DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Need Of The World
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know the need of the world,
Though it would not have me know.
It would hide its sorrow deep,
Where only God may go.
Yet its secret it can not keep;
It tells it awake, or asleep,
It tells it to all who will heed,
And he who runs may read.
The need of the world I know.
I know the need of the world,
When it boasts of its wealth the loudest,
When it flaunts it in all men's eyes,
When its mien is the gayest and proudest.
Oh! ever it lies - it lies,
For the sound of its laughter dies
In a sob and a smothered moan,
And it weeps when it sits alone.
The need of the world I know.
I know the need of the world.
When the earth shakes under the tread
Of men who march to the fight,
When rivers with blood are red
And there is no law but might,
And the wrong way seems the right;
When he who slaughters the most
Is all men's pride and boast.
The need of the world I know.
I know the need of the world.
When it babbles of gold and fame,
It is only to lead us astray
From the thing that it dare not name,
For this is the sad world's way.
Oh! poor blind world grown grey
With the need of a thing so near,
With the want of a thing so dear.
The need of the world I know.
The need of the world is love.
Deep under the pride of power,
Down under its lust of greed,
For the joys that last but an hour,
There lies forever its need.
For love is the law and the creed
And love is the unnamed goal
Of life, from man to the mole.
Love is the need of the world.
To A February Primrose
by George MacDonald

I know not what among the grass thou art,
Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,
Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power
To send thine image through them to the heart;
But when I push the frosty leaves apart
And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower
Thou growest up within me from that hour,
And through the snow I with the spring depart.
I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,
Pale beauty, of thy second life within.
There is a wind that cometh for thy death,
But thou a life immortal dost begin,
Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell
Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!
I Am
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know not whence I came,
I know not whither I go;
But the fact stands clear that I am here
In this world of pleasure and woe.
And out of the mist and murk,
Another truth shines plain.
It is in my power each day and hour
To add to its joy or its pain.
I know that the earth exists,
It is none of my business why.
I cannot find out what it's all about,
I would but waste time to try.
My life is a brief, brief thing,
I am here for a little space.
And while I stay I would like, if I may,
To brighten and better the place.
The trouble, I think, with us all
Is the lack of a high conceit.
If each man thought he was sent to this spot
To make it a bit more sweet,
How soon we could gladden the world.
How easily right all wrong.
If nobody shirked, and each one worked
To help his fellows along.
Cease wondering why you came -
Stop looking for faults and flaws.
Rise up to-day in your pride and say,
"I am part of the First Great Cause!
However full the world
There is room for an earnest man.
It had need of me or I would not be,
I am here to strengthen the plan."
To You Who Have Lost
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

I know!    I know!--
The ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,--
The pang of loss,--
The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross.
"--Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,
And leaves me broken ...    Oh, my son!    my son!"
Yet--think of this!--
Yea, rather think on this!--
He died as few men get the chance to die,--
Fighting to save a world's morality.
He died the noblest death a man may die,
Fighting for God, and Right, and Liberty;--
And such a death is Immortality.
"He died unnoticed in the muddy trench."
Nay,--God was with him, and he did not blench;
Filled him with holy fires that nought could quench,
And when He saw his work below was done,
He gently called to him,--"My son!    My son!
I need thee for a greater work than this.
Thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities
Are worthy of My larger liberties;"--
--Then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace,
And, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways.
Waiting.
by Marietta Holley

