DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Memories
by Abram Joseph Ryan

They come, as the breeze comes over the foam,
Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep --
The fairest of memories from far-away home,
The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep.
They come as the stars come out in the sky,
That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep,
And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh
And I welcome them all while I wearily weep.
They come as a song comes out of the past
A loved mother murmured in days that are dead,
Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last,
When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head.
They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves,
And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way;
And they murmur around us as murmur the waves
That sigh on the shore at the dying of day.
They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright;
They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale;
They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night;
They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale.
There is not a heart that is not haunted so,
Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past,
Its memories will follow wherever we go,
And the days that were first sway the days that are last.
The Battle-Field.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers goes.
They perished in the seamless grass, --
No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
Can summon every face.
They Know Not My Heart.
by Thomas Moore

They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
No--beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:
As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair,
Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!
The Three Monuments
by William Butler Yeats

They hold their public meetings where
Our most renowned patriots stand,
One among the birds of the air,
A stumpier on either hand;
And all the popular statesmen say
That purity built up the State
And after kept it from decay;
And let all base ambition be,
For intellect would make us proud
And pride bring in impurity:
The three old rascals laugh aloud.
Alfonso Churchill
by Edgar Lee Masters

They laughed at me as "Prof. Moon,"
As a boy in Spoon River, born with the thirst
Of knowing about the stars.
They jeered when I spoke of the lunar mountains,
And the thrilling heat and cold,
And the ebon valleys by silver peaks,
And Spica quadrillions of miles away,
And the littleness of man.
But now that my grave is honored, friends,
Let it not be because I taught
The lore of the stars in Knox College,
But rather for this: that through the stars
I preached the greatness of man,
Who is none the less a part of the scheme of things
For the distance of Spica or the Spiral Nebulae;
Nor any the less a part of the question
Of what the drama means.
Night Wanderers
by William Henry Davies

They hear the bell of midnight toll,
And shiver in their flesh and soul;
They lie on hard, cold wood or stone,
Iron, and ache in every bone;
They hate the night: they see no eyes
Of loved ones in the starlit skies.
They see the cold, dark water near;
They dare not take long looks for fear
They'll fall like those poor birds that see
A snake's eyes staring at their tree.
Some of them laugh, half-mad; and some
All through the chilly night are dumb;
Like poor, weak infants some converse,
And cough like giants, deep and hoarse.
The Funeral
by Walter De La Mare

They dressed us up in black,
Susan and Tom and me - 
And, walking through the fields
All beautiful to see,
With branches high in the air
And daisy and buttercup,
We heard the lark in the clouds - 
In black dressed up.
They took us to the graves,
Susan and Tom and me,
Where the long grasses grow
And the funeral tree:
We stood and watched; and the wind
Came softly out of the sky
And blew in Susan's hair,
As I stood close by.
Back through the fields we came,
Tom and Susan and me,
And we sat in the nursery together,
And had our tea.
And, looking out of the window,
I heard the thrushes sing;
But Tom fell asleep in his chair,
He was so tired, poor thing.
My Books.
by Henry Austin Dobson

They dwell in the odour of camphor,
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are "warranted early editions,"
These worshipful tomes of mine;--
In their creamiest "Oxford vellum,"
In their redolent "crushed Levant,"
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant;--
Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,
They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less;--
For the row that I prize is yonder,
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos,
The dear and the dumpy twelves,--
Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,
And the little old cropped Moli're,
And the Burton I bought for a florin,
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,--
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.
An Imperfect Revolution
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

They crowded weeping from the teacher's house,
Crying aloud their fear at what he taught,
Old men and young men, wives and maids unwed,
And children screaming in the crowds unsought:
Some to their temples with accustomed feet
Bent-as the oxen go beneath the rod,
To fling themselves before some pictured saint,
'Alas!    God help us if there is no God.'
Some to the bed-side of their dying kind
To clasp with arms afraid to loose their hold;
Some to a church-yard falling on a grave
To kiss the carven name with lips as cold.
Some watched from break of day into the night.
The flash of birds, the bloom of flower and tree,
The whirling worlds that glimmer in the dark,
All said: 'God help us if no God there be.'
Some hid in caves and chattered mad with fear
At the uprising of the patient poor.
'He suffers with you,' no more could they say,
Thus lock with keys of Heaven their bonds secure,
Some called their dead, and then remembering fell
Abusing death and cursed the wormy grave,
And wept for their long hoped-for Paradise,
'God help us if there be no God to save!'
And others sought for right and found it not,
And, seeking duty, found that it was dead,
Blamed their long blameless lives and vowed no more
To sacrifice, for 'Might is right' they said.
And pleasure, leaping in the streets with sin,
Caroused through many days till wearily
She tired and met with death in bitter pain.
'Alas!    God help us if no God we gain.'
A few rose up and speaking, 'O be strong,'
Were answered, 'There's no reason for your right,'
But many crept in thankfulness for rest
Into the river's darkness out of sight;
And others with their limbs deformed, or sore
Seared flesh, shrieked out their patient years of pain.
Crying to Death for their lost plains of Heaven.
'Alas!    God help us if no God we gain.'
The Water Nymphs
by Ellis Parker Butler

