DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Songs Of The Winter Nights
by George MacDonald

I.
Back shining from the pane, the fire
Seems outside in the snow:
So love set free from love's desire
Lights grief of long ago.
The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine,
The earth bedecked with moon;
Out on the worlds we surely shine
More radiant than in June!
In the white garden lies a heap
As brown as deep-dug mould:
A hundred partridges that keep
Each other from the cold.
My father gives them sheaves of corn,
For shelter both and food:
High hope in me was early born,
My father was so good.
II.
The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms
Across my clouded pane;
Weaves melodies of ancient psalms
All through my passive brain.
Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head:
My father is in the room;
The very curtains of my bed
Are from Love's sheltering loom!
The lovely vision melts away;
I am a child no more;
Work rises from the floor of play;
Duty is at the door.
But if I face with courage stout
The labour and the din,
Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out
My heart with thee stay in.
III.
Up to my ear my soul doth run--
Her other door is dark;
There she can see without the sun,
And there she sits to mark.
I hear the dull unheeding wind
Mumble o'er heath and wold;
My fancy leaves my brain behind,
And floats into the cold.
Like a forgotten face that lies
One of the speechless crowd,
The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,
White-folded in her shroud.
O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,
Dead rivers, fireless thorps,
I brood, the heart still throbbing warm
In Nature's wintered corpse.
IV.
To all the world mine eyes are blind:
Their drop serene is--night,
With stores of snow piled up the wind
An awful airy height.
And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye:
The simple faithful stars
Beyond are shining, careless high,
Nor heed our storms and jars.
And when o'er storm and jar I climb--
Beyond life's atmosphere,
I shall behold the lord of time
And space--of world and year.
Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart
Shall ever find its goal!
I turn me home--and there thou art,
My Father, in my soul!
A Christmas Carol
by George MacDonald

Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,
The sun shone in his hair;
And this was how she saw, mayhap,
The crown already there.
For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king;
Bad Herod dares not come;
Before thee sleeping, holy thing,
The wild winds would be dumb."
"I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet,
My child, so long desired;
Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet;
Thy feet will never be tired."
"For thou art the king of men, my son;
Thy crown I see it plain!
And men shall worship thee, every one,
And cry, Glory! Amen!"
Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide--
At Mary looked her lord.
Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;
Babe Jesus said never a word.
Poets And Philosophers.
by James McIntyre

Bacon, Hogg, Lamb and Shakespeare.
Bacon, philosopher profound,
With mighty thoughts his works abound,
Reflections did his mind engage
Were in advance of his own age.
And Hogg the Ettrick shepherd bard,
High honors all do him award,
Great fame and glory he did reap
While tending to his flock of sheep.
And Lamb, the gentle and the good,
His works all show a happy mood;
About these names there is no waste,
Pleasing to fancy and to taste.
Some critics think they do make clear
The fact that Bacon wrote Shakespeare,
But a gent lives in New York
Asks what effect will it have on pork.
Of course it would quick awaken
A higher estimate of Bacon,
But it is folly for to rear
His fame on ruins of Shakespeare.
Though Will was not college bred,
With Greek they did not cram his head,
But he well knew by translations
The history of the ancient nations.
And mingled daily in the strife
With people in all walks of life,
His plays they are to nature true
Because he wrote of what he knew.
"Alas that I have wandered here and there"
He does cry out in his despair,
While he did lead a wandering life
And left alone his loving wife.
Home.
by William McKendree Carleton