I know not where you wait for me in all your maiden sweetness,
Sweet soul in whom my life will find its rest, its full completeness;
But somewhere you await me, Fate will lead us to each other,
As roses know the sunlight, so shall we know one another.
Dear heart, what are you doing in this twilight's purple splendor,
Do you tend your dewy flowers with fingers white and slender,
Heavy, odor-laden branches in blessing bent above you,
Fond lilies kneeling at your feet, winds murmuring they love you?
Mayhap, your heart in maiden peace is like a closed bud sleeping,
Wrapped in pure folds of saintly thought, its tender freshness keeping.
Yet like a dream that comes in sleep, your soul sweet quiet breaking,
Is a thought of me, my darling, that shall come true on waking.
Perchance you turn from passionate vows, words wild with love's sweet madness,
With soft eyes looking far sway, in yearning trust and sadness;
A look that tells his alien soul how widely you are parted,
Though he knows not whom your rapt eyes seek, my sweet, my loving-hearted.
Oh, the world is rough; the heart against its sneers, its cold derision,
Locks all its better feelings, making it a gloomy prison;
But your hand, my angel, shall unlock its rocky, dust-strewn portal,
Your smile shall rouse its dying dreams of good to life immortal.
You will make me better, purer, for love, the true refiner,
Burning out the baser passions, will kindle the diviner,
Will plead and wind my spirit, not to shame its heavenly station,
You will trust me, and that trust will prove my tempted soul's salvation.
God keep you tenderly, my life's dear hope and unseen blessing;
Oh, night wind, touch her tresses till I come with fond caressing,
Thy crown of pearl-linked light, oh, royal moon stoop down and give her,
Till queen of love's own kingdom, I crown her mine forever.
Proximity.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I Know not, wherefore, dearest love,
Thou often art so strange and coy
When 'mongst man's busy haunts we move,
Thy coldness puts to flight my joy.
But soon as night and silence round us reign,
I know thee by thy kisses sweet again!
The Garden Of Love
by William Blake

I laid me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping, weeping.
Then I went to the heath and the wild,
To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And they told me how they were beguiled,
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
Isle Of Wight - Spring, 1891.
by Horace Smith

I know not what the cause may be,
Or whether there be one or many;
But this year's Spring has seemed to me
More exquisite than any.
What happy days we spent together
In that fair Isle of primrose flowers!
How brilliant was the April weather!
What glorious sunshine and what showers!
I think the leaves peeped out and in
At every change from cold to heat;
The grass threw off a livelier sheen
From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.
What wealth of early bloom was there--
The wind flow'r and the primrose pale,
On bank or copse, and orchis rare,
And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.
And, oh, the splendour of the sea,--
The blue belt glimmering soft and far,
Through many a tumbled rock and tree
Strewn 'neath the overhanging scar!
'Tis twenty years and more, since here,
As man and wife we sought this Isle,
Dear to us both, O wife most dear,
And we can greet it with a smile.
Not now alone we come once more,
But bringing young ones of our brood--
One boy (Salopian), and four
Girls, blooming into maidenhood.
And I had late begun to fret
And sicken at the sordid town--
The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet,
The helpless, hopeless sinking down;
The want, the misery, the woe,
The stubborn heart which will not turn;
The tears which will or will not flow;
The shame which does or does not burn.
And Winter's frosts had proved unkind,
With darkest gloom and deadliest cold;
A time which will be brought to mind,
And talked of, when our boys are old.
And thus the contrast seemed to wake
New vigour in the heart and brain;
Sea, land, and sky conspired to make
The jaded spirit young again;
Or hopes for growing girl or boy,
Or thankfulness for things that be,
Or sweet content in wedded joy,
Set all the world to harmony.
And so I know not if it be
That there are causes one or many,
But this year's Spring still seems to me
More exquisite than any.
I Know That He Exists
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I know that he exists
Somewhere, in silence.
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.
'T is an instant's play,
'T is a fond ambush,
Just to make bliss
Earn her own surprise!
But should the play
Prove piercing earnest,
Should the glee glaze
In death's stiff stare,
Would not the fun
Look too expensive?
Would not the jest
Have crawled too far?
Fear
by Walter De La Mare

I know where lurk
The eyes of Fear;
I, I alone,
Where shadowy-clear,
Watching for me,
Lurks Fear.
'Tis ever still
And dark, despite
All singing and
All candlelight,
'Tis ever cold,
And night.
He touches me;
Says quietly,
"Stir not, nor whisper,
I am nigh;
Walk noiseless on,
I am by!"
He drives me
As a dog a sheep;
Like a cold stone
I cannot weep.
He lifts me
Hot from sleep
In marble hands
To where on high
The jewelled horror
Of his eye
Dares me to struggle
Or cry.
No breast wherein
To chase away
That watchful shape!
Vain, vain to say
"Haunt not with night
The Day!"
The Necessitarian
by Rudyard Kipling

