cease thy tears;
My soul is nerved the war-clang in my ears!
Be mine in life to stand
Troy's bulwark! fighting for our hearths, to go
In death, exulting to the streams below,
Slain for my fatherland!
ANDROMACHE.
No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall
Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall
Fallen the stem of Troy!
Thou goest where slow Cocytus wanders where
Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air
Is dark to light and joy!
HECTOR.
Longing and thought yes, all I feel and think
May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink,
But my love not!
Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls! I hear!
Gird on my sword Beloved one, dry the tear
Lethe for love is not!
Will Ever?
by Walter De La Mare

Will he ever be weary of wandering,
The flaming sun?
Ever weary of waning in lovelight,
The white still moon?
Will ever a shepherd come
With a crook of simple gold,
And lead all the little stars
Like lambs to the fold?
Will ever the Wanderer sail
From over the sea,
Up the river of water,
To the stones to me?
Will he take us all into his ship,
Dreaming, and waft us far,
To where in the clouds of the West
The Islands are?
To Mary Campbell.
by Robert Burns

I.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave old Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?
II.
O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.
III.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me
When I forget my vow!
IV.
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
V.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!