DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
They Come!
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

From North and South, and East and West,
They come!
The sorely tried, the much oppressed,
Their Faith and Love to manifest,
They come!
They come to tell of work well done,
They come to tell of kingdoms won,
To worship at the Great White Throne,
They come!
In a noble consecration,
With a sound of jubilation.
They come! They come!
Through tribulations and distress,
They come!
Through perils great and bitterness,
Through persecutions pitiless,
They come!
They come by paths the martyrs trod,
They come from underneath the rod,
Climbing through darkness up to God,
They come!
Out of mighty tribulation,
With a sound of jubilation,
They come! They come!
From every land beneath the sun,
They come!
To tell of mighty victories won;
Unto the Father through the Son,
They come!
They come--the victors in the fight,
They come--the blind restored to sight,
From deepest Darkness into Light;
They come!
In a holy exaltation,
With a sound of jubilation,
They come! They come!
From Fleeting Pleasures.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

A REQUIEM FOR ONE ALIVE.
From fleeting pleasures and abiding cares,
From sin's seductions and from Satan's snares,
From woes and wrath to penitence and prayers,
Veni in pace!
Sweet absolution thy sad spirit heal;
To godly cares that end in endless weal,
To joys man cannot think or speak or feel,
Vade in pace!
From this world's ways and being led by them,
From floods of evil thy youth could not stem,
From tents of Kedar to Jerusalem,
Veni in pace!
Blest be thy worldly loss to thy soul's gain,
Blest be the blow that freed thee from thy chain,
Blest be the tears that wash thy spirit's stain,
Vade in pace!
Oh, dead, and yet alive! Oh, lost and found!
Salvation's walls now compass thee around,
Thy weary feet are set on holy ground.
Veni in pace!
Death gently garner thee with all the blest,
In heavenly habitations be thou guest;
To light perpetual and eternal rest,
Vade in pace!
Mathal Name. - Book Of Parables.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

From heaven there fell upon the foaming wave
A timid drop; the flood with anger roared,
But God, its modest boldness to reward,
Strength to the drop and firm endurance gave.
Its form the mussel captive took,
And to its lasting glory and renown,
The pearl now glistens in our monarch's crown,
With gentle gleam and loving look.
1819.*
-
BULBUL'S song, through night hours cold,
Rose to Allah's throne on high;
To reward her melody,
Giveth he a cage of gold.
Such a cage are limbs of men,
Though at first she feels confin'd,
Yet when all she brings to mind,
Straight the spirit sings again.
1819.*
-
IN the Koran with strange delight
A peacock's feather met my sight:
Thou'rt welcome in this holy place,
The highest prize on earth's wide face!
As in the stars of heaven, in thee,
God's greatness in the small we see;
For he whose gaze whole worlds bath bless'd
His eye hath even here impress'd,
And the light down in beauty dress'd,
So that e'en monarchs cannot hope
In splendour with the bird to cope.
Meekly enjoy thy happy lot,
And so deserve that holy spot!
1815.
-
ALL kinds of men, both small and great,
A fine-spun web delight to create,
And in the middle they take their place,
And wield their scissors with wondrous grace.
But if a besom should sweep that way:
"What a most shameful thing," they say,
"They've crush'd a mighty palace to-day."
1815.
-
IT IS GOOD.
IN Paradise while moonbeams play'd,
Jehovah found, in slumber deep,
Adam fast sunk; He gently laid
Eve near him, she, too, fell asleep.
There lay they now, on earth's fair shrine,
God's two most beauteous thoughts divine.
When this He saw, He cried: 'Tis Good!!!
And scarce could move from where He stood.
No wonder, that our joy's complete
While eye and eye responsive meet,
When this blest thought of rapture moves us
That we're with Him who truly loves us,
And if He cries: Good, let it be!
'Tis so for both, it seems to me.
Thou'rt clasp'd within these arms of mine,
Dearest of all God's thoughts divine!
1815.
The Blue Bird.
by Madison Julius Cawein

From morn till noon upon the window-pane
The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails,
And all the afternoon the blustering gales
Beat at the door with furious feet of rain.
The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain,
Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails,
On which the sullen slug left slimy trails
Meseemed the sun would never shine again.
Then in the drench, long, loud and full of cheer,
A skyey herald tabarded in blue,
A bluebird bugled... and at once a bow
Was bent in heaven, and I seemed to hear
God's sapphire spaces crystallizing through
The strata'd clouds in azure tremolo.
God's Gifts To Be Enjoyed
by Joseph Horatio Chant

