DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Marching On
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

I
I heard the young lads singing
In the still morning air,
Gaily the notes came ringing
Across the lilac'd square;
They sang like happy children
Who know not doubt or care,
"As WE GO MARCHING ON."
And each one sloped a rifle
And each one bore a pack;
They had no grief to stifle,
No tears to weep, alack;
They were too blithe to question
Which of them should come back,
As they went marching on.
II
Oh, thou whose eyes are sorrow,
And whose soul is sorrowing,
Who knowest that each to-morrow
A deeper woe may bring,
And knowest that all the comfort
Is the very littlest thing
While they go marching on;
These sons of thine seek glory,
As the bridegroom seeks the bride,
And who shall tell the story
Of their triumph and their pride?
Like lovers, for the love of thee
They have lain them down and died;
And they go marching on.
III
They march by field and city,
By every road and way,
A march which angels pity
And none may stop or stay
Till the last head is rested
On the last crimson clay;
So they go marching on!
They march in the broad sunlight
And by the lovers' moon,
Into the flame and gun-light
From morns and eves of June,
And Death for their entranc'd feet
Pipes an obsequious tune,
And keeps them marching on.
IV
And mid the battle thunder,
And in the fields of blood,
They see the untarnished wonder,
The healing, and the good
Which passeth understanding
And can not be understood;
And they go marching on.
They see the rose's brightness
Made perfect and complete,
Lilies and snows of whiteness,
And wings of gold that beat
For ever and for ever
Before the Paraclete;
And they go marching on.
The Return
by John Frederick Freeman

I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke,
The unintelligible shock of hosts that still,
Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again:
And Beauty flying naked down the hill.
From morn to eve: and then stern night cried Peace!
And shut the strife in darkness; all was still.
Then slowly crept a triumph on the dark--
And I heard Beauty singing up the hill.
The Wood God
by Madison Julius Cawein

I Heard his step upon the moss;
I glimpsed his shadow in the stream;
And thrice I saw the brambles toss
Wherein he vanished like a dream.
A great beech aimed a giant stroke
At my bent head, in mad alarm;
And then a chestnut and an oak
Struck at me with a knotted arm.
The brambles clutched at me; and fear
For one swift instant held me fast
Just long enough to let me hear
His windlike footsteps vanish past.
The brushwood made itself more dense,
And looped my feet with green delay;
And, threatening every violence,
The rocks and thorns opposed my way.
But still I followed; strove and strained
In spite of all the wood devised
To hold me back, and on him gained
The deity I had surprised.
The genius of the wood, whose flute
Had led me far; at first, to see
The imprint of his form and foot
Upon the moss beneath the tree.
A bird piped warning and he fled:
I saw a gleam of gold and green:
The woodland held its breath for dread
That its great godhead would be seen.
Could I but speak him face to face,
And for a while his joy behold,
What visions there might then take place,
What myst'ries of the woods be told!
And well I knew that he was near
By that soft sound the water made
Upon its rock; and by the fear
The wind unto the leaves betrayed.
And by the sign bough made to bough,
The secret signal, brusque and brief,
That said, "On guard! He's looking now!"
And pointed at me every leaf.
Then suddenly the way lay wide;
The brambles ceased to clutch and tear;
And even the grim trees shrunk aside,
And motioned me, "He's there! he's there!"
A ruse! I knew it for a ruse,
To thwart my search at last. But I
Had been a fool to follow clues,
And let the god himself pass by.
And then the wood in mighty mirth
Laughed at me, all its bulk a-swing;
It roared and bent its giant girth
As if it'd done a clever thing.
But I, on whom its scorn was spent,
Said not a word, but turned away:
To me this truth was evident
No man may see the gods to-day.
An Impression.
by Archibald Lampman

I heard the city time-bells call
Far off in hollow towers,
And one by one with measured fall
Count out the old dead hours;
I felt the march, the silent press
Of time, and held my breath;
I saw the haggard dreadfulness
Of dim old age and death.
The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water
by William Butler Yeats

I heard the old, old men say,
"Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away."
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
"All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."
Lines Written In Early Spring
by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
The Voice Of Spring
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

