DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Love and Scorn
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I.
Love, loyallest and lordliest born of things,
Immortal that shouldst be, though all else end,
In plighted hearts of fearless friend with friend,
Whose hand may curb or clip thy plume-plucked wings?
Not grief's nor time's: though these be lords and kings
Crowned, and their yoke bid vassal passions bend,
They may not pierce the spirit of sense, or blend
Quick poison with the soul's live watersprings.
The true clear heart whose core is manful trust
Fears not that very death may turn to dust
Love lit therein as toward a brother born,
If one touch make not all its fine gold rust,
If one breath blight not all its glad ripe corn,
And all its fire be turned to fire of scorn.
II.
Scorn only, scorn begot of bitter proof
By keen experience of a trustless heart,
Bears burning in her new-born hand the dart
Wherewith love dies heart-stricken, and the roof
Falls of his palace, and the storied woof
Long woven of many a year with life's whole art
Is rent like any rotten weed apart,
And hardly with reluctant eyes aloof
Cold memory guards one relic scarce exempt
Yet from the fierce corrosion of contempt,
And hardly saved by pity. Woe are we
That once we loved, and love not; but we know
The ghost of love, surviving yet in show,
Where scorn has passed, is vain as grief must be.
III.
O sacred, just, inevitable scorn,
Strong child of righteous judgment, whom with grief
The rent heart bears, and wins not yet relief,
Seeing of its pain so dire a portent born,
Must thou not spare one sheaf of all the corn,
One doit of all the treasure? not one sheaf,
Not one poor doit of all? not one dead leaf
Of all that fell and left behind a thorn?
Is man so strong that one should scorn another?
Is any as God, not made of mortal mother,
That love should turn in him to gall and flame?
Nay: but the true is not the false heart's brother:
Love cannot love disloyalty: the name
That else it wears is love no more, but shame.
An End
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
Sit we by his grave, and sing
He is gone away.
To few chords and sad and low
Sing we so:
Be our eyes fixed on the grass
Shadow-veiled as the years pass
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.
Love
by John Clare

Love, though it is not chill and cold,
But burning like eternal fire,
Is yet not of approaches bold,
Which gay dramatic tastes admire.
Oh timid love, more fond than free,
In daring song is ill pourtrayed,
Where, as in war, the devotee
By valour wins each captive maid;--
Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,
As they could tell each other's mind;
Where ruby lips are kissed as free,
As flowers are by the summer wind.
No! gentle love, that timid dream,
With hopes and fears at foil and play,
Works like a skiff against the stream,
And thinking most finds least to say.
It lives in blushes and in sighs,
In hopes for which no words are found;
Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,
The tongue is left without a sound.
The pert and forward things that dare
Their talk in every maiden's ear,
Feel no more than their shadows there--
Mere things of form, with nought of fear.
True passion, that so burns to plead,
Is timid as the dove's disguise;
Tis for the murder-aiming gleed
To dart at every thing that flies.
True love, it is no daring bird,
But like the little timid wren,
That in the new-leaved thorns of spring
Shrinks farther from the sight of men.
The idol of his musing mind,
The worship of his lonely hour,
Love woos her in the summer wind,
And tells her name to every flower;
But in her sight, no open word
Escapes, his fondness to declare;
The sighs by beauty's magic stirred
Are all that speak his passion there.
Another 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.
To a Baby Kinswoman
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Love, whose light thrills heaven and earth,
Smiles and weeps upon thy birth,
Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Watch thee but from Paradise.
Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Sweetest light of eyes that live,
Ours must needs, for hope withdrawn,
Hail with tears thy soft spring dawn.
Light of hope whose star hath set,
Light of love whose sun lives yet,
Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Breathes about thee, burns above,
Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
Shed from eyes we may not see,
Though thine own may see them shine
Night and day, perchance, on thine.
Sun and moon that lighten earth
Seem not fit to bless thy birth:
Scarce the very stars we know
Here seem bright enough to show
Whence in unimagined skies
Glows the vigil of such eyes.
Theirs whose heart is as a sea
Swoln with sorrowing love of thee
Fain would share with thine the sight
Seen alone of babes aright,
Watched of eyes more sweet than flowers
Sleeping or awake: but ours
Can but deem or dream or guess
Thee not wholly motherless.
Might they see or might they know
What nor faith nor hope may show,
We whose hearts yearn toward thee now
Then were blest and wise as thou.
Had we half thy knowledge, had
Love such wisdom, grief were glad,
Surely, lit by grace of thee;
Life were sweet as death may be.
Now the law that lies on men
Bids us mourn our dead: but then
Heaven and life and earth and death,
Quickened as by God's own breath,
All were turned from sorrow and strife:
Earth and death were heaven and life.
All too far are then and now
Sundered: none may be as thou.
Yet this grace is ours, a sign
Of that goodlier grace of thine,
Sweet, and thine alone, to see
Heaven, and heaven's own love, in thee.
Bless them, then, whose eyes caress
Thee, as only thou canst bless.
Comfort, faith, assurance, love,
Shine around us, brood above,
Fear grows hope, and hope grows wise,
Thrilled and lit by children's eyes.
Yet in ours the tears unshed,
Child, for hope that death leaves dead,
Needs must burn and tremble; thou
Knowest not, seest not, why nor how,
More than we know whence or why
Comes on babes that laugh and lie
Half asleep, in sweet-lipped scorn,
Light of smiles outlightening morn,
Whence enkindled as is earth
By the dawn's less radiant birth
All the body soft and sweet
Smiles on us from face to feet
When the rose-red hands would fain
Reach the rose-red feet in vain.
Eyes and hands that worship thee
Watch and tend, adore and see
All these heavenly sights, and give
Thanks to see and love and live.
Yet, of all that hold thee dear,
Sweet, the dearest smiles not here.
Thine alone is now the grace,
Haply, still to see her face;
Thine, thine only now the sight
Whence we dream thine own takes light.
Yet, though faith and hope live blind,
Yet they live in heart and mind
Strong and keen as truth may be:
Yet, though blind as grief were we
Inly for a weeping-while,
Sorrow's self before thy smile
Smiles and softens, knowing that yet,
Far from us though heaven be set,
Love, bowed down for thee to bless,
Dares not call thee motherless.
Oh, Ask Me Not
by John Charles McNeill