From God's all bounteous hand descend
Rare gifts in rich effusion,
And with those gifts no poisons blend,
Nor is their end delusion;
So do not spurn if He bestow
Those forms arrayed in beauty;
If thus His gifts with radiance glow,
Enjoyment is a duty.
Come, deck your brows with leaves and flowers,
Ye fair ones, nothing fearing;
Adorn your homes and train your bowers
Nor deem this sin's appearing;
We do not fit ourselves for bliss
By scorning all adorning;
We may enjoy the good of this
And share heaven's brighter morning.
A garment plain may have its stain,
And saintly brows lack sweetness;
But he who would heaven's glory gain
Must here acquire a meetness;
So eat and drink, rejoice and sing,
But don't forget the ending;
The bells of earth more sweetly ring
If we are heavenward tending.
The world we use, but not abuse,
If we enjoy its beauty;
And they who all its joys refuse
Miss privilege and duty.
Then prize earth's joys, but prize much more
The bloom beyond the river;
God's gifts enjoy, but e'er adore
The ever blessed Giver.
Lamentation
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

(WALTER AND FREDDIE.)
From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,
I mourn and cannot rest;
So mourns the mother bird when home returning
She finds an empty nest.
I mourn the little children of my dwelling,
That are forever gone,
Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,
And so I make my moan.
One little blossom on my bosom faded,
And passed from me away,
But near my door the drooping willows shaded
My little boys at play
My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,
And questions wondrous wise,
And bits of news which they had brought to greet me,
And see my glad surprise
Bitter for sweet no human hand can alter
Nor bid one sorrow pass,
With sudden stroke our darling little Walter
Was laid beneath the grass
Ah then it was to me an added sorrow,
To hear his brother moan,
Where's little Walter, will he come to morrow
I cannot play alone?
The summons for the child had come already
Which said I must resign
The best beloved, the precious little Freddie,
To other arms than mine
How still and lone are the familiar places
Where little pattering feet
Made music for me, and I saw bright faces
Dimple with laughter sweet
My arms are empty that woold fain be folding
My lost ones to my breast,
But well I know, the Father's face beholding,
They are forever blest.
From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,--
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.
In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--
Look up, your treasure's there.
Exmoor Verses II. Saturn
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

From my farm, from h'r farm
Furtively we came.
In either home a hearth was warm:
We nursed a hungrier flame.
Our feet were foul with mire,
Our faces blind with mist;
But all the night was naked fire
About us where we kiss'd.
To her farm, to my farm,
Loathing we returned;
Pale beneath a gallow's arm
The planet Saturn burned.
Translations. - A Song Of The Little Child Jesus, For Children At Christmas. Taken Out Of The Second Chapter Of The Gospel Of St. Luke. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

From heaven high I come to you,
I bring a story good and new:
Of goodly news so much I bring,
Of it I must both speak and sing.
To you a child is come this morn,
A child of chosen maiden born,
A little babe so sweet and mild
Your joy and bliss shall be that child.
'Tis the Lord Christ, our very God.
He will you ease of all your load;
He'll be himself your Saviour sure
And from all sinning make you pure.
He brings you all the news so glad
Which God the Father ready had--
That you shall in his heavenly house
Live now and evermore with us.
Take heed then to the token sure--
The crib, the swaddling clothes so poor:
The infant you shall find laid there
Who all the world doth hold and bear.
Hence let us all be gladsome then,
And with the shepherd-folk go in
To see what God to us hath given
With his dear honoured Son from heaven.
Take note, my heart; see there! look low:
What lies then in the manger so?
Whose is the lovely little child?
It is the darling Jesus-child.
Hail, noble guest in humble guise,
Poor sinners who didst not despise,
And com'st to me in misery!
My thoughts must all be thanks to thee!
Ah Lord! the maker of us all!
How hast thou grown so poor and small
That there thou liest on withered grass,
The supper of the ox and ass!
Were the world wider many fold,
And decked with gems and cloth of gold,
'T were far too mean and narrow all
To be for thee a cradle small!
The silk and velvet that are thine
Are rough hay, linen not too fine;
Thereon thou, king so rich and great,
Liest as if in heavenly state.
And this hath therefore pleased thee,
To make this truth right plain to me,
That all the world's power, honour, wealth
Are nothing to thy heart or health.
Ah, little Christ! my heart's poor shed
Would make thee a soft, little bed:
Rest there as in a lowly shrine,
And make that heart for ever thine,
That so I always gladsome be,
Ready to dance, and sing to thee
The lullaby thou lovest best,
With sweetest hymn for dearest guest.
Glory to God on highest throne
Who gave to us his only Own!
For this the angel troop sings in
A New Year with gladsome din.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXII - Catechising
by William Wordsworth

