DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Palm Trees by the Sea
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Love, let me thank you for this!
Now we have drifted apart,
Wandered away from the sea, - 
For the fresh touch of your kiss,
For the young warmth of your heart,
For your youth given to me.
Thanks: for the curls of your hair,
Softer than silk to the hand,
For the clear gaze of your eyes.
For yourself: delicate, fair,
Seen as you lay on the sand,
Under the violet skies.
Thanks: for the words that you said, - 
Secretly, tenderly sweet,
All through the tropical day,
Till, when the sunset was red,
I, who lay still at your feet,
Felt my life ebbing away,
Weary and worn with desire,
Only yourself could console.
Love let me thank you for this!
For that fierce fervour and fire
Burnt through my lips to my soul
From the white heat of your kiss!
You were the essence of Spring,
Wayward and bright as a flame:
Though we have drifted apart,
Still how the syllables sing
Mixed in your musical name,
Deep in the well of my heart!
Once in the lingering light,
Thrown from the west on the Sea,
Laid you your garments aside,
Slender and goldenly bright,
Glimmered your beauty, set free,
Bright as a pearl in the tide.
Once, ere the thrill of the dawn
Silvered the edge of the sea,
I, who lay watching you rest, - 
Pale in the chill of the morn
Found you still dreaming of me
Stilled by love's fancies possessed.
Fallen on sorrowful days,
Love, let me thank you for this,
You were so happy with me!
Wrapped in Youth's roseate haze,
Wanting no more than my kiss
By the blue edge of the sea!
Ah, for those nights on the sand
Under the palms by the sea,
For the strange dream of those days
Spent in the passionate land,
For your youth given to me,
I am your debtor always!
Sonnet CLI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile.
DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.
Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,
She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains
Love toils--such ever are his stern designs.
Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines
Her slender form, a breath may break its chains;
And she, so much her heart the world disdains,
Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.
Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay
All that to earth can joy and radiance lend,
Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;
And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,
Too well I see where all those hopes must end,
With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.
WRANGHAM.
Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,
Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strains
His every power that I may perish quite.
Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight
Holds in existence, that no help sustains;
She is so modest that she now disdains
Longer to brook this vile life's painful fight.
Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,
Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,
Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:
And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,
Alas! too well I see in what sad state
Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.
MACGREGOR.
Love, Wandering Thro' The Golden Maze.
by Thomas Moore

Love, wandering through the golden maze
Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie--
A chain by beauty twined.
His Recantation.
by Robert Herrick

Love, I recant,
And pardon crave
That lately I offended;
But 'twas,
Alas!
To make a brave,
But no disdain intended.
No more I'll vaunt,
For now I see
Thou only hast the power
To find
And bind
A heart that's free,
And slave it in an hour.
On Love
by Robert Herrick

Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all
Is, when love's honey has a dash of gall.
Partnership In Fame
by Robert Fuller Murray

Love, when the present is become the past,
And dust has covered all that now is new,
When many a fame has faded out of view,
And many a later fame is fading fast--
If then these songs of mine might hope to last,
Which sing most sweetly when they sing of you,
Though queen and empress wore oblivion's hue,
Your loveliness would not be overcast.
Now, while the present stays with you and me,
In love's copartnery our hearts combine,
Life's loss and gain in equal shares to take.
Partners in fame our memories then would be:
Your name remembered for my songs; and mine
Still unforgotten for your sweetness' sake.
Love's History
by George MacDonald

Love, the baby,
Crept abroad to pluck a flower:
One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;
One said, Wait the hour.
Love, the boy,
Joined the youngsters at their play:
But they gave him little joy,
And he went away.
Love, the youth,
Roamed the country, quiver-laden;
From him fled away in sooth
Many a man and maiden!
Love, the man,
Sought a service all about;
But they called him feeble, one
They could do without.
Love, the aged,
Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Read a volume many-paged,
Full of tears and smiles.
Love, the weary,
Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,
Meeting him from God!
"Love, the holy,"
Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
"Love is coming home!"
Sonnet CXLIV
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi.
TO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAY.
Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,
To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,
In one short day has many a stream and shore
Given to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.
Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweet
Where war in earnest strikes, nor tells before--
A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar--
My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;
But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,
Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,
From too great courage conscious terror springs.
But this fair country and belov'd stream
With smiling welcome reassures my heart,
Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.
MACGREGOR.
Upon Cupid
by Robert Herrick

