DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Prospector
by Pat O'Cotter

Where the ragged, snow-capped saw tooth
Cuts the azure of the sky
And watches o'er the lonely land
As ages wander by;
Where the sentinel pines in grandeur
Murmur to the glacier stream
As it, ice-gorged, gluts the canyon,
Never brightened by the gleam
Of sun at brightest noon day,
Nor moon of Arctic night,
And whose only link with Heaven
Is the fitful Northern Light.
Where the Whistler shrills in triumph
And the Big Horn dreams in peace,
Where the Brown Bear skulks to cover
Up where silence holds the lease;
Where the land is as God left it
Nor has known the tread of man,
There's a treasure ledge a-waiting--
Go and find it if you can.
If your heart be steeled to triumph
Nor beats less at your defeat;
Can you watch your whole world melt away
And still smiling, fortune greet?
Will your heart and brain and sinew
Crowd you on, when hunger's pain
Gnaws your belly and you're beaten,
Can you lose, and fight again?
Can you raise the cup of fortune
To your lips and bravely quaff
The draught she has prepared for you
And win or lose and laugh?
Can you see the fruits of hardships
Centered on one desperate throw
And know Fate's dice are loaded
Nor curse to see them go?
Then take your burden up again
And stagger up the trail,
You're bound to make a winning
Cause you don't know how to fail.
I, who've spent my youth in following
The lure of hidden gold
Must pass the buck to Nature
And admit I'm growing old.
And yet each spring I hear it calling
And it's music to my ears,
The call of lonely places
That I've listened to for years.
It's cost me all most men hold dear
Some forty years of life,
And all the joys that others get
In babies, home, and wife.
My life's been all to-morrows
And my family only dreams
And to the average plodder
I've missed it all it seems.
Still, I've never taken orders
And I've always liked the game,
And if life could be lived over,
Why,--I'd live it just the same.
Description Of An Author's Bedchamber
by Oliver Goldsmith

Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black face:
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board;
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night a stocking all the day!
Exeunt
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

HELEN RABY.
Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust,
They dug, crying, 'Earth to earth',
Crying, 'Ashes to ashes and dust to dust',
And what are my poor prayers worth?
Upon whom shall I call, or in whom shall I trust,
Though death were indeed new birth.
And they bid me be glad for my baby's sake
That she suffered sinless and young,
Would they have me be glad when my breasts still ache
Where that small, soft, sweet mouth clung?
I am glad that the heart will so surely break
That has been so bitterly wrung.
He was false, they tell me, and what if he were?
I can only shudder and pray,
Pouring out my soul in a passionate prayer
For the soul that he cast away;
Was there nothing that once was created fair
In the potter's perishing clay?
Is it well for the sinner that souls endure?
For the sinless soul is it well?
Does the pure child lisp to the angels pure?
And where does the strong man dwell,
If the sad assurance of priests be sure,
Or the tale that our preachers tell?
The unclean has follow'd the undefiled,
And the ill may regain the good,
And the man may be even as the little child!
We are children lost in the wood,
Lord! lead us out of this tangled wild,
Where the wise and the prudent have been beguil'd,
And only the babes have stood.
The Word Of God
by George MacDonald

Where the bud has never blown
Who for scent is debtor?
Where the spirit rests unknown
Fatal is the letter.
In thee, Jesus, Godhead-stored,
All things we inherit,
For thou art the very Word
And the very Spirit!
The Muse of Australia
by Henry Kendall

Where the pines with the eagles are nestled in rifts,
And the torrent leaps down to the surges,
I have followed her, clambering over the clifts,
By the chasms and moon-haunted verges.
I know she is fair as the angels are fair,
For have I not caught a faint glimpse of her there;
A glimpse of her face and her glittering hair,
And a hand with the Harp of Australia?
I never can reach you, to hear the sweet voice
So full with the music of fountains!
Oh! when will you meet with that soul of your choice,
Who will lead you down here from the mountains?
A lyre-bird lit on a shimmering space;
It dazzled mine eyes and I turned from the place,
And wept in the dark for a glorious face,
And a hand with the Harp of Australia!
Odes From Horace. - To Pyrrha. Book The First, Ode The Fifth.
by Anna Seward

