DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Leggett's Monument
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well
That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife,
And planted in the pathway of his life
The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell,
Who clamored down the bold reformer when
He pleaded for his captive fellow-men,
Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought
Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind
In party chains the free and honest thought,
The angel utterance of an upright mind,
Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise
The stony tribute of your tardy praise,
For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame
Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame
In May
by William Henry Davies

Yes, I will spend the livelong day
With Nature in this month of May;
And sit beneath the trees, and share
My bread with birds whose homes are there;
While cows lie down to eat, and sheep
Stand to their necks in grass so deep;
While birds do sing with all their might,
As though they felt the earth in flight.
This is the hour I dreamed of, when
I sat surrounded by poor men;
And thought of how the Arab sat
Alone at evening, gazing at
The stars that bubbled in clear skies;
And of young dreamers, when their eyes
Enjoyed methought a precious boon
In the adventures of the Moon
Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars,
Searched for her stolen flocks of stars.
When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men,
Thought of some lonely cottage then,
Full of sweet books; and miles of sea,
With passing ships, in front of me;
And having, on the other hand,
A flowery, green, bird-singing land.
Fulfillment
by Madison Julius Cawein

Yes, there are some who may look on these
Essential peoples of the earth and air
That have the stars and flowers in their care
And all their soul-suggestive secrecies:
Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees,
Who from them learn, what no known schools declare,
God's knowledge; and from winds, that discourse there,
God's gospel of diviner mysteries:
To whom the waters shall divulge a word
Of fuller faith; the sunset and the dawn
Preach sermons more inspired even than
The tongues of Penticost; as, distant heard
In forms of change, through Nature upward drawn,
God doth address th' immortal soul of Man.
Song Of The Glee-Maiden
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Yes, thou mayst sigh,
And look once more at all around,
At stream and bank, and sky and ground.
Thy life its final course has found,
And thou must die.
Yes, lay thee down,
And while thy struggling pulses flutter,
Bid the grey monk his soul mass mutter,
And the deep bell its death tone utter,
Thy life is gone.
Be not afraid.
'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill,
A fever fit, and then a chill,
And then an end of human ill,
For thou art dead.
Sonnet LXX. To A Young Lady In Affliction, Who Fancied She Should Never More Be Happy.
by Anna Seward

Yes, thou shalt smile again! - Time always heals
In youth, the wounds of Sorrow. - O! survey
Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey
To warring Winds, and to their furious peals
Surging tumultuous! - yet, as in dismay,
The settling Billows tremble. - Morning steals
Grey on the rocks; - and soon, to pour the day
From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils
In all his pride of light. - Thus shall the glow
Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees
Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;
Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,
Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,
Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.
The Screen In The Lumber Room.
by Henry Austin Dobson

Yes, here it is, behind the box,
That puzzle wrought so neatly--
That paradise of paradox--
We once knew so completely;
You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,
Which stood, that chill September,
Beside your aunt Lavinia's chair
The year when ... You remember?
Look, Laura, look! You must recall
This florid "Fairy's Bower,"
This wonderful Swiss waterfall,
And this old "Leaning Tower;"
And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere,"
And here is Bewick's "Starling,"
And here the dandy cuirassier
You thought was "such a Darling!"
Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way,
She used to say this figure
Reminded her of Count D'Orsay
"In all his youthful vigour;"
And here's the "cot beside the hill"
We chose for habitation,
The day that ... But I doubt if still
You'd like the situation!
Too damp--by far! She little knew,
Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,
Those evenings when she slumbered through
"The Prince of Abyssinia,"
That there were two beside her chair
Who both had quite decided
To see things in a rosier air
Than Rasselas provided!
Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land,
And maids short waists and tippets,
When this old-fashioned screen was planned
From hoarded scraps and snippets;
But more--far more, I think--to me
Than those who first designed it,
Is this--in Eighteen Seventy-Three
I kissed you first behind it.
Midnight Mass For The Dying Year.
by William Henry Giles Kingston

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, - sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, - pray!"
And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers; -
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers, and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, - a king!
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last!    Oh, the old man grey
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.
To the crimson woods he saith -
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath -
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"
And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!
Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"
Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!
Song
by Thomas Oldham

Yes, I could love, could softly yield
To passion all my willing breast,
And fondly listen to the voice
That oft invites me to be blest;
That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,
Stands gazing on the form divine,
So sweetly whispers to my soul,
O make the heavenly Julia thine!
But hush, thou fascinating voice!
Hence visionary extacy!
Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear
She would not deign to smile on me.
On Miss Fitzgerald And Lord Kerry Planting Two Cedars In The Churchyard Of Bremhill.
by William Lisle Bowles