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
JULY 1, 18 - .
Back to the old, old homestead! - isn't it queer!
But stranger things than that have happened here:
The old farm, after giving oil by stream,
(Until the world itself would almost seem
About to lose its progress smooth and true,
And creak upon its axis, first we knew),
Closed business in the twinkling of an eye,
And every blessed well we had went dry!
Then all the oil-springs that my neighbors had
The example followed - be it good or bad;
And the whole region round here, high and low,
So full of wealth a few short months ago - 
And men, to get their circumstances oiled - 
Is now poor farm-land, pretty nearly spoiled!
The little town a mile away from here,
Where we sold eggs and butter many a year,
(And feared the neighbors' hens might over-lay,
And glut the market some sad Saturday),
From a few grown-up folks, a small child-crop,
A church, post-office, store, and blacksmith shop,
This village grew to be, within a year,
A town of fifteen thousand people clear.
It had its banks, its street-cars, and its gas,
And other wonders cities bring to pass;
Its house-yards sold for twice as much, I know,
As my old farm was worth three years ago.
But the town did not grow on brain or soil,
But floated on a hidden sea of oil,
Which ebbed away, one evening, on the sly,
And left "the city" stranded high and dry.
And now the place is crumbling to the gaze - 
A modern ruin in these modern days:
No banks, no street-cars, no hotels in town - 
The mansions have been burned or taken down.
It shows how soon all greatness is unmade
When once it gets upon the down-hill grade!
So we've come back to take our former farm,
Fix it up somehow, coax back its old charm,
And live here - by the city noise unstirred - 
To cogitate on what we've seen and heard
While living in a bustle and a brawl
That sometimes hardly let us think at all.
The old house was kept whole in every part
(I had that put in writing on the start),
And though the farm seems very much as though
An earthquake had lived here a year or so,
We mean to try and make it seem, some week,
More as it did before it sprung a leak.
First thing I said, when home began to fit,
And thus afford us time to breathe a bit:
"We've been out to the city, now, my dear,
Let's bring a small part of the city here.
I'm going, on this very day, to send
For several children such as need a friend,
And have them come out here and get some air,
With room to turn around, and some to spare."
I wrote some men and women in the city,
Who give poor children help, as well as pity,
"Send out as many as you can afford!
And every one shall have a month's clean board,
And carry back, from out our plenteous store,
Enough to keep himself a fortnight more."
The first night that we sat expecting them,
I did what some whole families would condemn - 
I moulded up my feelings into rhyme,
In something less than fifteen minutes' time,
Then voiced it to whoever would come near;
I'll put the imposition right in here:
Balmy Morning
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Dew-drops bright
All the emerald glade adorning
In thy light - 
In thy golden glowing beam
With an ever-changeful gleam
Flashing sparkling deeply glowing
Varying tints of beauty showing
Everywhere
Radiant are
In thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Flowers look up,
With a precious, pearly off'ring,
In each cup - 
Dewy off'ring gleaned by night,
As a tribute to the light, - 
Far more precious than the gem
Of a monarch's diadem,
Is the gift
Which they lift
To thy welcome light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
Sounds of mirth,
From the vocal vales ascending,
Hail thy birth.
Happy birds in echoing bowers,
Waken all their tuneful powers,
And spontaneous music springs
From all animated things, - 
Verdant hills,
Tuneful rills,
Joyful greet thy light!
Balmy morning! blessed morning!
How serene,
In thy calm and cloudless dawning
Smiles the scene!
Even man, by care oppressed,
Feels thy gladness thrill his breast,
Hails thee as a source of bliss,
Precious in a world like this,
Gratefully
Blessing thee - 
Welcome, morning light!
Travellers' Song
by George MacDonald

Bands of dark and bands of light
Lie athwart the homeward way;
Now we cross a belt of Night,
Now a strip of shining Day!
Now it is a month of June,
Now December's shivering hour;
Now rides high loved memories' Moon,
Now the Dark is dense with power!
Summers, winters, days, and nights,
Moons, and clouds, they come and go;
Joys and sorrows, pains, delights,
Hope and fear, and yes and no.
All is well: come, girls and boys,
Not a weary mile is vain!
Hark--dim laughter's radiant noise!
See the windows through the rain!
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXXV. Natural History.
by Unknown

Bah, bah, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full:
One for my master,
And one for my dame,
But none for the little boy
Who cries in the lane.
Baby-Bird
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Baby-bird, baby-bird,
Ne'er a song on earth
May be heard, may be heard,
Rich as yours in mirth.
All your flickering fingers,
All your twinkling toes,
Play like light that lingers
Till the clear song close.
Baby-bird, baby-bird,
Your grave majestic eyes
Like a bird's warbled words
Speak, and sorrow dies.
Sorrow dies for love's sake,
Love grows one with mirth,
Even for one white dove's sake,
Born a babe on earth.
Baby-bird, baby-bird,
Chirping loud and long,
Other birds hush their words,
Hearkening toward your song.
Sweet as spring though it ring,
Full of love's own lures,
Weak and wrong sounds their song,
Singing after yours.
Baby-bird, baby-bird,
The happy heart that hears
Seems to win back within
Heaven, and cast out fears.
Earth and sun seem as one
Sweet light and one sweet word
Known of none here but one,
Known of one sweet bird.
Old Sir John
by Madison Julius Cawein

