DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Preparation
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We must not force events, but rather make
The heart soil ready for their coming, as
The earth spreads carpets for the feet of Spring,
Or, with the strengthening tonic of the frost,
Prepares for winter.    Should a July noon
Burst suddenly upon a frozen world
Small joy would follow, even though that world
Were longing for the Summer.    Should the sting
Of sharp December pierce the heart of June,
What death and devastation would ensue!
All things are planned.    The most majestic sphere
That whirls through space is governed and controlled
By supreme law, as is the blade of grass
Which through the bursting bosom of the earth
Creeps up to kiss the light.    Poor, puny man
Alone doth strive and battle with the Force
Which rules all lives and worlds, and he alone
Demands effect before producing cause.
How vain the hope!    We cannot harvest joy
Until we sow the seed, and God alone
Knows when that seed has ripened.    Oft we stand
And watch the ground with anxious, brooding eyes,
Complaining of the slow, unfruitful yield,
Not knowing that the shadow of ourselves
Keeps off the sunlight and delays result.
Sometimes our fierce impatience of desire
Doth like a sultry May force tender shoots
Of half-formed pleasures and unshaped events
To ripen prematurely, and we reap
But disappointment; or we rot the germs
With briny tears ere they have time to grow.
While stars are born and mighty planets die
And hissing comets scorch the brow of space,
The Universe keeps its eternal calm.
Through patient preparation, year on year,
The earth endures the travail of the Spring
And Winter's desolation.    So our souls
In grand submission to a higher law
Should move serene through all the ills of life
Believing them masked joys.
First Love.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

(A. S.) 1845.
We met--he was a stranger,
His foot was free to roam;
I was a simple maiden,
Who had never left my home.
He was a noble scion
Of the green Highland pine,
To a strange soil transplanted,
Far from his native clime
And well his bearing pleased me,
For I had never seen
Keener eye, or smile more sunlit,
Or more dignity of mien.
His brow was fair and lofty,
Bright was his clustering hair;
I marvelled that to other eyes
He seemed not half so fair
His it was to plead with men,
With "Thus my Lord hath said;"
He stood God's messenger between
The living and the dead
When I heard how earnestly
His pleading message ran,
I said, "Here God has set his seal
To mark a perfect man."
The rapture of a moment
Came suddenly to me;
With softened glance he asked me,
'Could you learn to think of me?'
The star of love shone o'er us,
His arm was round me thrown
And he fondly said he loved me
And loved but me alone
I was but a simple maiden
Village born and village bred
And when this crown of gladness
Dropped down upon my head
A simple maiden's feelings
That moment sprang awake
I wished myself rich, noble
And lovely for his sake
Ah, love akin to sorrow
Ah, ecstasy so fleet!
Why is parting made the surer
When the meeting is so sweet?
Quick as the flash of summer
Came bliss to fade too soon
My poor heart swelled, as ocean
Swells for the lady moon.
I saw him at the altar
Upon a morning fair
The matron and the maiden,
And paranymph were there
There were holy words, and wishes,
And smiles when tears would start
A fair bride stood beside him,
And I--I stood apart.
Then came the parting moment,
After I loved him well;
I stilled my heart's sore beating,
And so I said farewell,
And oh! may no remembrance
Cause him a moment's pain,
But yet, indeed, I loved him,
And I'll never love again.
On The Tune Called The Old-Hundred-And-Fourth
by Thomas Hardy

We never sang together
Ravenscroft's terse old tune
On Sundays or on weekdays,
In sharp or summer weather,
At night-time or at noon.
Why did we never sing it,
Why never so incline
On Sundays or on weekdays,
Even when soft wafts would wing it
From your far floor to mine?
Shall we that tune, then, never
Stand voicing side by side
On Sundays or on weekdays? . . .
Or shall we, when for ever
In Sheol we abide,
Sing it in desolation,
As we might long have done
On Sundays or on weekdays
With love and exultation
Before our sands had run?
Julia Miller
by Edgar Lee Masters