I know not in Whose hands are laid
To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
The very Urns of Mirth;
Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise
And cheer our solemn round,
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
And grovellings on the ground;
Who joins the flats of Time and Chance
Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
The Sacredly Absurd,
Till Laughter, voiceless through excess,
Waves mute appeal and sore,
Above the midriff's deep distress,
For breath to laugh once more.
No creed hath dared to hail Him Lord,
No raptured choirs proclaim,
And Nature's strenuous Overword
Hath nowhere breathed His Name.
Yet, it must be, on wayside jape,
The selfsame Power bestows
The selfsame power as went to shape
His Planet or His Rose.
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
by William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Constantinople - Leblebidji*
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

I know so well the busy cries
That echo through the quarter
Till daylight into evening dies
And stars shine in the water,
So dear they have become to me,
Leblebidji! leblebidji!
On peaceful English country nights
Their rapid gay succession
And all the sea-reflected lights
Will pass from my possession,
But never from my memory,
Leblebidji! leblebidji!
Past English evening scents and sounds,
Past English church-bells ringing,
The Turkish watchman on his rounds,
The Turkish pedlar singing
Through narrow streets above the sea
"Leblebidji! leblebidji,"
Will surely pierce a ghostly way,
The music underlying,
And in the shades of falling day
As in the distance dying,
A little call will come to me,
"Leblebidji!" ...
* Little white beans
The Lonely House.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I know some lonely houses off the road
A robber 'd like the look of, --
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
Where two could creep:
One hand the tools,
The other peep
To make sure all's asleep.
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,
With just a clock, --
But they could gag the tick,
And mice won't bark;
And so the walls don't tell,
None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir --
An almanac's aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who's there.
There's plunder, -- where?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmamma,
Staid sleeping there.
Day rattles, too,
Stealth's slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer,
"Who's there?"
And echoes, trains away,
Sneer -- "Where?"
While the old couple, just astir,
Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!
I Know The Stars
by Sara Teasdale

I know the stars by their names,
Aldebaran, Altair,
And I know the path they take
Up heaven's broad blue stair.
I know the secrets of men
By the look of their eyes,
Their gray thoughts, their strange thoughts
Have made me sad and wise.
But your eyes are dark to me
Though they seem to call and call,
I cannot tell if you love me
Or do not love me at all.
I know many things,
But the years come and go,
I shall die not knowing
The thing I long to know.
Land, Ho!
by Thomas Edward Brown

I know 'tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.
The land! the land! the lovely land!
'Far off,' dost say? Far off, ah, bless'd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand,
Land, ho! land.
You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there,
My land, my land, through murky air,
I did not say 'twas close at hand,
But, land, ho! land.
Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may'st understand,
Yet is it land, ho! land.
It's clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparell'd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band,
Land, ho! land.
Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are,
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand,
Land, ho! land.
Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees,
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand,
Land, ho! land.
Thar's more in the Man than thar is in the Land
by Sidney Lanier

I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones,
Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones,
And he lived pretty much by gittin' of loans,
And his mules was nuthin' but skin and bones,
And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones,
And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land.
This man - which his name it was also Jones -
He swore that he'd leave them old red hills and stones,
Fur he couldn't make nuthin' but yallerish cotton,
And little o' THAT, and his fences was rotten,
And what little corn he had, HIT was boughten
And dinged ef a livin' was in the land.
And the longer he swore the madder he got,
And he riz and he walked to the stable lot,
And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitch
Fur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich,
And to quit raisin' cock-burrs, thistles and sich,
And a wastin' ther time on the cussed land.
So him and Tom they hitched up the mules,
Pertestin' that folks was mighty big fools
That 'ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out,
Jest scratchin' a livin' when all of 'em mought
Git places in Texas whar cotton would sprout
By the time you could plant it in the land.
And he driv by a house whar a man named Brown
Was a livin', not fur from the edge o' town,
And he bantered Brown fur to buy his place,
And said that bein' as money was skace,
And bein' as sheriffs was hard to face,
Two dollars an acre would git the land.
They closed at a dollar and fifty cents,
And Jones he bought him a waggin and tents,
And loaded his corn, and his wimmin, and truck,
And moved to Texas, which it tuck
His entire pile, with the best of luck,
To git thar and git him a little land.
But Brown moved out on the old Jones' farm,
And he rolled up his breeches and bared his arm,
And he picked all the rocks from off'n the groun',
And he rooted it up and he plowed it down,
Then he sowed his corn and his wheat in the land.
Five years glid by, and Brown, one day
(Which he'd got so fat that he wouldn't weigh),
Was a settin' down, sorter lazily,
To the bulliest dinner you ever see,
When one o' the children jumped on his knee
And says, "Yan's Jones, which you bought his land."
And thar was Jones, standin' out at the fence,
And he hadn't no waggin, nor mules, nor tents,
Fur he had left Texas afoot and cum
To Georgy to see if he couldn't git sum
Employment, and he was a lookin' as hum-
Ble as ef he had never owned any land.
But Brown he axed him in, and he sot
Him down to his vittles smokin' hot,
And when he had filled hisself and the floor
Brown looked at him sharp and riz and swore
That, "whether men's land was rich or poor
Thar was more in the MAN than thar was in the LAND."
Macon, Georgia, 1869.
An Indian Story.
by William Cullen Bryant