Love, like a Gypsy, lately came,
And did me much importune
To see my hand, that by the same
He might foretell my fortune.
He saw my palm; and then, said he,
I tell thee, by this score here,
That thou, within few months, shalt be
The youthful Prince D'Amour here.
I smiled, and bade him once more prove,
And by some cross-line show it,
That I could ne'er be Prince of Love,
Though here the Princely Poet.
The Wistful Lady
by Thomas Hardy

'Love, while you were away there came to me -
From whence I cannot tell -
A plaintive lady pale and passionless,
Who bent her eyes upon me critically,
And weighed me with a wearing wistfulness,
As if she knew me well."
"I saw no lady of that wistful sort
As I came riding home.
Perhaps she was some dame the Fates constrain
By memories sadder than she can support,
Or by unhappy vacancy of brain,
To leave her roof and roam?"
"Ah, but she knew me. And before this time
I have seen her, lending ear
To my light outdoor words, and pondering each,
Her frail white finger swayed in pantomime,
As if she fain would close with me in speech,
And yet would not come near.
"And once I saw her beckoning with her hand
As I came into sight
At an upper window. And I at last went out;
But when I reached where she had seemed to stand,
And wandered up and down and searched about,
I found she had vanished quite."
Then thought I how my dead Love used to say,
With a small smile, when she
Was waning wan, that she would hover round
And show herself after her passing day
To any newer Love I might have found,
But show her not to me.
Upon Love.
by Robert Herrick

Love, I have broke
Thy yoke,
The neck is free;
But when I'm next
Love-vexed,
Then shackle me.
'Tis better yet
To fret
The feet or hands,
Than to enthral
Or gall
The neck with bands.
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXXV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.
HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.
Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here
Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains;
And that old debt to clear which still remains,
Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share:
Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,
Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains:
The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,
And all my various chance, my racking care:
Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;
Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue
That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:--
My days were once so fair; now dark and dread
As death that makes them so. Thus the world through
On each as soon as born his fate attends.
ANON., OX., 1795.
On these green banks in happier days I stray'd
With Love, who whisper'd many a tender tale;
And the glad waters, winding through the dale,
Heard the sweet eloquence fond Love display'd.
You, purpled plain, cool grot, and arching glade;
Ye hills, ye streams, where plays the silken gale;
Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled vale
Which oft have beard the tender plaints I made;
Ye blue-hair'd nymphs, who ceaseless revel keep,
In the cool bosom of the crystal deep;
Ye woodland maids who climb the mountain's brow;
Ye mark'd how joy once wing'd each hour so gay;
Ah, mark how sad each hour now wears away!
So fate with human bliss blends human woe!
ANON. 1777.
Sonnets: Idea VII
by Michael Drayton

Love, in a humour, played the prodigal,
And bade my senses to a solemn feast;
Yet more to grace the company withal,
Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest.
No other drink would serve this glutton's turn,
But precious tears distilling from mine eyne,
Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn,
Quaffing carouses in this costly wine;
Where, in his cups, o'ercome with foul excess,
Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part,
And at the banquet in his drunkenness,
Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart.
A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see,
What 'tis to keep a drunkard company!
A Triolet.
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

To commemorate the virtue of Homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned.
Love, that in a tear was drown'd,
Lives revived by a tear.
Stella heard them mourn around
Love that in a tear was drown'd,
Came and coax'd his dripping swound,
Wept 'The fault was mine, my dear!'
Love, that in a tear was drown'd,
Lives, revived by a tear.
Young Love XVI - Love Afar
by Richard Le Gallienne

Love, art thou lonely to-day?
Lost love that I never see,
Love that, come noon or come night,
Comes never to me;
Love that I used to meet
In the hidden past, in the land
Of forbidden sweet.
Love! do you never miss
The old light in the days?
Does a hand
Come and touch thee at whiles
Like the wand of old smiles,
Like the breath of old bliss?
Or hast thou forgot,
And is all as if not?
What was it we swore?
'Evermore!
I and Thou,'
Ah, but Fate held the pen
And wrote N
Just before:
So that now,
See, it stands,
Our seals and our hands,
'I and Thou,
Nevermore!'
We said 'It is best!'
And then, dear, I went
And returned not again.
Forgive that I stir,
Like a breath in thy hair,
The old pain,
'Twas unmeant.
I will strive, I will wrest
Iron peace - it is best.
But, O for thy hand
Just to hold for a space,
For a moment to stand
In the light of thy face;
Translate Then to Now,
To hear 'Is it Thou?'
And reply
'It is I!'
Then, then I could rest,
Ah, then I could wait
Long and late.
Sullen Moods
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Love, do not count your labour lost
Though I turn sullen, grim, retired
Even at your side; my thought is crossed
With fancies by old longings fired.
And when I answer you, some days
Vaguely and wildly, do not fear
That my love walks forbidden ways,
Breaking the ties that hold it here.
If I speak gruffly, this mood is
Mere indignation at my own
Shortcomings, plagues, uncertainties;
I forget the gentler tone.
'You,' now that you have come to be
My one beginning, prime and end,
I count at last as wholly 'me,'
Lover no longer nor yet friend.
Friendship is flattery, though close hid;
Must I then flatter my own mind?
And must (which laws of shame forbid)
Blind love of you make self-love blind?
... Do not repay me my own coin,
The sharp rebuke, the frown, the groan;
No, stir my memory to disjoin
Your emanation from my own.
Help me to see you as before
When overwhelmed and dead, almost,
I stumbled on that secret door
Which saves the live man from the ghost.
Be once again the distant light,
Promise of glory not yet known
In full perfection, -wasted quite
When on my imperfection thrown.
Power of Love
by Anne Bronte

Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
Thus, alone, such strife to bear,
Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing,
Death, and Madness, and Despair!
'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
Health, and hope, and fortitude,
But for love, had long since failed me;
Heart and soul had sunk subdued.
Often, in my wild impatience,
I have lost my trust in Heaven,
And my soul has tossed and struggled,
Like a vessel tempest-driven;
But the voice of my beloved
In my ear has seemed to say,
'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!'
And the storm has passed away.
When outworn with weary thinking,
Sight and thought were waxing dim,
And my mind began to wander,
And my brain began to swim,
Then those hands outstretched to save me
Seemed to call me back again,
Those dark eyes did so implore me
To resume my reason's reign,
That I could not but remember
How her hopes were fixed on me,
And, with one determined effort,
Rose, and shook my spirit free.
When hope leaves my weary spirit,
All the power to hold it gone,
That loved voice so loudly prays me,
'For my sake, keep hoping on,'
That, at once my strength renewing,
Though Despair had crushed me down,
I can burst his bonds asunder,
And defy his deadliest frown.
When, from nights of restless tossing,
Days of gloom and pining care,
Pain and weakness, still increasing,
Seem to whisper 'Death is near,'
And I almost bid him welcome,
Knowing he would bring release,
Weary of this restless struggle,
Longing to repose in peace,
Then a glance of fond reproval
Bids such selfish longings flee
And a voice of matchless music
Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!'
Roused to newborn strength and courage,
Pain and grief, I cast away,
Health and life, I keenly follow,
Mighty Death is held at bay.
Yes, my love, I will be patient!
Firm and bold my heart shall be:
Fear not, though this life is dreary,
I can bear it well for thee.
Let our foes still rain upon me
Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn;
'Tis for thee their hate pursues me,
And for thee, it shall be borne!
Before Sunset
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Love's twilight wanes in heaven above,
On earth ere twilight reigns:
Ere fear may feel the chill thereof,
Love's twilight wanes.
Ere yet the insatiate heart complains
'Too much, and scarce enough,'
The lip so late athirst refrains.
Soft on the neck of either dove
Love's hands let slip the reins:
And while we look for light of love
Love's twilight wanes.
Sonnet XCIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva.
THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.
Love, Fortune, and my melancholy mind,
Sick of the present, lingering on the past,
Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I cast
On those who life's dark shore have left behind.
Love racks my bosom: Fortune's wintry wind
Kills every comfort: my weak mind at last
Is chafed and pines, so many ills and vast
Expose its peace to constant strifes unkind.
Nor hope I better days shall turn again;
But what is left from bad to worse may pass:
For ah! already life is on the wane.
Not now of adamant, but frail as glass,
I see my best hopes fall from me or fade,
And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.
MACGREGOR.
Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind,
Which loathes the present in its memoried past,
So wound my spirit, that on all I cast
An envied thought who rest in darkness find.
My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkind
No comfort grants, until its sorrow vast
Impotent frets, then melts to tears at last:
Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd.
My halcyon days I hope not to return,
But paint my future by a darker tint;
My spring is gone--my summer well-nigh fled:
Ah! wretched me! too well do I discern
Each hope is now (unlike the diamond flint)
A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.
WOLLASTON.
Sonnet I
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die,--
Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!--
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshiper!
I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)
Sonnet CXXX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero aperto.
HE CARES NOT FOR SUFFERINGS, SO THAT HE DISPLEASE NOT LAURA.
Love, thou who seest each secret thought display'd,
And the sad steps I take, with thee sole guide;
This throbbing breast, to thee thrown open wide,
To others' prying barr'd, thine eyes pervade.
Thou know'st what efforts, following thee, I made,
While still from height to height thy pinions glide;
Nor deign'st one pitying look to turn aside
On him who, fainting, treads a trackless glade.
I mark from far the mildly-beaming ray
To which thou goad'st me through the devious maze;
Alas! I want thy wings, to speed my way--
Henceforth, a distant homager, I'll gaze,
Content by silent longings to decay,
So that my sighs for her in her no anger raise.
WRANGHAM.
O Love, that seest my heart without disguise,
And those hard toils from thee which I sustain,
Look to my inmost thought; behold the pain
To thee unveil'd, hid from all other eyes.
Thou know'st for thee this breast what suffering tries;
Me still from day to day o'er hill and plain
Thou chasest; heedless still, while I complain
As to my wearied steps new thorns arise.
True, I discern far off the cheering light
To which, through trackless wilds, thou urgest me:
But wings like thine to bear me to delight
I want:--Yet from these pangs I would not flee,
Finding this only favour in her sight,
That not displeased my love and death she see.
CAPEL LOFFT.
The Dream
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love, if I weep it will not matter,
And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
But it is good to feel you there.
Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,--
White and awful the moonlight reached
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,
There was a shutter loose,--it screeched!
Swung in the wind,--and no wind blowing!--
I was afraid, and turned to you,
Put out my hand to you for comfort,--
And you were gone!    Cold, cold as dew,
Under my hand the moonlight lay!
Love, if you laugh I shall not care,
But if I weep it will not matter,--
Ah, it is good to feel you there!
Two preludes
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
LOHENGRIN
Love, out of the depth of things,
As a dewfall felt from above,
From the heaven whence only springs
Love,
Love, heard from the heights thereof,
The clouds and the watersprings,
Draws close as the clouds remove.
And the soul in it speaks and sings,
A swan sweet-souled as a dove,
An echo that only rings
Love.
II.
TRISTAN UND ISOLDE
Fate, out of the deep sea's gloom,
When a man's heart's pride grows great,
And nought seems now to foredoom
Fate,
Fate, laden with fears in wait,
Draws close through the clouds that loom,
Till the soul see, all too late,
More dark than a dead world's tomb,
More high than the sheer dawn's gate,
More deep than the wide sea's womb,
Fate.
Upon Cupid.
by Robert Herrick