We quarreled that morning,
For he was sixty - five, and I was thirty,
And I was nervous and heavy with the child
Whose birth I dreaded.
I thought over the last letter written me
By that estranged young soul
Whose betrayal of me I had concealed
By marrying the old man.
Then I took morphine and sat down to read.
Across the blackness that came over my eyes
I see the flickering light of these words even now:
"And Jesus said unto him, Verily
I say unto thee, To-day thou shalt
Be with me in paradise."
immortality
by George William Russell

We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;
For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return
If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,
As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.
Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:
Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:
In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,
By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
Song Of The Galley-Slaves
by Rudyard Kipling

We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low.
Will you never let us go?
We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe.
The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below.
We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle, for we still swung to and fro.
Will you never let us go?
The solt made the oar-hands like shark-skin; our knees were cut to the bone with salt-cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the gums, and you whipped us because we could not row.
Will you never let us go?
But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port-holes as the water runs along the oar-blade, and though you tell the others to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail.
Aho!
Will you never let us go?
God in Nature.
by W. M. MacKeracher

We see our Father's hand in all around;
In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow,
In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,
In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.
And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hear
The thunder's roar, majestically grand,
A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear,
'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."
Gold
by Herman Melville

We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over the bowling billows are gliding:
Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding.
See! See!
Before our prows' resistless dashes
The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!
'Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining;
And every night,
We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning!
All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings;
All mornings dawn with golden flushings!
In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold!
In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming!
The Golden Rule dries many tears!
The Golden Number rules the spheres!
Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:
Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!
On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning!
All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings!
Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!
With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!
In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:
No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.
But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly:
Where in deep mines,
The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!
How we long to sift,
That yellow drift!
Rivers! Rivers! cease your goings!
Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!
'Till we've gained the golden flowing;
And in the golden haven ride!
The Trust.
by Jean Blewett

We steal the brawn, we steal the brain;
The man beneath us in the fight
Soon learns how helpless and how vain
To plead for justice or for right.
We steal the youth, we steal the health,
Hope, courage, aspiration high;
We steal men's all to make for wealth - 
We will repent us by and by.
Meantime, a gift will heaven appease - 
Great God, forgive our charities!
We steal the children's laughter shrill,
We steal their joys e'er they can taste,
"Why skip like young lambs on a hill?
Go, get ye to your task in haste."
No matter that they droop and tire,
That heaven cries out against the sin,
The gold, red gold, that we desire
Their dimpled hands must help to win.
A cheque for missions, if you please - 
Great God, forgive our charities!
We steal the light from lover's eyes,
We hush the tale he has to tell
Of pure desire, of tender ties - 
No man can serve two masters well.
So loot his treasury of pride,
His holy hopes and visions steal,
His hearth-fire scatter far and wide,
And grind the sparks beneath your heel.
A cheque will cover sins like these - 
Great God, forgive our charities!
Ours To Endure.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

We speak of the world that passes away, - 
The world of men who lived years ago,
And could not feel that their hearts' quick glow
Would fade to such ashen lore to-day.
We hear of death that is not our woe,
And see the shadow of funerals creeping
Over the sweet fresh roads by the reaping;
But do we weep till our loved ones go?
When one is lost who is greater than we,
And loved us so well that death should reprieve
Of all hearts this one to us; when we must leave
His grave, - the past will break like the sea!
Cavalry Charge - K'niggr'tz
by John Campbell