I heard a voice - twas the voice of Spring,
Up from the rivulets murmuring,
Singing of freedom, - thus the lay
On the breezes floated away - 
"Joy! joy! - the chains that bound us
Now disappear,
Sunlight pours its treasures round us,
Warm, warm and clear,
Onward, speeding onward
To the bright main,
Chainless, free, unfettered,
Are we again!"
I heard a voice - 'twas the voice of Spring,
Out from the hill sides whispering,
And a tender strain from the woodland lone
Blended with it in murmurous tone - 
"Joy! joy! - the world is waking
From her long rest, - 
Earth a glow of warmth is taking
To her chill breast, - 
Tiny flower germs, hidden
Long out of sight,
Stealing forth unbidden,
Seek the warm light!"
I heard a voice - 'twas the voice of Spring,
Over the waters wandering,
As to the wilds came the song birds back,
Singing still in their homeward track - 
"Joy! joy! - we're home returning
To the free hills,
From our long and far sojourning,
Now, to the rills,
To the echoing forest.
Orchard and plain,
With our old-time music,
Speed we again!"
I heard a voice - 'twas the voice of Spring, - 
Nature, all Nature awoke to sing;
And every valley, and grove, and plain
Had its share in the welcome strain: - 
"Joy! joy! - the chains are broken,
Spring smiles again, - 
Joy for every blessed token
Of her glad reign, - 
Joy on all the waters,
Joy on each shore. - 
Sunlight, song, sweet odors,
Welcome once more!"
I Heard A Voice Upon The Window Beat
by John Frederick Freeman

I heard a voice upon the window beat
And then grow dim, grow still.
Opening I saw the snowy sill
Marked with the robin's feet.
Chill was the air and chill
The thoughts that in my bosom beat.
I thought of all that wide and hopeless snow
Crusting the frozen lands.
Of small birds that in famished bands
A-chill and silent grow.
And how Earth's myriad hands
Clutched only hills of frosted snow.
And then I thought of Love that beat and cried
Famishing at my breast;
How I, by chilling care distrest,
Denied him, and Love died....
O, with what sore unrest
Love's ghost woke with the bird that cried!
Watching The Needleboats At San Sabba
by James Joyce

I heard their young hearts crying
Loveward above the glancing oar
And heard the prairie grasses sighing:
No more, return no more!
O hearts, O sighing grasses,
Vainly your loveblown bannerets mourn!
No more will the wild wind that passes
Return, no more return.
Tegner's Drapa
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard a voice, that cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.
I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun
Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Around him as he passed.
And the voice forever cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And died away
Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.
Balder the Beautiful,
God of the summer sun,
Fairest of all the Gods!
Light from his forehead beamed,
Runes were upon his tongue,
As on the warrior's sword.
All things in earth and air
Bound were by magic spell
Never to do him harm;
Even the plants and stones;
All save the mistletoe,
The sacred mistletoe!
Hoeder, the blind old God,
Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!
They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed
A ring upon his finger,
And whispered in his ear.
They launched the burning ship!
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more!
So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old.
Over its meadows green
Walk the young bards and sing.
Build it again,
O ye bards,
Fairer than before!
Ye fathers of the new race,
Feed upon morning dew,
Sing the new Song of Love!
The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails!
Thor, the thunderer,
Shall rule the earth no more,
No more, with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.
Sing no more,
O ye bards of the North,
Of Vikings and of Jarls!
Of the days of Eld
Preserve the freedom only,
Not the deeds of blood!
A Curious Story
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I heard such a curious story
Of Santa Claus: once, so they say,
He set out to see what people were kind,
Before he took presents their way.
'This year I will give but to givers,
To those who make presents themselves,'
With a nod of his head old Santa Claus said
To his band of bright officer-elves.
'Go into the homes of the happy
Where pleasure stands page at the door.
Watch well how they live, and report what they give
To the hordes of God's suffering poor.
Keep track of each cent and each moment;
Yes, tell me each word, too, they use:
To silver line clouds for earth's suffering crowds,
And tell me, too, when they refuse.'
So into our homes flew the fairies,
Though never a soul of us knew,
And with pencil and book they sat by and took
Each action, if false, or if true.
White marks for the deeds done for others -
Black marks for the deeds done for self.
And nobody hid what he said or he did,
For no one, of course, sees an elf.
Well, Christmas came all in its season,
And Santa Claus, so I am told,
With a very light pack of small gifts on his back,
And his reindeers all left in the fold,
Set out on a leisurely journey,
And finished ere midnight, they say.
And there never had been such surprise and chagrin
Before on the breaking of day,
As there was on that bright Christmas morning
When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves
Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not in -
But wasn't it fun for the elves!
And what did I get?    You confuse me -
I got not one thing, and that's true;
But had I suspected my actions detected
I would have had gifts, wouldn't you?
I Heard You, Solemn-Sweep Pipes Of The Organ
by Walt Whitman

I heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of the organ, as last Sunday morn I pass'd the church;
Winds of autumn! - as I walk'd the woods at dusk, I heard your long-stretch'd sighs, up above, so mournful;
I heard the perfect Italian tenor, singing at the opera - I heard the soprano in the midst of the quartet singing;
Heart of my love! - you too I heard, murmuring low, through one of the wrists around my head;
Heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little bells last night under my ear.
The First Look.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

I heard the strokes of the midnight bell
As they thrilled the quiet air,
And saw the soft, white curtains wave
In the lamp's uncertain glare;
And felt the breath of the July night,
Laden with fragrance and warmth and blight.
I knew that scarcely an hour before,
With plaintive and feeble wail,
A spirit had entered the gates of time,
A being helpless and frail;
That cradled beside me the stranger lay,
Though I had not dared o'er her face to pray.
But roused by the voice of the midnight chime,
O'er the little one I bent,
And soft, sweet eyes were upraised to mine,
As blue as the firmament, - 
Eyes that had never beheld the day,
Or the chastened light of the moonbeam's ray.
O wonderful meeting, on the verge
Of Life and the dark BEYOND!
O wonderful glance from soul to soul
United by tenderest bond!
The one corroded with earth and care,
The other as falling snow-flakes fair; - 
The one oppressed with contrition's tear,
Familiar with grief and sin,
The other with naught but the angel's face
Who ushered the human in;
The one a wrestler with Fate's decrees,
The other environed with saintly ease; - 
The one acquainted with Death and change,
And with anguish faint and pale,
The other as fresh as the earliest rose
That opened in Eden's vale.
Dear Lord! that ever the blight should fall,
That sin should sully and Death appall!
My Heart.
by George MacDonald

I heard, in darkness, on my bed,
The beating of my heart
To servant feet and regnant head
A common life impart,
By the liquid cords, in every thread
Unbroken as they start.
Night, with its power to silence day,
Filled up my lonely room;
All motion quenching, save what lay
Beyond its passing doom,
Where in his shed the workman gay
Went on despite the gloom.
I listened, and I knew the sound,
And the trade that he was plying;
For backwards, forwards, bound and bound,
'Twas a shuttle, flying, flying;
Weaving ever life's garment round,
Till the weft go out with sighing.
I said, O mystic thing, thou goest
On working in the dark;
In space's shoreless sea thou rowest,
Concealed within thy bark;
All wondrous things thou, wonder, showest,
Yet dost not any mark.
For all the world is woven by thee,
Besides this fleshly dress;
With earth and sky thou clothest me,
Form, distance, loftiness;
A globe of glory spouting free
Around the visionless.
For when thy busy efforts fail,
And thy shuttle moveless lies,
They will fall from me, like a veil
From before a lady's eyes;
As a night-perused, just-finished tale
In the new daylight dies.
But not alone dost thou unroll
The mountains, fields, and seas,
A mighty, wonder-painted scroll,
Like the Patmos mysteries;
Thou mediator 'twixt my soul
And higher things than these.
In holy ephod clothing me
Thou makest me a seer;
In all the lovely things I see,
The inner truths appear;
And the deaf spirit without thee
No spirit-word could hear.
Yet though so high thy mission is,
And thought to spirit brings,
Thy web is but the chrysalis,
Where lie the future wings,
Now growing into perfectness
By thy inwoven things.
Then thou, God's pulse, wilt cease to beat;
But His heart will still beat on,
Weaving another garment meet,
If needful for his son;
And sights more glorious, to complete
The web thou hast begun.
A Minor Chord
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I heard a strain of music in the street -
A wandering waif of sound.    And then straightway
A nameless desolation filled the day.
The great green earth that had been fair and sweet,
Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought replete
With joy, grew lonely for a vanished May.
Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay
Like bleaching skeletons about my feet.
Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky,
Dumb with vast anguish for departed suns
That brutal Time to nothingness has hurled.
The daylight was as sad as smiles that lie
Upon the wistful, unkissed mouths of nuns,
And I stood prisoned in an awful world.
The Fairies Dancing
by Walter De La Mare