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave,
Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy,
Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave,
Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy?
For whom the simple band dost thou prepare,
That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?
Alas! how soon shall this devoted Youth
Love's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore,
Indignant curse thy violated truth,
And count each broken promise o'er and o'er,
Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles,
Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!
He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gaze
In wild amazement on the stormy deep,
Recall the flattery of those sunny days,
That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep.
'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail,
In rash dependence on the faithless gale.
Ah Wretch! to whom untried thou seemest fair!
By me, who late thy halcyon surface sung,
[1]The walls of Neptune's fane inscrib'd, declare
That I have dank and dropping garments hung,
Devoted to the GOD, whose kind decree
Snatch'd me to shore, from an o'erwhelming sea.
97":  The Fast Mail
by John Charles McNeill

Where the rails converge to the station yard
She stands one moment, breathing hard,
And then, with a snort and a clang of steel,
She settles her strength to the stubborn wheel,
And out, through the tracks that lead astray,
Cautiously, slowly she picks her way,
And gathers her muscle and guards her nerve,
When she swings her nose to the westward curve,
And takes the grade, which slopes to the sky,
With a bound of speed and a conquering cry.
The hazy horizon is all she sees,
Nor cares for the meadows, stirred with bees,
Nor the long, straight stretches of silent land,
Nor the ploughman, that shades his eye with his hand,
Nor the cots and hamlets that know no more
Than a shriek and a flash and a flying roar;
But, bearing her tidings, she trembles and throbs,
And laughs in her throat, and quivers and sobs;
And the fire in her heart is a red core of heat,
That drives like a passion through forest and street,
Till she sees the ships in their harbor at rest,
And sniffs at the trail to the end of her quest.
If I were the driver who handles her reins,
Up hill and down hill and over the plains,
To watch the slow mountains give back in the west,
To know the new reaches that wait every crest,
To hold, when she swerves, with a confident clutch,
And feel how she shivers and springs to the touch,
With the snow on her back and the sun in her face,
And nothing but time as a quarry to chase,
I should grip hard my teeth, and look where she led,
And brace myself stooping, and give her her head,
And urge her, and soothe her, and serve all her need,
And exult in the thunder and thrill of her speed.
White Horses
by Rudyard Kipling

Where run your colts at pasture?
Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
All purple to the stars!
Who holds the rein upon you?
The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
The glut of all the sea.
'Twixt tide and tide's returning
Great store of newly dead,
The bones of those that faced us,
And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges,
A million hooves unshod,
Break forth the mad White Horses
To seek their meat from God!
Girth-deep in hissing water
Our furious vanguard strains,
Through mist of mighty tramplings
Roll up the fore-blown manes,
A hundred leagues to leeward,
Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
The coming of the herd!
Whose hand may grip your nostrils,
Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us,
The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
That rope us where we run,
They know the strong White Horses
From father unto son.
We breathe about their cradles,
We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
To call them from their loves.
And come they for your calling?
No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
Above their fathers' grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
To school the herds anew.
What service have ye paid them,
Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
Our snow-backed leaders graze,
A guard behind their plunder,
And a veil before their ways.
With march and countermarchings,
With weight of wheeling hosts,
Stray mob or bands embattled,
We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
The wild white riders lie.
. . . .
Trust ye that curdled hollows,
Trust ye the neighing wind,
Trust ye the moaning groundswell,
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies,
To chill and snap his sword,
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!
Home
by John Le Gay Brereton

'Where shall we dwell?' say you.
Wandering winds reply:
'In a temple with roof of blue
Under the splendid sky.'
Never a nobler home
We'll find though an age we try
Than is arched by the azure dome
Of the all-enfolding sky.
Here we are wed, and here
We live under God's own eye.
'Where shall we dwell,' my dear?
Under the splendid sky.
Our Volunteers.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