They hide in the brook when I seek to draw nearer,
Laughing amain when I feign to depart;
Often I hear them, now faint and now clearer
Innocent bold or so sweetly discreet.
Are they Nymphs of the Stream at their playing
Or but the brook I mistook for a voice?
Little care I; for, despite harsh Time's flaying,
Brook voice or Nymph voice still makes me rejoice.
When London Calls
by Victor James Daley

They leave us - artists, singers, all
When London calls aloud,
Commanding to her Festival
The gifted crowd.
She sits beside the ship-choked Thames,
Sad, weary, cruel, grand;
Her crown imperial gleams with gems
From many a land.
From overseas, and far away,
Come crowded ships and ships
Grim-faced she gazes on them; yea,
With scornful lips.
The garden of the earth is wide;
Its rarest blooms she picks
To deck her board, this haggard-eyed
Imperatrix.
Sad, sad is she, and yearns for mirth;
With voice of golden guile
She lures men from the ends of earth
To make her smile.
The student of wild human ways
In wild new lands; the sage
With new great thoughts; the bard whose lays
Bring youth to age;
The painter young whose pictures shine
With colours magical;
The singer with the voice divine
She lures them all.
But all their new is old to her
Who bore the Anakim;
She gives them gold or Charon's fare
As suits her whim.
Crowned Ogress - old, and sad, and wise
She sits with painted face
And hard, imperious, cruel eyes
In her high place.
To him who for her pleasure lives,
And makes her wish his goal,
A rich Tarpeian gift she gives
That slays his soul.
The story-teller from the Isles
Upon the Empire's rim,
With smiles she welcomes - and her smiles
Are death to him.
For Her, whose pleasure is her law,
In vain the shy heart bleeds
The Genius with the Iron jaw
Alone succeeds.
And when the Poet's lays grow bland,
And urbanised, and prim -
She stretches forth a jewelled hand
And strangles him.
She sits beside the ship-choked Thames
With Sphinx-like lips apart
Mistress of many diadems
Death in her heart!
The Healer
by George MacDonald

They come to thee, the halt, the maimed, the blind,
The devil-torn, the sick, the sore;
Thy heart their well of life they find,
Thine ear their open door.
Ah, who can tell the joy in Palestine--
What smiles and tears of rescued throngs!
Their lees of life were turned to wine,
Their prayers to shouts and songs!
The story dear our wise men fable call,
Give paltry facts the mighty range;
To me it seems just what should fall,
And nothing very strange.
But were I deaf and lame and blind and sore,
I scarce would care for cure to ask;
Another prayer should haunt thy door--
Set thee a harder task.
If thou art Christ, see here this heart of mine,
Torn, empty, moaning, and unblest!
Had ever heart more need of thine,
If thine indeed hath rest?
Thy word, thy hand right soon did scare the bane
That in their bodies death did breed;
If thou canst cure my deeper pain
Then art thou lord indeed.
My Land And I
by Henry Lawson

They have eaten their fill at your tables spread,
Like friends since the land was won;
And they rise with a cry of "Australia's dead!"
With the wheeze of "Australia's done!"
Oh, the theme is stale, but they tell the tale
(How the weak old tale will keep!)
Like the crows that croak on a splintered rail,
That have gorged on a rotten sheep.
I would sing a song in your darkest hour
In your darkest hour and mine, 
For I see the dawn of your wealth and power,
And I see your bright star shine.
The little men yelp and the little men lie,
And they spread the lies afar;
But we heed them never, my Land and I,
For we know how small they are.
They know you not in a paltry town, 
In the streets where great hopes die, 
Oh, heart that never a flood could drown,
And never a drought could dry!
Stand forth from the rim where the red sun dips,
Strong son of the land's own son, 
With the grin of grit on your drought-chapped lips
And say, is your country done?
Stand forth from the land where the sunset dies,
By the desolate lonely shed,
With the smile of faith in your blighted eyes,
And say, is your country dead?
They see no future, they know no past, 
The parasite cur and clown,
Who talk of ruin and death to last
When a man or a land is down.
God sends for answer the rain, the rain,
And away on the western lease,
The limitless plain grows green again,
And the fattening stock increase.
We'll lock your rivers, my land, my land,
Dig lakes on the furthest run, 
While down in the corners where houses stand,
They drivel, "Australia's done!"
The parasites dine at your tables spread
(As my enemies did at mine),
And they croak and gurgle, "Australia's dead"
While they guzzle Australian wine.
But we heed them never, my land, my land,
For we know how small they are,
And we see the signs of a future grand,
As we gaze on a rising star.
Out Of Sight
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called "the take-you-down brigade".
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure
The last time round he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
The rest would never see him go, he's finish out of sight.
So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race "the Dude-in-Danger Cup".
The horse was known as "Who's Afraid", by "Panic" from "The Fright",
But still his owners told the jock he's finish out of sight.
And so he did; for Who's Afraid, without the least pretense,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right,
For he was in the ambulance, and safely "out of sight".
On Re-Reading Certain German Poets
by Madison Julius Cawein