From Little down to Least, in due degree,
Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest,
Each with a vernal posy at his breast,
We stood, a trembling, earnest Company!
With low soft murmur, like a distant bee,
Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed;
And some a bold unerring answer made:
How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me,
Beloved Mother! Thou whose happy hand
Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie:
Sweet flowers! at whose inaudible command
Her countenance, phantom-like, doth reappear:
O lost too early for the frequent tear,
And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh!
On Snow
by Jonathan Swift

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,
No lady alive can show such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,
But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,
The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.
Hiram Maxim
by Oliver Herford

From Hiram Maxim's hair you'd think
His specialty was spilling ink--
You'd never dream he'd spilt more blood
Than any one man since the Flood.
The Moon In The Wood
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
From hill and hollow, side by side,
The shadows came, like dreams, to sit
And watch, mysterious, sunset-eyed,
The wool-winged moths and bats aflit,
And the lone owl that cried and cried.
And then the forest rang a gong,
Hoarse, toadlike; and from out the gate
Of darkness came a sound of song,
As of a gnome that called his mate,
Who answered in his own strange tongue.
And all the forest leaned to hear,
And saw, from forth the entangling trees,
A naked spirit drawing near,
A glimmering presence, whom the breeze
Kept whispering, "Forward! Have no fear."
II.
The woodland, seeming at a loss,
Afraid to breathe, or make a sound,
Poured, where her silvery feet should cross,
A dripping pathway on the ground,
And hedged it in with ferns and moss.
And then the silence sharply shook
A cricket tambourine; and Night
From out her musky bosom took
A whippoorwill flute, and, lost to sight
Sat piping to a wildwood brook.
Until from out the shadows came
A furtive foot, a gleam, a glow;
And with a lamp of crystal flame
The spirit stole, as white as snow,
And put the firmament to shame.
III.
Then up and down vague movements went,
As if the faeries sought an herb;
And here and there a bush was bent,
A wildflower raised: the wood-pool's curb
Was circled with a scarf of scent.
And deep within her house of weeds
Old Mystery hung a glowworm lamp,
And decked her hair with firefly beads,
And sate herself 'mid dew and damp,
And crooned a love-song to the reeds.
Then through the gates of solitude,
Where Witchery her shuttle plied,
The Spirit entered, white and nude
And where she went, on every side,
Dreams followed through the solitude.
Mutability
by William Wordsworth

From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
The Surprise Of Cremona.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,
And soft are the beds in his princely abode;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A fig for precaution!--Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!
II.
Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.
"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"--
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Cassioli's sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine;
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"
III.
Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cavaliers--
A flood through a gulley--Count Merci careers--
They ride without getting or giving a blow,
Nor halt till they gaze on the gate of the Po.
"Surrender the gate!"--but a volley replied,
For a handful of Irish are posted inside.
By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late,
If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate!
IV.
But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour,
And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore;
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain--
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein--
"A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse--
Release me, MacDonnell!"--they hold on their course.
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,
Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town-hall!
V.
Here and there, through the city, some readier band,
For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke
Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.
His sabre is flashing--the major is dress'd,
But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!
Yet they rush to the ramparts, the clocks have tolled ten,
And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.
VI.
"In on them!" said Friedberg--and Dillon is broke,
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;--
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall--
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.
VII.
Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?
In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!
The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how, pell-mell
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell!
He's a veteran soldier--he clenches his hands,
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands--
He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid,
He is chased through the gates by the IRISH BRIGADE.
VIII.
News, news, in Vienna!--King Leopold's sad.
News, news, in St. James's!--King William is mad.
News, news, in Versailles!--"Let the Irish Brigade
Be loyally honoured, and royally paid."
News, news, in old Ireland!--high rises her pride,
And high sounds her wail for her children who died,
And deep is her prayer: "God send I may see
MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me!"
Lines Written At Brighton.
by John Carr (Sir)