"I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell,
Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,
With its many stems and its tangled sides,
From the eye of the hunter well.
"I know where the young May violet grows,
In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose,
Far over the silent brook.
"And that timid fawn starts not with fear
When I steal to her secret bower;
And that young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower."
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting-ground on the hills;
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks,
With her bright black eyes and long black locks,
And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase, but evil eyes
Are at watch in the thicker shades;
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs,
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,
The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,
And the woods their song renew,
With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard
Where the hazels trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
Ere eve shall redden the sky,
A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,
At her cabin-door shall lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;
And Maquon's sylvan labours are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won
He bears on his homeward way.
He stops near his bower, his eye perceives
Strange traces along the ground,
At once to the earth his burden he heaves,
He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves,
And gains its door with a bound.
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,
And all from the young shrubs there
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent,
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent,
One tress of the well-known hair.
But where is she who, at this calm hour,
Ever watched his coming to see?
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;
He calls, but he only hears on the flower
The hum of the laden bee.
It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief,
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe.
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
Where he bore the maiden away;
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet
Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet
O'er the wild November day.
'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride
Was stolen away from his door;
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed,
And the grape is black on the cabin side,
And she smiles at his hearth once more.
But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould,
In the deepest gloom of the spot.
And the Indian girls, that pass that way,
Point out the ravisher's grave;
"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say,
"Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon, the fond and the brave."
Dust-Sealed.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
See bloom, where other eyes see blight.
They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
Where others but discern deep night.
Men call me an enthusiast,
And say I look through gilded haze:
Because where'er my gaze is cast,
I see some thing that calls for praise.
I say, "Behold those lovely eyes - 
That tinted cheek of flower-like grace."
They answer in amused surprise:
"We thought it such a common face."
I say, "Was ever scene more fair?
I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."
They answer with a pitying air,
"The weeds are choking out the flowers."
I know not wherefore, but God lent
A deeper vision to my sight.
On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent
I catch the beauty Infinite;
That underlying, hidden half
That all things hold of Deity.
So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh - 
Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.
Companions.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

A Tale Of A Grandfather.
By The Author Of "Dewy Memories," &C.
I know not of what we ponder'd
Or made pretty pretence to talk,
As, her hand within mine, we wander'd
Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk,
While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers
And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.
I cannot recall her figure:
Was it regal as Juno's own?
Or only a trifle bigger
Than the elves who surround the throne
Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween,
By mortals in dreams alone?
What her eyes were like, I know not:
Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there glow not
(On the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.
Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":
But which was she, brunette or blonde?
Her hair, was it quaintly curly,
Or as straight as a beadle's wand?
That I fail'd to remark; - it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.
Then the hand that reposed so snugly
In mine - was it plump or spare?
Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!
MY eyes were p'raps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard
That it's horribly rude to stare.
And I - was I brusque and surly?
Or oppressively bland and fond?
Was I partial to rising early?
Or why did we twain abscond,
All breakfastless too, from the public view
To prowl by a misty pond?
What pass'd, what was felt or spoken -
Whether anything pass'd at all -
And whether the heart was broken
That beat under that shelt'ring shawl -
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt) - has gone,
Yes, gone from me past recall.
Was I haply the lady's suitor?
Or her uncle? I can't make out -
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.
For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt
As to why we were there, who on earth we were,
And what this is all about.