They hold their own, they have no peers
In gloom and glow, in hopes and fears,
In love and terror, hovering round
The lore of that enchanted ground!
That mystic region, where one hears,
By bandit towers, the hunt that nears
Wild through the Hartz; the demon cheers
Of Hackelnberg; his horn and hound
They hold their own.
Dark Wallenstein; and, down the years,
The Lorelei; and, creased with sneers,
Faust, Margaret; the Sabboth sound,
Witch-whirling, of the Brocken, drowned
In storm, through which Mephisto leers,
They hold their own.
Cassius Hueffer
by Edgar Lee Masters

They have chiseled on my stone the words:
"His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him
That nature might stand up and say to all the world,
This was a man."
Those who knew me smile
As they read this empty rhetoric.
My epitaph should have been:
"Life was not gentle to him,
And the elements so mixed in him
That he made warfare on life
In the which he was slain."
While I lived I could not cope with slanderous tongues,
Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph
Graven by a fool!
Sunless Days
by Abram Joseph Ryan

They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days,
With not a light all o'er their clouded skies;
And thro' the dark we grope along our ways
With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.
What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence?
Why does it banish all the bright away?
How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense?
Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?
Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know
How oft and suddenly the shadows roll
From out the depths of some dim realm of woe,
To wrap their darkness round the human soul.
Those days are darker than the very night;
For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams;
But these days bring unto the spirit-sight
The mysteries of gloom, until it seems
The light is gone forever, and the dark
Hangs like a pall of death above the soul,
Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark,
And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.
____
Winter on the Atlantic.
In Neglect
by Robert Lee Frost

They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
Yee Bow
by Edgar Lee Masters

They got me into the Sunday-school
In Spoon River And tried to get me to drop
Confucius for Jesus. I could have been no worse off
If I had tried to get them to drop Jesus for Confucius.
For, without any warning, as if it were a prank,
And sneaking up behind me, Harry Wiley,
The minister's son, caved my ribs into my lungs,
With a blow of his fist.
Now I shall never sleep with my ancestors in Pekin,
And no children shall worship at my grave.
Lines Suggested By The Presence Of The English Friends, J. And H. C. Backhouse, In America 1831.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

... "They that turn many to righteousness,
shall shine as the stars forever and ever." ...
They have left their homes and kindred, they are in the strangers' land,
The voice of God revealed his will; His will was their command.
They crossed the pathless main, nor feared the sadly treacherous wave,
For is not He in whom they trust omnipotent to save?
But did no dark forebodings come? Was all at peace within?
Did prompt obedience' sure reward e'en with the toil begin?
Ah no! for nature's fond appeal would in that hour be heard;
Maternity's deep spring of love within the heart was stirred.
Perhaps some little cherub form, that it was joy to see,
Would climb no more, with sunny smile, its happy parent's knee;
Perhaps some gentle household voice, that sighed "farewell" with pain,
Might never welcome their return to that loved home again;
Then came the thought of glistening eyes, which long had done with tears,
Eyes that had kept an anxious watch o'er childhood's reckless years;
While mem'ry dwelt upon that last and earnest gaze of love,
Which shows the heart withholds its seal from what the lips approve.
They feared those silvery locks, that told 'twas almost "close of day,"
Would to the grave go down, and they, their children, far away!
A moment nature shrank the thought was too, too full of pain 
But ah! their Master's strength was made in weakness perfect then;
The voice that lulls the billowy deep soon bade the storm be still,
Bade them rejoice that they were called to do his perfect will;
To execute with fearless trust the holy high command, 
"Go, and glad gospel tidings spread, over a distant land,
And beams of heavenly peace around your guarded path shall play,
Peace that the world can never give, nor ever take away."
But has the fearful sacrifice at last been made in vain?
And shall no trace within our hearts, no deathless trace remain?
Bright record, that with us awhile their dwelling place has been,
Preparing temples for their Lord's high service to begin.
Oh yes, I trust, a fount of light and life they have unsealed
To many a thirsting, fainting soul, a Saviour's love revealed;
Have taught "that in his service there is perfect freedom" still,
That 'tis the highest bliss of Heaven to do his sovereign will,
And if a humble suppliant may bow before Thy throne,
My Father! and a blessing ask on hearts to her unknown,
Oh! grant for them "the lines may fall in pleasant places" here,
"Beside still waters" bid them rest, and feel that Thou art near.
Thou hast Thyself declared, that great their recompense shall be,
Who have "forsaken all" to love and follow only Thee;
And they have left the "near and dear," the parent, child, and friend;
Then in Thy holy name may all these sweet affections blend!
And should the world desert them, Lord, oh, be the world to them,
The song of their rejoicing here, in Heaven the crowning gem;
Thy sacred guidance grant, I pray, o'er life's tempestuous sea,
Awhile a gentle course, and then, a sheltering port in Thee.
The Shadow Of The Almighty
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

