DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXIII. - The Church Of San Salvador
by William Wordsworth

Seen From The Lake Of Lugano
Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage,
Guarded by lone San Salvador;
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore,
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice,
But ne'er to human rage!
On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned
To rest the universal Lord:
Why leap the fountains from their cells
Where everlasting Bounty dwells?
That, while the Creature is sustained,
His God may be adored.
Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times
Let all remind the soul of heaven;
Our slack devotion needs them all;
And Faith, so oft of sense the thrall,
While she, by aid of Nature, climbs
May hope to be forgiven.
Glory, and patriotic Love,
And all the Pomps of this frail "spot
Which men call Earth," have yearned to seek,
Associate with the simply meek,
Religion in the sainted grove,
And in the hallowed grot.
Thither, in time of adverse shocks,
Of fainting hopes and backward wills,
Did mighty Tell repair of old
A Hero cast in Nature's mould,
Deliverer of the steadfast rocks
And of the ancient hills!
'He', too, of battle-martyrs chief!
Who, to recall his daunted peers,
For victory shaped an open space,
By gathering with a wide embrace,
Into his single breast, a sheaf
Of fatal Austrian spears.
Of Anticipation. from Proverbial Philosophy
by Martin Farquhar Tupper

Thou hast seen many sorrows, travel-stained pilgrim of the world.
But that which hath vexed thee most hath been the looking for evil;
And though calamities have crossed thee, and misery been heaped on thy head,
Yet ills, that never happened, have chiefly made thee wretched.
The sting of pain and the edge of pleasure are blunted by long expectation,
For the gall and the balm alike are diluted in the waters of patience:
And often thou sippest sweetness, ere the cup is dashed from thy lip;
Or drainest the gall of fear, while evil is passing by thy dwelling.
A man too careful of danger liveth in continual torment,
But a cheerful expecter of the best hath a fountain of joy within him:
Yea, though the breath of disappointment should chill the sanguine heart,
Speedily gloweth it again, warmed by the have embers of hope;
Though the black and heavy surge close above the head for a moment,
Yet the happy buoyancy of Confidence riseth superior to Despair.
Verily, evils may be courted, may be wooed and won by distrust:
For the wise Physician of our weal loveth not an unbelieving spirit;
And to those giveth He good, who rely on His hand for good;
And those leaveth He to evil, who fear, but trust Him not.
Ask for good, and hope it, for the ocean of good is fathomless;
Ask for good, and have it; for thy Friend would see thee happy;
But to the timid heart, to the child of unbelief and dread.
That leaneth on his own weak staff, and trusteth the sight of his eyes,
The evil he feared shall come, for the soil is ready for the seed.
And suspicion hath coldly put aside the hand that was ready to help him.
Therefore look up, sad spirit; be strong, thou coward heart.
Or fear will make thee wretched, though evil follow not behind:
Cease to anticipate misfortune; there are still many chances of escape;
But if it come, be courageous: face it, and conquer thy calamity.
There is not an enemy so stout, as to storm and take the fortress of the mind,
Unless its infirmity turn traitor, and Fear unbar the gates.
The valiant standeth as a rock, and the billows break upon him;
The timorous is a skiff unmoored, tost and mocked at by a ripple:
The valiant holdeth fast to good, till evil wrench it from him;
The timorous casteth it aside, to meet the worst half way:
Yet oftentimes is evil but a braggart, that provoketh and will not fight;
Or the feint of a subtle fencer, who measiureth his thrust elsewhere:
Or perchance a blessing in a masque, sent to try thy trust,
The precious smiting of a friend, whose frowns are all in love:
Often the storm threateneth, but is driven to other climes.
And the weak hath quaUed in fear, while the firm hath been glad in his confidence.
Transcribed from Proverbial Philosophy by Mick Puttock (Spelling, punctuation and grammer left mostly unchanged from the 25th edition)
Fragment: To The Mind Of Man.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thou living light that in thy rainbow hues
Clothest this naked world; and over Sea
And Earth and air, and all the shapes that be
In peopled darkness of this wondrous world
The Spirit of thy glory dost diffuse
... truth ... thou Vital Flame
Mysterious thought that in this mortal frame
Of things, with unextinguished lustre burnest
Now pale and faint now high to Heaven upcurled
That eer as thou dost languish still returnest
And ever
Before the ... before the Pyramids
So soon as from the Earth formless and rude
One living step had chased drear Solitude
Thou wert, Thought; thy brightness charmed the lids
Of the vast snake Eternity, who kept
The tree of good and evil. -
To The Darkness
by Clark Ashton Smith