We stood, as the helmeted horsemen
Formed up in the light of the sun;
We knelt, stretching bayonets towards them
As they charged, ere the battle was won.
I marked their young leader apparelled
As daintily as for parade,
A cigarette smoking, advancing
He laughed, as he pointed his blade.
He played with his yellow moustaches,
And looked on our ranks, with a scorn
Such as mantles 'gainst mist and night-vapour
On the brow of the Son of the morn.
He led a bright host where the glitter
Of armour illumined the vale;
As a flood rises slowly, so, coming,
They rode with the sun on their mail.
Thus he steadied his men, and none wavered.
As the steeds settled down to their stride,
And we heard the first rush of the squadrons,
Like the gathering roar of the tide.
Their order was perfect and splendid,
And his voice, that at first held them in,
Had rung down their ranks for the onset,
As though it were fate they should win.
I felt I half liked him as onward
The lines of his cuirassiers came,
Like breakers wind-driven from seaward,
Dark tossed in a whirlwind of flame.
I hated the shot that must enter
That steel-girt and confident breast,
And quench that brave spirit for ever,
That light on the cataract's crest
But I gave forth the word, and our volley
Rang clear o'er the thunder of feet
That rolled not to us, for Destruction
Rejoiced their proud splendour to greet.
And the leader who laughed at our columns,
At the ranks that bid gaiety die,
On his red bed of honour at even
Lay smiling his scorn at the sky.
A Man Young And Old:- His Memories
by William Butler Yeats

We should be hidden from their eyes,
Being but holy shows
And bodies broken like a thorn
Whereon the bleak north blows,
To think of buried Hector
And that none living knows.
The women take so little stock
In what I do or say
They'd sooner leave their cosseting
To hear a jackass bray;
My arms are like the twisted thorn
And yet there beauty lay;
The first of all the tribe lay there
And did such pleasure take,
She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck,
That she cried into this ear,
'Strike me if I shriek.'
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 09: Cabaret
by Conrad Potter Aiken

We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee,
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved, what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'
Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,
Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,
Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .
They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'
And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see
The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.
To The Men Of The Mines
by Edward Dyson

We specked as boys o'er worked-out ground
By littered fiat and muddy stream,
We watched the whim horse trudging round,
And rode upon the circling beam,
Within the old uproarious mill
Fed mad, insatiable stamps,
Mined peaceful gorge and gusty hill
With pan, and pick, and gad, and drill,
And knew the stir of sudden camps.
By yellow dams in summer days
We puddled at the tom; for weeks
Went seeking up the tortuous ways
Of gullies deep and hidden creeks.
We worked the shallow leads in style,
And hunted fortune down the drives,
And missed her, mostly by a mile,
Once by a yard or so. The while
We lived untrammelled, easy lives.
Through blazing days upon the brace
We laboured, and when night had passed
Beheld the glory and the grace
Of wondrous dawns in bushlands vast.
We heard the burdened timbers groan
In deep mines murmurous as the seas
On long, lone shores by drear winds blown.
We've seen heroic deeds, and known
The digger's joys and tragedies.
I write in rhyme of all these things,
With little skill, perhaps, but you,
To whom each tale a memory brings
Of bygone days, will know them true.
Should mates who've worked in stope and face,
Who've trenched the hill and swirled the dish,
Or toiled upon the plat and brace,
Find pleasure in the lines I trace,
No better welcome could I wish.
Neutral Tones
by Thomas Hardy

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro -
On which lost the more by our love.
The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing . . .
Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.
1867.
A Man Young And Old:- Summer And Spring
by William Butler Yeats

We sat under an old thorn-tree
And talked away the night,
Told all that had been said or done
Since first we saw the light,
And when we talked of growing up
Knew that we'd halved a soul
And fell the one in t'other's arms
That we might make it whole;
Then peter had a murdering look,
For it seemed that he and she
Had spoken of their childish days
Under that very tree.
O what a bursting out there was,
And what a blossoming,
When we had all the summer-time
And she had all the spring!
To G. P. L.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

We see the sky, - we love it day by day;
We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging;
We meet with souls tender as tints in May:
For these large ecstasies what are we bringing?
There is no price, best friend, for greatest meed.
Laid on the altar of our true affection,
Wild flowers of love for me must intercede:
And lo! I win your unexcelled protection.
To A Bull-Dog
by John Collings Squire, Sir

