DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Soldiers All.
by Jean Blewett

They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;
Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown
Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.
"We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care
Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call
Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!"
"Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,
A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word
For those who stay at home and wait - the mothers and the wives.
Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"
The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;
The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."
He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,
It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!
And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.
I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man.
"Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;
"Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying - dead;
Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,
The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!
I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,
"For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.
Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day
With love and longing for the ones in danger far away."
"They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;
Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.
God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,
And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!"
"Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,
But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:
"Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,
Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!
O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!
The saddest sound in all God's world - a crying in the dark."
Wraith
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?"
--Surely it is not I she's wanting;
Someone living here before--
"Nobody's in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see."
Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,--
Have you seen her, any of you?--
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?
Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.--
Ever see her, any of you?--
Strangest thing I've ever known,--
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.
"Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody's with me, nor has been!"
Curious, how she tried the window,--
Odd, the way she tries the door,--
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before . . .
Shadow And Shine.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness
No songs for the heart and no hopes for the soul,
But will faint in the glooms where the dirges of sadness
In tremulous murmurs of wretchedness roll;
For the sweets of this earth never lavish their kisses
Where lives in the valleys of rapture repine;
In the tortures they mourn who denounce all the blisses,--
They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.
In the fields that are fair with the blooms of the clover,
No garlands are grown for the arbors of shade
Where the woes of the wood in their darkness hang over
The grasses that wave with the winds of the glade;
From the chimes of the breezes there echo no measures
That gladden the gale with a music divine;
In the troubles they languish who shrink from the pleasures,
They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.
Ah, the world is abounding with wonderful glories
And wild are the warbles that sweeten its ways
While the songs of the land sing their beautiful stories,
And scatter their melodies over the days!
There are smiles, there are joys, never mingled with sorrow,
O, man, in return for the tears that are thine,
And the soul never sobs that has hopes for the morrow,
Nor weeps in the shadow nor rails at the shine!
They all do it.
by John Hartley

They're all buildin nests for thersen,
One bi one they goa fleetin away;
A suitable mate comes, - an then,
I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay.
Well, - it's folly for th' old en's to freeat,
Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart, - 
An we sigh, - let a tear drop, - an yet,
We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.
They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt,
They've trubbles an trials to face;
I'th' futer they luk an see nowt
'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race.
Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think
Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them,
They walk on uncertainty's brink,
An they see in each teardrop a gem.
Happy dreams 'at they had long ago,
Too sweet to believe - -could be true,
Are realized nah, for they know
Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two.
We know 'at it's all a mistak,
An we pity, an yet we can pray,
'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back
Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.
God bless 'em! may happiness dwell,
I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot;
An if in a palace, - well, - well, - 
Shall ther young love be ever forgot.
Nay, - nay, - tho' old Time runs his plough,
O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove;
May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow,
Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.
Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en!
Bless th' husband, who does weel his part;
Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been,
The joy an the pride ov ther heart.
May health an prosperity sit
At ther table soa long as they live!
An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ,
For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.
The Burghers' Battle.
by William Morris

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land
That erst the harvest bore;
The sword is heavy in the hand,
And we return no more.
The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,
And ripples in the Running Ox,
And we return no more.
Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four;
But out-worn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more.
And now the women heavy-eyed
Turn through the open door
From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more.
The shadows of the fruited close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;
There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.
Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore
Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:
And we return no more.
But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market's o'er!
Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return no more.
What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,
Now we return no more?
What mayor shall rule the hall we built?
Whose scarlet sweep the floor?
What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,
Now we return no more?
New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,
Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more.
And crops shall cover field and hill
Unlike what once they bore,
And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.
Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar;
The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.
Remember how beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,
And sowed this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.
Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o'er;
Heave sword about the Running Ox!
For we return no more.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXIX.
by Thomas Moore

They wove the lotus band to deck
And fan with pensile wreath each neck;
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1]
And one was of the Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief:
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A Hebe, of celestial shape,
Poured the rich droppings of the grape!
Marthy Ellen.
by James Whitcomb Riley

They's nothin' in the name to strike
A feller more'n common like!
'Taint liable to git no praise
Ner nothin' like it nowadays;
An' yit that name o' her'n is jest
As purty as the purtiest -
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinkin' thataway
And die far Marthy Ellen!
It may be I was prejudust
In favor of it from the fust -
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how
We met, and hear her mother now
A-callin' of her down the road -
And, aggervatin' little toad! -
I see her now, jes' sort o' half-
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh
And mock her - "Marthy Ellen!"
Our people never had no fuss,
And yit they never tuck to us;
We neighbered back and foreds some;
Until they see she liked to come
To our house - and me and her
Were jest together ever'whur
And all the time - and when they'd see
That I liked her and she liked me,
They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!"
When we growed up, and they shet down
On me and her a-runnin' roun'
Together, and her father said
He'd never leave her nary red,
So he'p him, ef she married me,
And so on - and her mother she
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed
She'd ruther see her in her shroud,
I writ to Marthy Ellen -
That is, I kindo' tuck my pen
In hand, and stated whur and when
The undersigned would be that night,
With two good hosses saddled right
Far lively travelin' in case
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.
She sent the same note back, and writ
"The rose is red!" right under it -
"Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen."
That's all, I reckon - Nothin' more
To tell but what you've heerd afore -
The same old story, sweeter though
Far all the trouble, don't you know.
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest
As purty as the purtiest;
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinking thataway,
And die far Marthy Ellen!
Amour 11
by Michael Drayton

Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of loue,
To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell;
For I was apt, a scholler like to proue,
Gaue mee sweet lookes when as I learned well.
Vowes were my vowels, when I then begun
At my first Lesson in thy sacred name:
My consonants the next when I had done,
Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame.
My liquids then were liquid christall teares,
My cares my mutes, so mute to craue reliefe;
My dolefull Dypthongs were my liues dispaires,
Redoubling sighes the accents of my griefe:
My loues Schoole-mistris now hath taught me so,
That I can read a story of my woe.
Jack McGuire
by Edgar Lee Masters

They would have lynched me
Had I not been secretly hurried away
To the jail at Peoria.
And yet I was going peacefully home,
Carrying my jug, a little drunk,
When Logan, the marshal, halted me
Called me a drunken hound and shook me
And, when I cursed him for it, struck me
With that Prohibition loaded cane - 
All this before I shot him.
They would have hanged me except for this:
My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land
Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank,
And the judge was a friend of
Rhodes And wanted him to escape,
And Kinsey offered to quit on
Rhodes For fourteen years for me.
And the bargain was made.
I served my time
And learned to read and write.
To My Friend OnThe Death Of His Sister
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know;
Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
To thee I go.
I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;
With even the weakness of my soul upholding
The strength of thine.
I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;
I stood not by
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
Lay down to die.
And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,
Sounds over all!
I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless phrase,
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
With idle praise.
With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb!
Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth
Our Father's will,
Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,
Is mercy still.
Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel
Hath evil wrought
Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,
The good die not!
God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What He hath given;
They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
As in His heaven.
And she is with thee; in thy path of trial
She walketh yet;
Still with the baptism of thy self-denial
Her locks are wet.
Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest
Lie white in view
She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest
To both is true.
Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants
Thy call abide;
And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence,
Shall glean beside!
To A Sleeping Child. II.
by Thomas Hood

Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd
No eyes could wake so beautiful as they:
Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay,
I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd
Of dimples: - for those parted lips so seem'd,
I never thought a smile could sweetlier play,
Nor that so graceful life could chase away
Thy graceful death, - till those blue eyes upbeam'd.
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown'd
And roses bloom more rosily for joy,
And odorous silence ripens into sound,
And fingers move to sound. - All-beauteous boy!
How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove,
If not more lovely thou art more like Love!
Manticor In Arabia.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

(The manticors of the montaines
Mighte feed them on thy braines., Skelton.)
Thick and scented daisies spread
Where with surface dull like lead
Arabian pools of slime invite
Manticors down from neighbouring height
To dip heads, to cool fiery blood
In oozy depths of sucking mud.
Sing then of ringstraked manticor,
Man-visaged tiger who of yore
Held whole Arabian waste in fee
With raging pride from sea to sea,
That every lesser tribe would fly
Those armed feet, that hooded eye;
Till preying on himself at last
Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed
By gryphon flocks he did disdain.
Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign
In ancient keep of manticor
Agreed old foe can rise no more.
Only here from lakes of slime
Drinks manticor and bides due time:
Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree
Must mount his pyre and burn and be
Renewed again, till in such hour
As seventh Phoenix flames to power
And lifts young feathers, overnice
From scented pool of steamy spice
Shall manticor his sway restore
And rule Arabian plains once more.
To Cole, The Painter, Departing For Europe. - A Sonnet.
by William Cullen Bryant

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies;
Lone lakes, savannas where the bison roves,
Rocks rich with summer garlands, solemn streams,
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams,
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest, fair,
But different, everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air,
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.
Thick Orchards All In White. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"The time of the singing of birds is come."
Thick orchards, all in white,
Stand 'neath blue voids of light,
And birds among the branches blithely sing,
For they have all they know;
There is no more, but so,
All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring.
Only the cushat dove
Makes answer as for love
To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast;
And mourneth, to his thought,
As in her notes were wrought
Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest.
Not with possession, not
With fairest earthly lot,
Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest;
With much it looks before,
With most it yearns for more;
And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.'
Give Thou us more. We look
For more. The heart that took
All spring-time for itself were empty still;
Its yearning is not spent
Nor silenced in content,
Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill.
Give us Thyself. The May
Dureth so short a day;
Youth and the spring are over all too soon;
Content us while they last,
Console us for them past,
Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon.
Old North Sydney
by Henry Lawson