Thou hast taken the light of many suns,
And they are sealed in the prison-house of gloom.
Even as candle-flames
Hast thou taken the souls of men,
With winds from out a hollow place;
They are hid in the abyss as in a sea,
And the gulfs are over them
As the weight of many peaks,
As the depth of many seas;
Thy shields are between them and the light;
They are past its burden and bitterness;
The spears of the day shall not touch them,
The chains of the sun shall not hale them forth.
Many men there were,
In the days that are now of thy realm,
That thou hast sealed with the seal of many deeps;
Their feet were as eagles' wings in the quest of Truth -
Aye, mightily they desired her face,
Hunting her through the lands of life,
As men in the blankness of the waste
That seek for a buried treasure-house of kings.
But against them were the veils
That hands may not rend nor sabers pierce;
And Truth was withheld from them,
As a water that is seen afar at dawn,
And at noon is lost in the sand
Before the feet of the traveller.
The world was a barrenness,
And the gardens were as the waste.
And they turned them to the adventure of the dark,
To the travelling of the land without roads,
To the sailing of the sea that hath no beacons.
Why have they not returned?
Their quest hath found end in thee,
Or surely they had fared
Once more to the place whence they came,
As men that have travelled to a fruitless land.
They have looked on thy face,
And to them it is the countenance of Truth.
Thy silence is sweeter to them than the voice of love,
Thine embrace more dear than the clasp of the beloved.
They are fed with the emptiness past the veil,
And their hunger is filled;
They have found the waters of peace,
And are athirst no more.
They know a rest that is deeper than the gulfs,
And whose seal is unbreakable as the seal of the void;
They sleep the sleep of the suns,
And the vast is a garment unto them.
To The Rev. A. A. In The Country From His Friend In London.
by Horace Smith

(AFTER HEINE.)
Thou little village curate,
Come quick, and do not wait;
We'll sit and talk together,
So sweetly tete-a-tete.
Oh do not fear the railway
Because it seems so big--
Dost thou not daily trust thee
Unto thy little gig.
This house is full of painters,
And half shut up and black;
But rooms the very snuggest
Lie hidden at the back.
Come! come! come!
Sonnet 36 Cupid coniured
by Michael Drayton

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke
To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me,
And suff'red her to glory in my Wracke,
Thus to my aid, I lastly coniure thee;
By Hellish Styx (by which the THUND'RER sweares)
By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power,
By HECAT'S Names, by PROSERPINE'S sad Teares,
When she was rapt to the infernall Bower,
By thine own loued PSYCHES, by the Fires
Spent on thine Altars, flaming vp to Heau'n;
By all the Louers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires,
By all the Wounds that euer thou hast giu'n;
I coniure thee by all that I haue nam'd,
To make her loue, or CUPID be thou damn'd.
To George Sand: A Desire
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! that thou to woman's claim
And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
The Shoemaker.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Thou Poet, who, like any lark,
Dost whet thy beak and trill
From misty morn till murky dark,
Nor ever pipe thy fill:
Hast thou not, in thy cheery note,
One poor chirp to confer - 
One verseful twitter to devote
Unto the Shoe-ma-ker?
At early dawn he doth peg in
His noble work and brave;
And eke from cark and wordly sin
He seeketh soles to save;
And all day long, with quip and song,
Thus stitcheth he the way
Our feet may know the right from wrong,
Nor ever go a stray.
Soak kip in mind the Shoe-ma-ker,
Nor slight his lasting fame:
Alway he waxeth tenderer
In warmth of our acclaim; - 
Aye, more than any artisan
We glory in his art
Who ne'er, to help the under man,
Neglects the upper part.
But toe the mark for him, and heel
Respond to thee in kine - 
Or kid - or calf, shouldst thou reveal
A taste so superfine:
Thus let him jest - join in his laugh - 
Draw on his stock, and be
A shoer'd there's no rival half
Sole liberal as he.
Then, Poet, hail the Shoe-ma-ker
For all his goodly deeds, - 
Yea, bless him free for booting thee - 
The first of all thy needs!
And when at last his eyes grow dim,
And nerveless drops his clamp,
In golden shoon pray think of him
Upon his latest tramp.
Sonnet CXLVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Po, ben puo' tu portartene la scorza.
TO THE RIVER PO, ON QUITTING LAURA.
Thou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear,
On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;
But the free spirit that within doth bide
Nor for thy might, nor any might doth care:
Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,
Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;
Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,
In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.
Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,
That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,
But in the west dost quit a fairer light;
Thy curv'd course this body wafts along;
My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way,
And to its darling home directs its flight!
NOTT.
Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,
This frame corporeal mayst onward bear:
But a free spirit is conceal'd there,
Which nor thy power nor any power can guide.
That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd,
With course unvarying backward cleaves the air--
Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care--
And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride.
'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borne
To meet the sun, as he leads on the day;
And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn:
Thy horn'd flood these passive limbs obey--
But, uncontroll'd, to its sweet sojourn
On Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.
WRANGHAM.
Sonnets: Idea XLIX
by Michael Drayton