The Rev Mr Young was one stormy day visiting one of his people, an old man, who lived in great poverty in a lonely cottage a few miles from Jedsburg. He found him sitting with his Bible open upon his knees, but in outward circumstances of great discomfort, the snow drifting in through the roof and under the door, and scarcely any fire in the hearth. "What are you about to day, John?" asked Mr Young on entering "Ah, sir," said John, "I am sitting under His shadow with great delight."
They only see the snow heaped on the moor,
The bare trees shivering in the winter's breath,
The icy drift that sifteth through the door,
Me, old and poor, waiting the call of death.
They think my cot is bare and comfortless,
With broken roof and paper-mended pane,
They see but poverty and loneliness,
And think in pity that my death were gain.
They know not, Master, that Thou art so near,
Thou holdest me, I lean upon Thy might,
I know Thy voice, Thy whisperings I hear,
I stay beneath Thy shadow with delight.
The royal purple of Thy garment died,
From Bozrah, is spread over even me,
All my unworthiness, my want I hide
Under Thy princely vesture shelteringly.
Thy hand is underneath my weary head,
Thy strong right hand that saved me long ago;
I'm cradled in Thy arms and comforted,
What more have I to do with want or woe
What more indeed! so sheltered, so embraced,
For ever Thou art mine and I am Thine,
Thy banner's love, Thy fruit sweet to my taste,
Thou givest to my lips the Kingdom's wine.
How sweetly solemn is this awful place!
Where all of earth fades out and vanishes,
I cannot fear while I behold Thy face,
My help, my friend, the Lord my righteousness.
I do not feel the waters cold and deep,
Waters to swim in through whose waves I come,
The love that holds me up is strong to keep,
'Tis but a little way from this to home
My sight grows dim, my one Redeemer, Lord,
Bring nearer still the brightness of Thy face,
I hear Thy voice, assuring is Thy word,
Close to Thy heart is my abiding place.
We're nearing home--forever all is well,
In through the agate windows I can see
The place prepared--glory ineffable,
To which in royal love Thou leadest me
My Mistress's Boots
by Frederick Locker-Lampson

They nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
These boots are Geraldine's,
Think of that!
Oh, where did hunter win
So delectable a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perished, so you did,
For my sweet!
The fa'ry stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And it shows
The Pixies were the wags
Who tipt those funny tags
And these toes.
What soles to charm an elf!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
Oh, how hard he would have tried
For the two!
For Gerry's debonair
And innocent, and fair
As a rose;
She's an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.
The simpletons who squeeze
Their extremities to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's.
Cinderella's lefts and rights,
To Geraldine's were frights;
And I trow,
The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.
Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don;
Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll
Put them on.
Our Own Flag
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

They mustered us up with a royal din,
In wearisome weeks of drought.
Ere ever half of the crops were in,
Or the half of the sheds cut out.
'Twas down with the saddle and spurs and whip
The swagman dropped his swag.
And we hurried us off to the outbound ship
To fight for the English flag.
The English flag, it is ours in sooth
We stand by it wrong or right.
But deep in our hearts is the honest truth
We fought for the sake of a fight.
And the English flag may flutter and wave
Where the World-wide Oceans toss,
But the flag the Australian dies to save
Is the flag of the Southern Cross.
If ever they want us to stand the brunt
Of a hard-faught, grim campaign,
We will carry our own flag up to the front
When we go to the wars again.