Love, should I set my heart upon a crown,
Squander my years, and gain it,
What recompense of pleasure could I own?
For youth's red drops would stain it.
Much have I thought on what our lives may mean,
And what their best endeavor,
Seeing we may not come again to glean,
But, losing, lose forever.
Seeing how zealots, making choice of pain,
From home and country parted,
Have thought it life to leave their fellows slain,
Their women broken-hearted;
How teasing truth a thousand faces claims,
As in a broken mirror,
And what a father died for in the flames
His own son scorns as error;
How even they whose hearts were sweet with song
Must quaff oblivion's potion,
And, soon or late, their sails be lost along
The all-surrounding ocean:
Oh, ask me not the haven of our ships,
Nor what flag floats above you!
I hold you close, I kiss your sweet, sweet lips,
And love you, love you, love you!
To His Friend, Mr. J. Jincks.
by Robert Herrick

Love, love me now, because I place
Thee here among my righteous race:
The bastard slips may droop and die
Wanting both root and earth; but thy
Immortal self shall boldly trust
To live for ever with my Just.
An Appeal To Lyce
by Eugene Field

Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods will hear the dutiful,
And brought old age upon you, though you still affect the beautiful.
You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on quite aimlessly;
And in your cups with quavering voice you torment Cupid shamelessly.
For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than brotherly;
He knows a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are southerly.
He pats her pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a monstrosity;
Your wrinkles and your yellow teeth excite his animosity.
For jewels bright and purple Coan robes you are not dressable;
Unhappily for you, the public records are accessible.
Where is your charm, and where your bloom and gait so firm and sensible,
That drew my love from Cinara,--a lapse most indefensible?
To my poor Cinara in youth Death came with great celerity;
Egad, that never can be said of you with any verity!
The old crow that you are, the teasing boys will jeer, compelling you
To roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I am telling you.
For A Trafalgar Cenotaph
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze
With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise;
They rest beyond the speech of human pride
Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died.
The Song of Arda
by Henry Kendall

Low as a lute, my love, beneath the call
Of storm, I hear a melancholy wind;
The memorably mournful wind of yore
Which is the very brother of the one
That wanders, like a hermit, by the mound
Of Death, in lone Annatanam. A song
Was shaped for this, what time we heard outside
The gentle falling of the faded leaf
In quiet noons: a song whose theme doth turn
On gaps of Ruin and the gay-green clifts
Beneath the summits haunted by the moon.
Yea, much it travels to the dens of dole;
And in the midst of this strange rhyme, my lords,
Our Desolation like a phantom sits
With wasted cheeks and eyes that cannot weep
And fastened lips crampt up in marvellous pain.
A song in whose voice is the voice of the foam
And the rhyme of the wintering wave,
And the tongue of the things that eternally roam
In forest, in fell or in cave;
But mostly 'tis like to the Wind without home
In the glen of a desolate grave
Of a deep and desolate grave.
The torrent flies over the thunder-struck clift
With many and many a call;
The leaves are swept down, and a dolorous drift
Is hurried away with the fall.
But mostly 'tis like the Wind without home
In the glen of a desolate grave
Of a deep and desolate grave.
Whoever goes thither by night or by day
Must mutter, O Father, to Thee,
For the shadows that startle, the sounds that waylay
Are heavy to hear and to see;
And a step and a moan and a whisper for aye
Have made it a sorrow to be
A sorrow of sorrows to be.
Oh! cover your faces and shudder, and turn
And hide in the dark of your hair,
Nor look to the Glen in the Mountains, to learn
Of the mystery mouldering there;
But rather sit low in the ashes and urn
Dead hopes in your mighty despair
In the depths of your mighty despair.
Lament Of An Icarus
by Charles Baudelaire