Thou leaden brain, which censur'st what I write,
And sayst my lines be dull and do not move,
I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight,
Which never felt'st my fiery touch of love;
But thou whose pen hath like a packhorse served,
Whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food,
Whose senses like poor prisoners, hunger-starved
Whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood;
Thou which hast scorn'd life and hated death,
And in a moment, mad, sober, glad, and sorry;
Thou which hast banned thy thoughts and curst thy birth
With thousand plagues more than in purgatory;
Thou thus whose spirit love in his fire refines,
Come thou and read, admire, applaud my lines!
To Julia, The Flaminica Dialis Or Queen-Priest.
by Robert Herrick

Thou know'st, my Julia, that it is thy turn
This morning's incense to prepare and burn.
The chaplet and Inarculum[L] here be,
With the white vestures, all attending thee.
This day the queen-priest thou art made, t' appease
Love for our very many trespasses.
One chief transgression is, among the rest,
Because with flowers her temple was not dressed;
The next, because her altars did not shine
With daily fires; the last, neglect of wine;
For which her wrath is gone forth to consume
Us all, unless preserved by thy perfume.
Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus,
O pious priestess! make a peace for us.
For our neglect Love did our death decree;
That we escape. Redemption comes by thee.
Address From The Spirit Of Cockermouth Castle
by William Wordsworth

"Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think,
Poet! that, stricken as both are by years,
We, differing once so much, are now Compeers,
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link
United us; when thou, in boyish play,
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink
Of light was there; and thus did I, thy Tutor,
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave;
While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly
Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor,
Up to the flowers whose golden progeny
Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."
Love's Entreaty.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Tu sa' ch' i' so, Signor mie.
Thou knowest, love, I know that thou dost know
That I am here more near to thee to be,
And knowest that I know thou knowest me:
What means it then that we are sundered so?
If they are true, these hopes that from thee flow,
If it is real, this sweet expectancy,
Break down the wall that stands 'twixt me and thee;
For pain in prison pent hath double woe.
Because in thee I love, O my loved lord,
What thou best lovest, be not therefore stern:
Souls burn for souls, spirits to spirits cry!
I seek the splendour in thy fair face stored;
Yet living man that beauty scarce can learn,
And he who fain would find it, first must die.
To The Locust
by Madison Julius Cawein

Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,
Makest meridian music, long and loud,
Accentuating summer! dost thy best
To make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowd
With lonesomeness the long, close afternoon
When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady browed,
Upon his sultry scythe thou tangible tune
Of heat, whose waves incessantly arise
Quivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.
Thou singest, and upon his haggard hills
Drouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;
Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fills
The land with death as sullenly he takes
Downward his dusty way: 'midst woods and fields
At every pool his burning thirst he slakes;
No grove so deep, no bank so high it shields
A spring from him; no creek evades his eye;
He needs but look and they are withered dry.
Thou singest, and thy song is as a spell
Of somnolence to charm the land with sleep;
A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,
Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.
Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;
The pastures sleepy with their sleepy sheep;
Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cows
Stand knee-deep: and the very heaven seems
Sleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.
Art thou a rattle that Monotony,
Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,
Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in glee
Takes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?
Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,
Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard-tree,
Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,
Until the musky peach with drowsiness
Drops, and the hum of bees grows less and less?
Sonnets From The Portuguese IV
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there's a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.
An Ode To The Soldiers' And Sailors' Monument
by Edward Smyth Jones