From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng,
How sweet it is to steal away at eve,
To listen to the homeward fisher's song,
Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave; - 
And on the sloping beach to bear the spray
Dash 'gainst some hoary vessel's broken side;
Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray,
The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.
Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then,
With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene,
Th' erratic mind treads over life again,
And gazes on the past with eye serene.
Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul,
That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly,
Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll
With gentle lapse - their only sound a sigh.
The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,
Ambition feels the folly of her aim;
And Pity, from the heart expanding, now
Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim.
Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea,
And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak,
I feel, O Nature! that serenity
Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!
O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views
Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam; - 
So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues
Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam.
The spot fraternal love has sacred made,
Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom,
Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade
Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.
By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone,
Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears?
Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone,
Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.
Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move,
O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile;
With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,
That once could life of ev'ry care beguile:
Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;
There's music in the sweet and dying sound;
Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain,
It spreads a soothing consolation round.
Adieu, bless'd shade! - Imagination roves
To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave;
Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,
To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.
Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]! - It was thine,
Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form,
Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine,
With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.
Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,
And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!
O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,
Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom!
Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier,
And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn,
Ah! little did ye think that such a tear
As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.
Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,
At once the tribute of my grief and love;
Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,
Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above.
Refuge
by Sara Teasdale

From my spirit's gray defeat,
From my pulse's flagging beat,
From my hopes that turned to sand
Sifting through my close-clenched hand,
From my own fault's slavery,
If I can sing, I still am free.
For with my singing I can make
A refuge for my spirit's sake,
A house of shining words, to be
My fragile immortality.
On Dante Alighieri.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Dal ciel discese.
From heaven his spirit came, and robed in clay
The realms of justice and of mercy trod,
Then rose a living man to gaze on God,
That he might make the truth as clear as day.
For that pure star that brightened with his ray
The undeserving nest where I was born,
The whole wide world would be a prize to scorn;
None but his Maker can due guerdon pay.
I speak of Dante, whose high work remains
Unknown, unhonoured by that thankless brood,
Who only to just men deny their wage.
Were I but he! Born for like lingering pains,
Against his exile coupled with his good
I'd gladly change the world's best heritage!
Love's Excuse.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Dal dolcie pianto.
From happy tears to woeful smiles, from peace
Eternal to a brief and hollow truce,
How have I fallen!--when 'tis truth we lose,
Sense triumphs o'er all adverse impulses.
I know not if my heart bred this disease,
That still more pleasing grows with growing use;
Or else thy face, thine eyes, which stole the hues
And fires of Paradise--less fair than these.
Thy beauty is no mortal thing; 'twas sent
From heaven on high to make our earth divine:
Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I'm content;
For in thy sight what could I do but pine?
If God himself thus rules my destiny,
Who, when I die, can lay the blame on thee?
The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning
by Vachel Lindsay

[A Poem for Aviators]
How the Wings Were Made
From many morning-glories
That in an hour will fade,
From many pansy buds
Gathered in the shade,
From lily of the valley
And dandelion buds,
From fiery poppy-buds
Are the Wings of the Morning made.
Philomel And Progne.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
From home and city spires, one day,
The swallow Progne flew away,
And sought the bosky dell
Where sang poor Philomel.[2]
'My sister,' Progne said, 'how do you do?
'Tis now a thousand years since you
Have been conceal'd from human view;
I'm sure I have not seen your face
Once since the times of Thrace.
Pray, will you never quit this dull retreat?'
'Where could I find,' said Philomel, 'so sweet?'
'What! sweet?' cried Progne - 'sweet to waste
Such tones on beasts devoid of taste,
Or on some rustic, at the most!
Should you by deserts be engross'd?
Come, be the city's pride and boast.
Besides, the woods remind of harms
That Tereus in them did your charms.'
'Alas!' replied the bird of song,
'The thought of that so cruel wrong
Makes me, from age to age,
Prefer this hermitage;
For nothing like the sight of men
Can call up what I suffer'd then.'
From My Last Years
by Walt Whitman

From my last years, last thoughts I here bequeath,
Scatter'd and dropt, in seeds, and wafted to the West,
Through moisture of Ohio, prairie soil of Illinois--through Colorado, California air,
For Time to germinate fully.
Peak And Puke
by Walter De La Mare

From his cradle in the glamourie
They have stolen my wee brother,
Roused a changeling in his swaddlings
For to fret mine own poor mother.
Pules it in the candle light
Wi' a cheek so lean and white,
Chinkling up its eyne so wee,
Wailing shrill at her an' me.
It we'll neither rock nor tend
Till the Silent Silent send,
Lapping in their waesome arms
Him they stole with spells and charms,
Till they take this changeling creature
Back to its own fairy nature - 
Cry! Cry! as long as may be,
Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
The Bellman
by Robert Herrick

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
From murders Benedicite.
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night :
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock, and almost two,
My masters all, good-day to you.
A Song Upon Silvia.
by Robert Herrick

From me my Silvia ran away,
And running therewithal
A primrose bank did cross her way,
And gave my love a fall.
But trust me now, I dare not say
What I by chance did see;
But such the drap'ry did betray
That fully ravished me.