Love, like a beggar, came to me
With hose and doublet torn:
His shirt bedangling from his knee,
With hat and shoes outworn.
He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread,
And meat too, for his need:
Of which, when he had fully fed,
He wished me all good speed.
Away he went, but as he turn'd
(In faith I know not how)
He touch'd me so, as that I burn['d],
And am tormented now.
Love's silent flames and fires obscure
Then crept into my heart;
And though I saw no bow, I'm sure
His finger was the dart.
The King's Consort
by Emily Pauline Johnson

I
Love, was it yesternoon, or years agone,
You took in yours my hands,
And placed me close beside you on the throne
Of Oriental lands?
The truant hour came back at dawn to-day,
Across the hemispheres,
And bade my sleeping soul retrace its way
These many hundred years.
And all my wild young life returned, and ceased
The years that lie between,
When you were King of Egypt, and The East,
And I was Egypt's queen.
II
I feel again the lengths of silken gossamer enfold
My body and my limbs in robes of emerald and gold.
I feel the heavy sunshine, and the weight of languid heat
That crowned the day you laid the royal jewels at my feet.
You wound my throat with jacinths, green and glist'ning serpent-wise,
My hot, dark throat that pulsed beneath the ardour of your eyes;
And centuries have failed to cool the memory of your hands
That bound about my arms those massive, pliant golden bands.
You wreathed around my wrists long ropes of coral and of jade,
And beaten gold that clung like coils of kisses love-inlaid;
About my naked ankles tawny topaz chains you wound,
With clasps of carven onyx, ruby-rimmed and golden bound.
But not for me the Royal Pearls to bind about my hair,
"Pearls were too passionless," you said, for one like me to wear,
I must have all the splendour, all the jewels warm as wine,
But pearls so pale and cold were meant for other flesh than mine.
But all the blood-warm beauty of the gems you thought my due
Were pallid as a pearl beside the love I gave to you;
O! Love of mine come back across the years that lie between,
When you were King of Egypt - Dear, and I was Egypt's Queen.
Sonnets: Idea XXIII
by Michael Drayton

Love, banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,
Yet craved the alms of such as pass'd by.
I, like a man devout and charitable,
Cloth'd the naked, lodged this wandering guest;
With sighs and tears still furnishing his table
With what might make the miserable blest.
But this ungrateful for my good desert,
Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.
Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel then though charity grow cold.