Lovers of whores don't care,
happy, calm and replete:
But my arms are incomplete,
grasping the empty air.
Thanks to stars, incomparable ones,
that blaze in the depths of the skies,
all my destroyed eyes
see, are the memories of suns.
I look, in vain, for beginning and end
of the heavens' slow revolve:
Under an unknown eye of fire, I ascend
feeling my wings dissolve.
And, scorched by desire for the beautiful,
I will not know the bliss,
of giving my name to that abyss,
that knows my tomb and funeral.
Sonnets on Separation IV.
by Edward Shanks

Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy
Seek love too closely in an overdose,
When the sweet spasm turns to agony
And the quick limbs are still and the eyes close.
I too, a fool, desired, to make love strong, 
Absence and parting but the measure's brimmed,
The dose is over-poured, the time's too long
Already, though two nights have hardly dimmed
My lonely eyes with the elusive sleep.
O I'll remember, I'll not wish again
To go with ardent limbs into this deep
Sea of dejection, this dull mere of pain:
We'll love our safer loves upon the shore
And quest for inexperienced joys no more.
The Willow Bottom
by Madison Julius Cawein

Lush green the grass that grows between
The willows of the bottom-land;
Verged by the careless water, tall and green,
The brown-topped cat-tails stand.
The cows come gently here to browse,
Slow through the great-leafed sycamores;
You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house
With cedars round its doors.
Then all is quiet as the wings
Of the high buzzard floating there;
Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings
An old camp-meeting air.
A flapping cock that crows; and then - 
Heard drowsy through the rustling corn - 
A flutter, and the cackling of a hen
Within a hay-sweet barn.
How still again! no water stirs;
No wind is heard; although the weeds
Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs
Drift by a few soft seeds.
So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you
Expect to see her gliding by, - 
Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew, - 
The Spirit of July.
A Landscape by Courbet
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still
And glad of silence:    down the wood sweeps clear
To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill
Low lies the mere.
The wind speaks only summer:    eye nor ear
Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill,
From sound or shadow felt or fancied here.
Strange, as we praise the dead man's might and skill,
Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer,
While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will,
Low lies the mere.
Elegiac Stanzas
by William Wordsworth

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
From the dread summit of the Queen 
Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
"Our Lady of the Snow." 
The sky was blue, the air was mild; 
Free were the streams and green the bowers; 
As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
The genial spot had 'ever' shown 
A countenance that as sweetly smiled-- 
The face of summer-hours. 
And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
With pleasure dancing through the frame 
We journeyed; all we knew of care-- 
Our path that straggled here and there; 
Of trouble--but the fluttering breeze; 
Of Winter--but a name. 
If foresight could have rent the veil 
Of three short days--but hush--no more! 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
Thou Victim of the stormy gale; 
Asleep on ZURICH'S shore! 
O GODDARD! what art thou?--a name-- 
A sunbeam followed by a shade! 
Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
The great, the experienced, and the wise: 
Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
And therefore are betrayed. 
We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
A sea-green river, proud to lave, 
With current swift and undefiled, 
The towers of old LUCERNE. 
We parted upon solemn ground 
Far-lifted towards the unfading sky; 
But all our thoughts were 'then' of Earth, 
That gives to common pleasures birth; 
And nothing in our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 
Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew, 
Whose turf may never know the care 
Of 'kindred' human hands! 
Beloved by every gentle Muse 
He left his Transatlantic home: 
Europe, a realised romance, 
Had opened on his eager glance; 
What present bliss!--what golden views! 
What stores for years to come! 
Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
High poised--or as the wren that sings 
In shady places, to proclaim 
Her modest gratitude. 
Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; 
The words of truth's memorial vow 
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
From flowers 'mid GOLDAU'S ruins bred; 
As evening's fondly-lingering rays, 
On RIGHI'S silent brow. 
Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay 
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; 
And piety shall guard the Stone 
Which hath not left the spot unknown 
Where the wild waves resigned their prey-- 
And 'that' which marks thy bed. 
And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; 
This tribute from a casual Friend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother.
The Old Barn
by Madison Julius Cawein