Thou most majestic Queen of sculptural art,
What learn'd architect designed thy throne?
Who traced thy stately form in head and heart,
And sent the sculptor forth to carve the stone?
O speak, fair Queen, for thou art not alone;
Ten thousand unseen voices join refrain
That softly floats in one melodious tone,
As sweet as any ancient harper's strain
In odes to Indiana's silent victors slain.
Thy court well marks the conquest of the West,
A citadel sprung out the forest wild,
A mecca where the pilgrims quietly rest:
Each dame's content - content each sportive child;
The fiery redmen nevermore revile,
Nor haunt the footprints of thy daring sons,
Whose noble spheres are widening all the while,
Like as some brilliant star its orbit runs
And sheds on earth its light down from a thousand suns.
Thy throne emblazoned with the rarest jewels,
Each wall adorned with battered coats of mail,
Choice relics of some bloody fields or duels,
A legend or some untold battle tale.
I see the scouts go forth upon the trail,
And soldiers charging over battlements - 
The weeping mother sends to God her wail;
While passion's rage the mortal heart laments,
The dove of peace is caged in direst banishments.
But see yon arms, full flushing victory
Brings hope, and joy is ringing everywhere
Beneath the "starry banner of the free,"
That shields her children from the tyrant's snare.
The peasant turns him to his lowly fare,
The rich pursues wild phantoms at his ease,
The rustic plies his long-forsaken share,
And lo! the dove is cooing, "Peace, sweet peace;"
For Mars has snatched his bolts from out the rosy East.
And when the last familiar scene has gone,
And brightest dawn has kissed the sable night,
Then thou shalt smile on faces yet unborn,
And be to them a gleaming beacon light;
For Might shall fall and on his throne sit Right,
When bloody wars and petty strifes have ceased;
Then thou shalt don thy spotless robe of white,
And say to man as hostess of the feast:
"My brother, sheath thy sword; the end of life is peace."
Sonnet CXCVIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

O cameretta che gi' fosti un porto.
HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.
Thou little chamber'd haven to the woes
Whose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!
From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;
Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.
My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,
'Mid sorrows vast--Love's iv'ried hand hath stole
Griefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,
That hand which good on all but me bestows.
Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,
But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuit
On pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:
The multitude I did so long defy,
Now as my hope and refuge I salute,
So much I tremble solitude to court.
WOLLASTON.
Room! which to me hast been a port and shield
From life's rude daily tempests for long years,
Now the full fountain of my nightly tears
Which in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:
Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yield
Comfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fears
Love o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,
Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.
But e'en than solitude and rest, I flee
More from myself and melancholy thought,
In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.
The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,
Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,
Such fear have I to find myself alone!
MACGREGOR.
Beauteous Individuality.
by Friedrich Schiller

Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one, art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever;
If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.
Wolfe.
by W. M. MacKeracher

"I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow." - Wolfe, on hearing Gray's "Elegy" read the night before the capture of Quebec.
Thou need'st no marble monuments to keep
Thy fame immortal and thy memory
An inspiration to make pulses leap
And resolution spring to mastery.
Thou need'st no gilded tablets on the walls
Of cities, no imposing sepulchre,
Imperishable Wolfe, whose name recalls
The flower of kings, who bore Excalibur.
The ultimate dispensers of renown,
The poets, shall accord thee honor fit,
And add fresh laurels ever to thy crown,
High-minded hero, who hadst rather writ
Those lines of one to every poet dear
Than take the fortress of a hemisphere.
Poetical Inscription For An Altar To Independence.
by Robert Burns

Thou of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
In Sincerity
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

Grace be with them that love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. Ephesians 6:24.
Thou saddened one whose longing eyes
Seek quickening thoughts to glean,
Whose views of Christ, the Heavenly prize,
Clouds often veer between,
That rapture which may be expressed
By others constantly
Is not thine own; in truth confessed,
Where is the mystery?
Ask now these questions of thy soul:
My heart, is it sincere?
Do I his holy name extol,
And is He truly dear?
Like Peter can I, too, record
And urge his earnest plea,
"Thou knowest all things, gracious Lord;
Thou knowest I love Thee"?
There is no music like his voice:
To this can'st thou attest?
No message makes thee so rejoice
As "Come to me and rest"?
If there's been left within thine heart
By word or deed a thorn,
Can prayer extract the cruel dart
And heal it ere the morn?
Does prayer cast out disquietude
And every bitter thought;
All hate and enmity exclude
By Love with patience fraught?
Or, if perchance there may be found
A hurt that festers still,
Is this the balm that soothes the wound 
"'Twas needed; 'tis God's will"?
Is there a saint, however poor,
However lowly born,
That earthly treasure could allure
Thee to mistreat or scorn?
These queries, are they answered well?
Then press with joy toward Heaven,
Filled with that peace tongue cannot tell,
The sense of sin forgiven.
Accept your Saviour's proffered rest!
Behold! there's grace for thee;
All those who love Him now are blest, 
Love in sincerity.