Bald, with old eyes a blood-shot blue, he comes
Into the Boar's-Head Inn: the hot sweat streaks
His fulvous face, and all his raiment reeks
Of all the stews and all the Eastcheap slums.
Upon the battered board again he drums
And croaks for sack: then sits, his harsh haired cheeks
Sunk in his hands rough with the grime of weeks,
While 'round the tap one great bluebottle hums.
All, all are gone, the old companions they
Who made his rogue's world merry: of them all
Not one is left. Old, toothless now, and gray
Alone he waits: the swagger of that day
Gone from his bulk departed even as Doll,
And he, his Hal, who broke his heart, they say.
Corporal Stare
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Back from the line one night in June,
I gave a dinner at Bethune, 
Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal
Money could buy or batman steal.
Five hungry lads welcomed the fish
With shouts that nearly cracked the dish;
Asparagus came with tender tops,
Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops.
Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook,
"They'll put this in the history book."
We bawled Church anthems in choro
Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow,
With drinking songs, a jolly sound
To help the good red Pommard round.
Stories and laughter interspersed,
We drowned a long La Bass'e thirst, 
Trenches in June make throats damned dry.
Then through the window suddenly,
Badge, stripes and medals all complete,
We saw him swagger up the street,
Just like a live man, Corporal Stare!
Stare! Killed last May at Festubert.
Caught on patrol near the Boche wire,
Tom horribly by machine-gun fire!
He paused, saluted smartly, grinned,
Then passed away like a puff of wind,
Leaving us blank astonishment.
The song broke, up we started, leant
Out of the window, nothing there,
Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare,
Only a quiver of smoke that showed
A fag-end dropped on the silent road.
A Thief's Notebook
by Paul Cameron Brown

Baggage. Banal brigands,
turn-coats, stiletto to dirk
appraise warm flesh
upraised over a pie-shaped sky,
bread crust moon.
On oyster rock,
with grinning, red hibiscus,
jute and henequin
smother the lavender caress of stars.
To The Poet, John Dyer
by William Wordsworth

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled;"
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXXV. Relics.
by Unknown

Barber, barber, shave a pig,
How many hairs will make a wig?
"Four and twenty, that's enough."
Give the barber a pinch of snuff.
To The Fountain Of Bandusia. - Translations From Horace.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

OD. iii. 13.
Bandusia, stainless mirror of the sky!
Thine is the flower-crown'd bowl, for thee shall die,
When dawns again yon sun, the kid;
Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,
Challenge to dalliance or to strife - in vain!
Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain,
And those cold springs of thine
With blood incarnadine.
Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam
Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream
To labour-wearied ox,
Or wanderer from the flocks:
And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:
My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,
Topt by the brown oak-tree,
Thou breakest babblingly.
Be My Mistress Short Or Tall
by Robert Herrick

Be my mistress short or tall
And distorted therewithall
Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose
Be her teeth ill hung or set
And her grinders black as jet
Be her cheeks so shallow too
As to show her tongue wag through
Hath she thin hair, hath she none
She's to me a paragon.
Upon Batt.
by Robert Herrick

Batt he gets children, not for love to rear 'em;
But out of hope his wife might die to bear 'em.
James Lionel Michael
by Henry Kendall

Be his rest the rest he sought:
Calm and deep.
Let no wayward word or thought
Vex his sleep.
Peace the peace that no man knows
Now remains
Where the wasted woodwind blows,
Wakes and wanes.
Latter leaves, in Autumn's breath,
White and sere,
Sanctify the scholar's death,
Lying here.
Soft surprises of the sun
Swift, serene
O'er the mute grave-grasses run,
Cold and green.
Wet and cold the hillwinds moan;
Let them rave!
Love that takes a tender tone
Lights his grave.
He who knew the friendless face
Sorrows shew,
Often sought this quiet place
Years ago.
One, too apt to faint and fail,
Loved to stray
Here where water-shallows wail
Day by day.
Care that lays her heavy hand
On the best,
Bound him with an iron hand;
Let him rest.
Life, that flieth like a tune,
Left his eyes,
As an April afternoon
Leaves the skies.
Peace is best! If life was hard
Peace came next.
Thus the scholar, thus the bard,
Lies unvext.
Safely housed at last from rack
Far from pain;
Who would wish to have him back?
Back again?
Let the forms he loved so well
Hover near;
Shine of hill and shade of dell,
Year by year.
All the wilful waifs that make
Beauty's face,
Let them sojourn for his sake
Round this place.
Flying splendours, singing streams,
Lutes and lights,
May they be as happy dreams:
Sounds and sights;
So that Time to Love may say,
'Wherefore weep?
Sweet is sleep at close of day!
Death is sleep.'
The Homeward March.
by Thomas Moore