Low, swallow-swept and gray,
Between the orchard and the spring,
All its wide windows overflowing hay,
And crannied doors a-swing,
The old barn stands to-day.
Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides
A round white nest; and, humming soft
On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,
Black in the sun-shot loft,
The building hornet glides.
Along its corn-crib, cautiously
As thieving fingers, skulks the rat;
Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,
Gnaws at some loosened slat,
Or passes shadowy.
A dream of drouth made audible
Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill
All day the locust sings. .    What other spell
Shall hold it, lazier still
Than the long day's, now tell:
Dusk and the cricket and the strain
Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars
That burn above the rich west's ribb'd stain;
And dropping pasture bars,
And cow-bells up the lane.
Night and the moon and katydid,
And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;
And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid;
And sweet breath of the cows,
And the lone owl here hid.
Unstooping
by Walter De La Mare

Low on his fours the Lion
Treads with the surly Bear',
But Men straight upward from the dust
Walk with their heads in air;
The free sweet winds of heaven,
The sunlight from on high
Beat on their clear bright cheeks and brows
As they go striding by;
The doors of all their houses
They arch so they may go,
Uplifted o'er the four-foot beasts,
Unstooping, to and fro.
The Christmas Of 1888
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,
The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn,
And on a wintry waste
Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown,
Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down,
The waning moon half-faced!
In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth,
What sign was there of the immortal birth?
What herald of the One?
Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came,
A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame,
Up rolled the round, bright sun!
And all was changed. From a transfigured world
The moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curled
Up the still air unblown.
In Orient warmth and brightness, did that morn
O'er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born,
Break fairer than our own?
The morning's promise noon and eve fulfilled
In warm, soft sky and landscape hazy-hilled
And sunset fair as they;
A sweet reminder of His holiest time,
A summer-miracle in our winter clime,
God gave a perfect day.
The near was blended with the old and far,
And Bethlehem's hillside and the Magi's star
Seemed here, as there and then,
Our homestead pine-tree was the Syrian palm,
Our heart's desire the angels' midnight psalm,
Peace, and good-will to men
Leonine Elegiacs
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Low-flying breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming;
Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines.
Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall.
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly;
Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;
Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:
Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn.
Sadly the far kine loweth; the glimmering water outfloweth;
Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad
Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth,
Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.
Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even.
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?
Upon Lungs. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Lungs, as some say, ne'er sets him down to eat
But that his breath does fly-blow all the meat.
A Serenade.
by Thomas Hood

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
Thus I heard a father cry,
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids, or open mine!
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
What the devil makes him cry?
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Still he stares - I wonder why,
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!"
Thus I heard the father cry;
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try! - 
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake - 
The more I sing, the more you wake!"
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!"
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Two such nights, and I shall die!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
He'll be bruised, and so shall I, - "
"How can I from bedposts keep,
When I'm walking in my sleep?"
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny - 
Lullaby, oh, lullaby;
Nature soon will stupefy - 
My nerves relax, - my eyes grow dim - 
Who's that fallen - me or him?"
Her Prayer.
by Jean Blewett

Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine - 
This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
And pity me when Thou dost think of them.
"My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss
Morning and noon and night - her ways so wise,
The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss,
The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.
"I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own,
Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.
She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone - 
My arms are empty and my bosom dry.
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring
Healing for this great anguish that I bear!
A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing,
God might have left her to her mother's care!
"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel
Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove
Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal - 
Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!
"O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!
O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm
Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!
Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"
Upon Luggs. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Luggs, by the condemnation of the Bench,
Was lately whipt for lying with a wench.
Thus pains and pleasures turn by turn succeed:
He smarts at last who does not first take heed.
Song.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Low laughed the Columbine,
Trembled her petals fine
As the breeze blew;
In her dove-heart there stirred
Murmurs the dull bee heard,
And Love, Life's wild white bird,
Straightway she knew.
Resting her lilac cheek
Gently, in aspect meek,
On the gray stone,
The morning-glory, free,
Welcomed the yellow bee,
Heard the near-rolling sea
Murmur and moan.
Calm lay the tawny sand
Stretching a long wet hand
To the far wave.
Swift to her warm waiting breast
Longing to be possessed
Leaps 'neath his billowy crest
Her Lover brave.
Upon Lulls.
by Robert Herrick

Lulls swears he is all heart; but you'll suppose
By his proboscis that he is all nose.