Yes, Pamela, this infant tree
Planted in sacred earth by thee,
Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow
Whilst I am mouldering dust below.
This churchyard turf shall still be green,
When other pastors here are seen,
Who, gazing on that dial gray,
Shall mourn, like me, life's passing ray.
What says its monitory shade?
Thyself so blooming, now shalt fade;
And even that fair and lightsome boy,
Elastic as the step of joy,
The future lord of yon domain,
And all this wide extended plain,
Shall yield to creeping time, when they
Who loved him shall have passed away.
Yet, planted by his youthful hand,
The fellow-cedar still shall stand,
And when it spreads its boughs around,
Shading the consecrated ground,
He may behold its shade, and say
(Himself then haply growing gray),
Yes, I remember, aged tree,
When I was young who planted thee!
But long may time, blithe maiden, spare
Thy beaming eyes and crisped hair,
Thy unaffected converse kind,
Thy gentle and ingenuous mind.
For him when I in dust repose,
May virtue guide him as he grows;
And may he, when no longer young,
Resemble those from whom he sprung!
Then let these trees extend their shade,
Or live or die, or bloom or fade,
Virtue, uninjured and sublime,
Shall lift her brightest wreath, untouched by time.
To My Friends.
by Friedrich Schiller

Yes, my friends! that happier times have been
Than the present, none can contravene;
That a race once lived of nobler worth;
And if ancient chronicles were dumb,
Countless stones in witness forth would come
From the deepest entrails of the earth.
But this highly-favored race has gone,
Gone forever to the realms of night.
We, we live! The moments are our own,
And the living judge the right.
Brighter zones, my friends, no doubt excel
This, the land wherein we're doomed to dwell,
As the hardy travellers proclaim;
But if Nature has denied us much,
Art is yet responsive to our touch,
And our hearts can kindle at her flame.
If the laurel will not flourish here 
If the myrtle is cold winter's prey,
Yet the vine, to crown us, year by year,
Still puts forth its foliage gay.
Of a busier life 'tis well to speak,
Where four worlds their wealth to barter seek,
On the world's great market, Thames' broad stream;
Ships in thousands go there and depart 
There are seen the costliest works of art,
And the earth-god, Mammon, reigns supreme
But the sun his image only graves
On the silent streamlet's level plain,
Not upon the torrent's muddy waves,
Swollen by the heavy rain.
Far more blessed than we, in northern states
Dwells the beggar at the angel-gates,
For he sees the peerless city Rome!
Beauty's glorious charms around him lie,
And, a second heaven, up toward the sky
Mounts St. Peter's proud and wondrous dome.
But, with all the charms that splendor grants,
Rome is but the tomb of ages past;
Life but smiles upon the blooming plants
That the seasons round her cast.
Greater actions elsewhere may be rife
Than with us, in our contracted life 
But beneath the sun there's naught that's new;
Yet we see the great of every age
Pass before us on the world's wide stage
Thoughtfully and calmly in review
All. in life repeats itself forever,
Young for ay is phantasy alone;
What has happened nowhere, happened never, 
That has never older grown!
The Parallel.
by Thomas Moore

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart--
If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,
Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown;
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,
And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]
Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that blest them of old.
Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3]
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,
And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5]
The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.
I See Thee Not
by George MacDonald

Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find
A little faith on earth, if I am here!
Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.
How sad I wait until thy face appear!
Hast thou not ploughed my thorny ground full sore,
And from it gathered many stones and sherds?
Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more--
Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds.
I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears,
Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies,
Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years,
And I have never seen thee with mine eyes!
And when I lift them from the wondrous tale,
See, all about me hath so strange a show!
Is that thy river running down the vale?
Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow?
Could'st thou right verily appear again,
The same who walked the paths of Palestine,
And here in England teach thy trusting men
In church and field and house, with word and sign?
Here are but lilies, sparrows, and the rest!
My hands on some dear proof would light and stay!
But my heart sees John leaning on thy breast,
And sends them forth to do what thou dost say.
Lines Written By A Death-Bed
by Matthew Arnold