I heard along the early hills,
Ere yet the lark was risen up,
Ere yet the dawn with firelight fills
The night-dew of the bramble-cup, - 
I heard the fairies in a ring
Sing as they tripped a lilting round
Soft as the moon on wavering wing.
The starlight shook as if with sound,
As if with echoing, and the stars
Prankt their bright eyes with trembling gleams
While red with war the gusty Mars
Rained upon earth his ruddy beams.
He shone alone, low down the West,
While I, behind a hawthorn-bush,
Watched on the fairies flaxen-tressed
The fires of the morning flush.
Till, as a mist, their beauty died,
Their singing shrill and fainter grew;
And daylight tremulous and wide
Flooded the moorland through and through;
Till Urdon's copper weathercock
Was reared in golden flame afar,
And dim from moonlit dreams awoke
The towers and groves of Arroar.
The Irish Slave.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
"He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"
I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
That didn't bring deadly bane to me.
Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
"Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--
"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
"Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
"Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--
"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
"Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance
"Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?"
Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered "No."
But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,
And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?
"Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great,
"Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon--
"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words
"They link with hate on his native plains;
"And why?--they lent him hearts and swords,
"And he in return gave scoffs and chains!
"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired,
When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
And slave as I was my triumph fell.
He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and--I couldn't rejoice!
He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
And them did I curse--but sighed for him.
For, his was the error of head not heart;
And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
And carries a smile with a curse below!
If ever a heart made bright amends
For the fatal fault of an erring head--
Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,
In the orphan's tear be his glory read.
A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.
Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"
My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"
January, 1827.
Night And Storm At Gloucester
by Madison Julius Cawein

I heard the wind last night that cried and wept
Like some old skipper's ghost outside my door;
And on the roof the rain that tramped and tore
Like feet of seamen on a deck storm-swept.
Against the pane the Night with shudderings crept,
And crouched there wailing; moaning ever more
Its tale of terror; of the wrath on shore,
The rage at sea, bidding all wake who slept.
And then I heard a voice as old as Time;
The calling of the mother of the world,
Ocean, who thundered on her granite crags,
Foaming with fury, meditating crime.
And then, far off, wild minute guns; and, hurled
Through roaring surf, the rush of sails in rags.
My Lady Nightingale.
by Jean Blewett

I heard you singing in the grove,
My Lady Nightingale;
The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
And all the sky was pale.
A silence - clear as bells of peace
Your song thrilled on the air,
Each liquid note a thing of joy,
And sweet beyond compare.
Not all of joy - a haunting strain
Of sorrow and of tears,
A note of grief which seemed to voice
The sadness of the years.
'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
My Lady Nightingale,
Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
When all the sky was pale.
The Voice Of Toil.
by William Morris

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,
The never-ending toil between.
When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;
Then great men led us, with words they fed us,
And bade us right the earthly wrong.
Go read in story their deeds and glory,
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;
Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives.
Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish;
Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.
Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone.
* * * * *
I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger,
When day breaks over dreams and sleep?
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older!
Help lies in nought but thee and me;
Hope is before us, the long years that bore us
Bore leaders more than men may be.
Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older!
The Cause spreads over land and sea;
Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,
And joy at last for thee and me.
The To-Be-Forgotten
by Thomas Hardy

I
I heard a small sad sound,
And stood awhile amid the tombs around:
"Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are ye distrest,
Now, screened from life's unrest?"
II
- "O not at being here;
But that our future second death is drear;
When, with the living, memory of us numbs,
And blank oblivion comes!
III
"Those who our grandsires be
Lie here embraced by deeper death than we;
Nor shape nor thought of theirs canst thou descry
With keenest backward eye.
IV
"They bide as quite forgot;
They are as men who have existed not;
Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath;
It is the second death.
V
"We here, as yet, each day
Are blest with dear recall; as yet, alway
In some soul hold a loved continuance
Of shape and voice and glance.
VI
"But what has been will be -
First memory, then oblivion's turbid sea;
Like men foregone, shall we merge into those
Whose story no one knows.
VII
"For which of us could hope
To show in life that world-awakening scope
Granted the few whose memory none lets die,
But all men magnify?
VIII
"We were but Fortune's sport;
Things true, things lovely, things of good report
We neither shunned nor sought . . . We see our bourne,
And seeing it we mourn."