Be still my heart: I hear them come:
Those sounds announce my lover near:
The march that brings our warriors home
Proclaims he'll soon be here.
Hark, the distant tread,
O'er the mountain's head,
While hills and dales repeat the sound;
And the forest deer
Stand still to hear,
As those echoing steps ring round.
Be still my heart. I hear them come,
Those sounds that speak my soldier near;
Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.--
Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.
But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,
And now they wind to distant glades;
Not here their home,--alas, they go
To gladden happier maids!
Like sounds in a dream,
The footsteps seem,
As down the hills they die away;
And the march, whose song
So pealed along,
Now fades like a funeral lay.
'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain!
And tho' not here, alas, they come,
Rejoice for those, to whom that strain
Brings sons and lovers home.
Ode
by John Keats

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wond'rous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!
Be Not Content
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Be not content - contentment means inaction;
The growing soul aches on its upward quest;
Satiety is twin to satisfaction;
All great achievements spring from life's unrest.
The tiny roots, deep in the dark mould hiding,
Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower
Were not an inborn restlessness abiding
In seed and germ, to stir them with its power.
Were man contented with his lot forever,
He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled,
And the vast wonder of our shores had never
Dawned on the gaze of an admiring world.
Prize what is yours, but be not quite contented.
There is a healthful restlessness of soul
By which a mighty purpose is augmented
In urging men to reach a higher goal.
So when the restless impulse rises, driving
Your calm content before it, do not grieve;
It is the upward reaching of the spirit
Of the God in you to achieve -achieve.
Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid Of The Inn'
by John Keats

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Doubled-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!
In A Heavy Hour
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 13)
Be glad when danger presses
Each power your soul possesses!
In greater strain
Your strength shall gain,
Till greater vict'ry blesses!
Supports may break in pieces,
Your friends may have caprices,
But you shall see,
The end will be,
Your need of crutches ceases.
- 'T is clear,
Whom God makes lonely,
To him He comes more near.
To His Book (3)
by Robert Herrick

Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear
The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe;
But by the Muses swear, all here is good,
If but well read, or ill read, understood.
Be Glad
by Madison Julius Cawein

Be glad, just for to-day!
O heart, be glad!
Cast all your cares away!
Doff all that 's sad!
Put of your garments gray
Be glad to-day!
Be merry while you-can;
For life is short
It seemeth but a span
Before we part.
Let each maid take her man,
And dance while dance she can:
Life's but a little span
Be merry while you can.
The Frog
by Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise "Ugly James,"
Or "Gap-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or "Bill Bandy-knees":
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair;
At least so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).
The Tides
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
On outgoing billows it drifts from your sight,
But back on the incoming waves it may ride
And land at your threshold again before night.
Be careful what rubbish you toss in the tide.
Be careful what follies you toss in life's sea.
On bright dancing billows they drift far away,
But back on the Nemesis tides they may be
Thrown down at your threshold an unwelcome day
Be careful what follies you toss in youth's sea.
Eileen, Diarmuid And Teig
by James Stephens

Be kind unto these three, O King!
For they were fragrant-skinned, cheerful and giving;
Three stainless pearls, three of mild, winning ways,
Three candles sending forth three pleasant rays,
Three vines, three doves, three apples from a bough,
Three graces in a house, three who refused nohow
Help to the needy, three of slenderness,
Three memories for the companionless,
Three strings of music, three deep holes in clay,
Three lovely children who loved Christ alway,
Three mouths, three hearts, three minds beneath a stone;
Ruin it is! three causes for the moan
That rises everywhere now they are gone:
Be kind, O King, unto this two and one!
A Sudden Shower
by James Whitcomb Riley

Barefooted boys scud up the street
Or skurry under sheltering sheds;
And schoolgirl faces, pale and sweet,
Gleam from the shawls about their heads.
Doors bang; and mother-voices call
From alien homes; and rusty gates
Are slammed; and high above it all,
The thunder grim reverberates.
And then, abrupt, - the rain! the rain! -
The earth lies gasping; and the eyes
Behind the streaming window-pane
Smile at the trouble of the skies.
The highway smokes; sharp echoes ring;
The cattle bawl and cowbells clank;
And into town comes galloping
The farmer's horse, with streaming flank.
The swallow dips beneath the eaves,
And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;
And under the catawba leaves
The caterpillar curls and clings.
The bumble-bee is pelted down
The wet stem of the hollyhock;
And sullenly, in spattered brown,
The cricket leaps the garden walk.
Within, the baby claps his hands
And crows with rapture strange and vague;
Without, beneath the rosebush stands
A dripping rooster on one leg.