Yes, now the longing is o'erpast,
Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame,
Shook her weak bosom day and night,
Consum'd her beauty like a flame,
And dimm'd it like the desert blast.
And though the curtains hide her face,
Yet were it lifted to the light
The sweet expression of her brow
Would charm the gazer, till his thought
Eras'd the ravages of time,
Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought
A freshness back as of her prime,
So healing is her quiet now.
So perfectly the lines express
A placid, settled loveliness;
Her youngest rival's freshest grace.
But ah, though peace indeed is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear;
Though nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow;
Yet is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth?
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes?
Because it has the hope to come,
One day, to harbour in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath,
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep.
It hears a voice within it tell,
'Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.'
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires:
But 'tis not what our youth desires.
A Glimpse Of China. Over The Samovar. {69A}
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

(Foo-chow.)
"Yes, I used always to think
That you Russians knew
How to make the good drink
As none others do.
"And I thought moreover,
(Not with the epicures),
You might search the world over
For such women as yours.
"In both these matters now
I perceive I was right,
And I really can't tell you how
Much I delight
"In my third (Thanks, another cup!)
Idea of the fun,
When your country gets up
And follows the sun!
"And just as in Europe, see,
There's a conqueror nation,
So why not in Asia be
A like jubilation?
"Taught as well as organized, {69b}
The eternal Coolie,
From being robbed and despised,
Takes to cutting throats duly!
"But - please, don't be flurried;
For I daresay by then
You'll be comfortably buried,
Ladies and gentlemen!
"No more, thanks! I must be going!
I'm so glad to have made this
Opportunity of knowing
Some more Russian ladies!"
Lines On The Death Of Sheridan.
by Thomas Moore

principibus placuisse viris!
--HORAT.
Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career.
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:--
Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;--
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.
Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died--friendless and lorn!
How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:--
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,
Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!
And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:--
No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;--
No! not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;--
Would I suffer what--even in the heart that thou hast--
All mean as it is--must have consciously burned.
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,
And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1]
"Was this then the fate,"--future ages will say,
When some names shall live but in history's curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day
Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;--
"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
"The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
"The orator,--dramatist,--minstrel,--who ran
"Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;--
"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art
"From the finest and best of all other men's powers;-
"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
"And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;--
"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light,
"Played round every subject and shone as it played;--
"Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,
"Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;--
"Whose eloquence--brightening whatever it tried,
"Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,--
"Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide,
"As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"
Yes--such was the man and so wretched his fate;--
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.
In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2]
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!
Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 - XIII - Conclusion - Yes, Though He Well May Tremble At The Sound
by William Wordsworth

Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound
Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat
In death; though Listeners shudder all around,
They know the dread requital's source profound;
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete
(Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer air,
Religion deepens her preventive care;
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod,
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use:
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!
The Resemblance.
by Thomas Moore

---- vo cercand' io,
Donna quant' e possibile in altrui
La desiata vostra forma vera.
PETRARC, Sonett. 14.
Yes, if 'twere any common love,
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
Could wipe the faithless crime away.
But 'twas my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
So fair there are but thou and she
Both born of beauty, at a birth,
She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
That could have lured my soul to stray.
Then blame me not, if false I be,
'Twas love that waked the fond excess;
My heart had been more true to thee,
Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.
The Mother.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine
And in thy house he shall grow up.
Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
Of trembling, as if child of mine.
But ah, forgive me!, is he warm?
And fed? Or does he miss my breast?
Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest.
And never cry, in Mary's arm?
Regret.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a pass'.")
[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.
Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
We seek the lost companion of our days:
"Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace
Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
Of that we mourn always.
I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!
Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
Lost Happiness hath left regret - but thou
Leavest remorse, alone."
Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,
O friends, that in your revelry appears!
With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,
And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre
When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed; - 
Sufferers alike together and alone
Are we; with many a grief to others known,
How many unrevealed!
Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,
For tender recollections, cherished long,
For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,
We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains
Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:
In vain I strove their parting to delay;
Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,
Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face
Lightens, and fades away.
Fraser's Magazine
Amelia Garrick
by Edgar Lee Masters

Yes, here I lie close to a stunted rose bush
In a forgotten place near the fence
Where the thickets from Siever's woods
Have crept over, growing sparsely.
And you, you are a leader in New York,
The wife of a noted millionaire,
A name in the society columns,
Beautiful, admired, magnified perhaps
By the mirage of distance.
You have succeeded,
I have failed In the eyes of the world.
You are alive, I am dead.
Yet I know that I vanquished your spirit;
And I know that lying here far from you,
Unheard of among your great friends
In the brilliant world where you move,
I am really the unconquerable power over your life
That robs it of complete triumph.