(W. H. S., Capt. [Acting Major] R.F.A.; killed April 12, 1917)
We sha'n't see Willy any more, Mamie,
He won't be coming any more:
He came back once and again and again,
But he won't get leave any more.
We looked from the window and there was his cab,
And we ran downstairs like a streak,
And he said "Hullo, you bad dog," and you crouched to the floor,
Paralysed to hear him speak,
And then let fly at his face and his chest
Till I had to hold you down,
While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat.
And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.
We went upstairs to the studio,
The three of us, just as of old,
And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
As round the room he strolled.
Here in the room where, years ago
Before the old life stopped,
He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe,
He would pick up the threads he'd dropped,
Fondling all the drawings he had left behind,
Glad to find them all still the same,
And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings
... Every time he came.
But now I know what a dog doesn't know,
Though you'll thrust your head on my knee,
And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness
That you find so dull in me.
And all your life you will never know
What I wouldn't tell you even if I could,
That the last time we waved him away
Willy went for good.
But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug
Sleeping in the warmth of the stove,
Even through your muddled old canine brain
Shapes from the past may rove.
You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream,
How we brought home a silly little pup.
With a big square head and little crooked legs
That could scarcely bear him up,
But your tail will tap at the memory
Of a man whose friend you were,
Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog
When he found you on his chair;
Who'd make you face a reproving finger
And solemnly lecture you
Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish!
And you'll dream of your triumphs too.
Of summer evening chases in the garden
When you dodged us all about with a bone:
We were three boys, and you were the cleverest,
But now we're two alone.
When summer comes again,
And the long sunsets fade,
We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two
That since the war we've played.
And though you run expectant as you always do
To the uniforms we meet,
You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers
In even the longest street,
Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought,
Even now were the old words said,
If I tried the old trick and said "Where's Willy?"
You would quiver and lift your head,
And your brown eyes would look to ask if I were serious,
And wait for the word to spring.
Sleep undisturbed: I sha'n't say that again,
You innocent old thing.
I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa,
While you lie asleep on the floor;
For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of,
And he won't be coming here any more.
Left Behind.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

We started in the morning, a morning full of glee,
All in the early morning, a goodly company;
And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear:
But the others have pursued their way, and left me sitting here.
My feet were not so fleet as theirs, my courage soon was gone,
And so I lagged and fell behind, although they cried "Come on!"
They cheered me and they pitied me, but one by one went by,
For the stronger must outstrip the weak; there is no remedy.
Some never looked behind, but smiled, and swiftly, hand in hand,
Departed with, a strange sweet joy I could not understand;
I know not by what silver streams their roses bud and blow,
Rut I am glad--O very glad--they should be happy so.
And some they went companionless, yet not alone, it seemed;
For there were sounds of rustling wings, and songs,--or else we dreamed;
And a glow from lights invisible to us lit up the place,
And tinged, as if with glory, each dear and parting face.
So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went,
That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content;
And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone,
Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own.
My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away,
And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay;
For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know,
This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also.
There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear,
The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear:
I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new,
But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew.
So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day,
My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away,
I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resigned
To sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind.
In A Railroad Station
by Sara Teasdale

We stood in the shrill electric light,
Dumb and sick in the whirling din
We who had all of love to say
And a single second to say it in.
"Good-by!" "Good-by!" you turned to go,
I felt the train's slow heavy start,
You thought to see me cry, but oh
My tears were hidden in my heart.
River And Sea
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We stood by the river that swept
In its glory and grandeur away;
But never a pulse o' me leapt,
And you wondered at me that day.
We stood by the lake as it lay
With its dimpled face turned to the light;
Was it strange I had nothing to say
To so fair and enchanting a sight?
I look on your tresses of gold - 
You are fair and a thing to be loved - 
Do you think I am heartless and cold
That I look and am wholly unmoved?
One answer, dear friend, I will make
To the questions your eyes ask of me:
"Talk not of the river or lake
To those who have looked on the sea"