They're shifting old North Sydney,
Perhaps 'tis just as well,
They're carting off the houses
Where the old folks used to dwell.
Where only ghosts inhabit
They lay the old shops low;
But the Spirit of North Sydney,
It vanished long ago.
The Spirit of North Sydney,
The good old time and style,
It camped, maybe, at Crow's Nest,
But only for a while.
It left about the season,
Or at the time, perhaps,
When old Inspector Cotter
Transferred his jokes and traps.
A brand new crowd is thronging
The brand new streets aglow
Where the Spirit of North Sydney
Would gossip long ago.
They will not know to-morrow,
Tho' 'twere but yesterday,
Exactly how McMahon's Point
And its ferry used to lay.
The good old friendly spirit
Its sorrows would unfold,
When householders were neighbours
And shop-keeping was old;
But now we're busy strangers,
Our feelings we restrain,
The Spirit of North Sydney
Shall never come again!
Kit's Cradle.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.
I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.
I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.
On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.
*             *             *             *             *
I've found a crib where they won't find me,
Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.
Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!
A cat can keep as still as a mouse.
It's rather unwise perhaps to purr,
But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.
I'm happy in every hair of my fur;
They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.
They Won't Frown Always, -- Some Sweet Day"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

They won't frown always, -- some sweet day
When I forget to tease,
They'll recollect how cold I looked,
And how I just said 'please.'
Then they will hasten to the door
To call the little child,
Who cannot thank them, for the ice
That on her lisping piled.
The Old Home
by Madison Julius Cawein

They've torn the old house down, that stood,
Like some kind mother, in this place,
Hugged by its orchard and its wood,
Two sturdy children, strong of race.
This formal place makes no appeal.
I miss the old time happiness
And peace, which often here did heal
The cares of life, the heart's distress.
The shrubs, which snowed their blossoms on
The walks, wide-stretching from the doors
Like friendly arms, are dead and gone,
And over all a grand house soars.
Within its front no welcome lies,
But pride's aloofness; wealth, that stares
From windows, cold as haughty eyes,
The arrogance of new-made heirs.
Its very flowers breathe of cast;
And even the Springtide seems estranged,
In that stiff garden, caught, held fast,
All her wild beauty clipped and changed.
'T is not the Spring, that once I knew,
Who made a glory of her face,
And robed in shimmering light and dew
Moved to wild music in this place.
How fair she walked here with her Hours,
Pouring forth colors and perfumes,
And with her bosom heaped with flowers
Climbed by the rose-vines to its rooms.
Or round the old porch, 'mid the trees,
Fluttered a flute of bluebird-song;
Or murmuring with a myriad bees
Drowsed in the garden all day long.
How Summer, with her apron full
Of manna, shook the red peach down;
Or, stretched among the shadows cool,
Wove for her hair a daisy crown.
Or with her crickets, night and day,
Gossiped of many a faery thing,
Her sweet breath warm with scents of hay
And honey, purple-blossoming.
How Autumn, trailing tattered gold
And scarlet, in the orchard mused,
And of the old trees taking hold
Upon the sward their ripeness bruised.
Or, past its sunset window-panes,
Like thoughts that drift before old eyes,
Whirled red leaves and the ragged rains,
And crows, black-blown, about the skies.
How Winter, huddled in her hood
Of snow and sleet, crouched by its flues;
Or, rushing from the stormy wood,
Rapped at its doors with windy news.
Or in the firelight, through the pane,
Watched Comfort crown with cheer the hearth,
Or Love lead in his Yuletide train
Of hospitality and mirth. . . .
It lived. The house was part of us.
It was not merely wood and stone,
But had a soul, a heart, that thus
Grappled and made us all its own.
The lives that with its life were knit,
In some strange way, beyond the sense,
Had gradually given to it
A look of old experience.
A look, which I shall not forget,
No matter where my ways may roam.
I close my eyes: I see it yet
The old house that was once my home.
Garden Gossip
by Madison Julius Cawein

Thin, chisel-fine a cricket chipped
The crystal silence into sound;
And where the branches dreamed and dripped
A grasshopper its dagger stripped
And on the humming darkness ground.
A bat, against the gibbous moon,
Danced, imp-like, with its lone delight;
The glow-worm scrawled a golden rune
Upon the dark; and, emerald-strewn,
The firefly hung with lamps the night.
The flowers said their beads in prayer,
Dew-syllables of sighed perfume;
Or talked of two, soft-standing there,
One like a gladiole, straight and fair,
And one like some rich poppy-bloom.
The mignonette and feverfew
Laid their pale brows together:" See!"
One whispered. "Did their step thrill through
Your roots?"" Like rain."" I touched the two
And a new bud was born in me."
One rose said to another: "Whose
Is this dim music? song, that parts
My crimson petals like the dews?"
"My blossom trembles with sweet news
It is the love of two young hearts."
Hope
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Thine eyes are dim:
A mist hath gathered there;
Around their rim
Float many clouds of care,
And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.
But there is God,
Every -- everywhere;
Beneath His rod
Kneel thou adown in prayer.
For grief is God's own kiss
Upon a soul.
Look up! the sun of bliss
Will shine where storm-clouds roll.
Yes, weeper, weep!
'Twill not be evermore;
I know the darkest deep
Hath e'en the brightest shore.
So tired! so tired!
A cry of half despair;
Look! at your side --
And see Who standeth there!
Your Father! Hush!
A heart beats in His breast;
Now rise and rush
Into His arms -- and rest.