Where shall we write your names, ye brave!
Where build for you a monument,
Who lie in many a sylvan grave,
Stretched half across the continent!
Young, bright and brave, the very flower
And choice of all we had to give,
With you what glory ceased to live,--
Or lives again in hearts of men.
An inspiration and a power!
For when one sunny day in June,
A sudden war-cry shook the land,
As if from out clear skies at noon
Had dropped the lightning's deadly brand--
Ah then, while rang our British cheers,
And pealed the bugle, rolled the drum,
We saw the Nation rise like one!
Swift formed the files,--a thousand miles
Of them, our gallant Volunteers!
Deep clanged the bells, the drums did beat,
And still from east and west they came;
Echoed the street with martial feet,
From north, from south, with hearts aflame:
Ah, still the tires of freedom burn,--
Be witness, Ridgway's silent shade,
No foe shall dare our land invade,
While hearts like those that met the foes,
Still beat like theirs,--the undismayed,
The brave, who never will return.
Our Country holds them in her heart,
Shrined with her mountains and her rivers;
And still for them her proud lip quivers,
And tears to her great eyelids start:
But they are tears of love and pride,
And she shall tell to coming years
The story of her Volunteers,
For all their names are hers and fame's--
The brave who live, the brave who died.
The Love Child
by William Barnes

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
Wi' his wide arches' cool she'ded bow,
Up above the clear brook that did slide
By the poppies, befoam'd white as snow;
As the gilcups did quiver among
The white de'sies, a-spread in a sheet.
There a quick-tripp'n ma'd come along,
Aye, a girl wi' her light-stepp'n veet.
An' she cried "I do pra', is the road
Out to Lincham on here, by the me'd?"
An' "oh! ees," I me'de answer, an' show'd
Her the way it would turn an' would le'd:
"Goo along by the beech in the nook,
Where the children do pla' in the cool,
To the stepp'n stwones over the brook,
Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."
"Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,"
I spoke up, "at a place here about;"
And she answer'd wi' che'ks up so red
As a pi'ny le'te a-come out,
"No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died
Back in E'pril, an' now I'm a-come
Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,
Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome."
I'm ashe'med that I wanted know
Any more of her childhood or life
But then, why should so fe'ir a child grow
Where no father did bide wi' his wife;
Then wi' blushes of zunris'n morn,
She replied "that it midden be known,
"Oh! they zent me awa' to be born,
Aye, they hid me when some would be shown."
Oh! it me'de me a'most teary-ey'd,
An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd
What! so winn'n, an' still cast azide
What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd;
Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn
Oh! a child that a squier should own;
An' to zend her awa' to be born!
Aye, to hide her where others be shown!
Love Among The Ruins
by Robert Browning

I.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop.
II.
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.
III.
Now, the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
IV.
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all
Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest
Twelve abreast.
V.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone.
VI.
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.
VII.
Now, the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks.
VIII.
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.
IX.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away.
X.
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.
XI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, and then
All the men!
XII.
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.
XIII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force,
Gold, of course.
XIV.
O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.
Where Shall The Lover Rest
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Where shall the lover rest
Whom the fates sever
From the true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the fair billow,
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.
Chorus.
Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There, thy rest shall thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,
Never, O never!
Chorus.
Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.,P>
Chorus.
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false hearted,
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted,
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it,
Never, O never!
Chorus
Never, O never!
A Tale Of Two Cities
by Rudyard Kipling

Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles
On his byles;
Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow
Come and go;
Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,
Hides and ghi;
Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints
In his prints;
Stands a City, Charnock chose it, packed away
Near a Bay,
By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer
Made impure,
By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
Moist and damp;
And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
Don't agree.
Once, two hundered years ago, the trader came
Meek and tame.
Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
Till mere trade
Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
South and North
Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
Was his own.
Thus the midday halt of Charnock, more's the pity!
Grew a City.
As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
So it spread,
Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
On the silt,
Palace, byre, hovel, poverty and pride,
Side by side;
And, above the packed and pestilential town,
Death looked down.
But the Rulers in that City by the Sea
Turned to flee,
Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills
To the Hills.
From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze
Of old days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
For his gain.
Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms,
Asks an alms,
And the burden of its lamentation is, Briefly, this:
"Because for certain months, we boil and stew,
So should you.
Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire
In our fire!"
And for answer to the argument, in vain
We explain
That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry:
"All must fry!"
That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain
For gain.
Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
From its kitchen.
Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints
In his prints;
And mature, consistent soul, his plan for stealing
To Darjeeling:
Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,
England's isle;
Let the City Charnock pitched on, evil day!
Go Her way.
Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
Heap their stores,
Though Her enterprise and energy secure
Income sure,
Though "out-station orders punctually obeyed"
Swell Her trade,
Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,
Simla's best.
Minniebel
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Where the willow weepeth
By a fountain lone, - 
Where the ivy creepeth
O'er a mossy stone, - 
With pale flowers above her,
In a quiet dell.
Far from those who love her,
Slumbers Minniebel.
There thy bed I made thee,
By that fountain side,
And in anguish laid thee
Down to rest, my bride!
Tenderest and fairest,
Who thy worth may tell!
Flower of beauty rarest,
Saintly Minniebel!
Weary years have borrowed
From my eye its light,
Time my cheek has furrowed,
And these locks are white;
But my heart will ever
Mid its memories dwell,
Fondly thine forever,
Angel Minniebel!
Hymn For The Dedication Of Memorial Hall At Cambridge, June 23, 1874
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Where, girt around by savage foes,
Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose,
Behold, the lofty temple stands,
Reared by her children's grateful hands!
Firm are the pillars that defy
The volleyed thunders of the sky;
Sweet are the summer wreaths that twine
With bud and flower our martyrs' shrine.
The hues their tattered colors bore
Fall mingling on the sunlit floor
Till evening spreads her spangled pall,
And wraps in shade the storied hall.
Firm were their hearts in danger's hour,
Sweet was their manhood's morning flower,
Their hopes with rainbow hues were bright, - 
How swiftly winged the sudden night!
O Mother! on thy marble page
Thy children read, from age to age,
The mighty word that upward leads
Through noble thought to nobler deeds.
TRUTH, heaven-born TRUTH, their fearless guide,
Thy saints have lived, thy heroes died;
Our love has reared their earthly shrine,
Their glory be forever thine!
Trade
by John Le Gay Brereton

Where yonder ruddy-misted star
Is tumbling down the placid sky
The people's aims were not so high
As our heroic motives are;
To love and trust they set a bar,
And 'Profit' was their only cry;
They paid but little heed how nigh
Came thundering the iron car.
It rushed upon them and it passed
Leaving a ghost of pain and fear
To haunt the ruin it had made.
But surely they have learnt at last?
What far faint murmur can we hear
Of frantic howling? Listen! . . . 'TRADE.'
An Old-Time Lay.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Jamais elle ne raille.")
[Bk. III. xiii.]
Where your brood seven lie,
Float in calm heavenly,
Life passing evenly,
Waterfowl, waterfowl! often I dream
For a rest
Like your nest,
Skirting the stream.
Shine the sun tearfully
Ere the clouds clear fully,
Still you skim cheerfully,
Swallow, oh! swallow swift! often I sigh
For a home
Where you roam
Nearing the sky!
Guileless of pondering;
Swallow-eyes wandering;
Seeking no fonder ring
Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart!
Grant me soon - 
Blessed boon!
Home in thy heart!
From The Same (Pictures From Theocritus - From Idyl I.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love?
In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove
Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep,
Where huge Anapus' torrent waters sweep;
On 'tna's height, ah! impotent to save,
Nor yet where Akis winds his holy wave!
Where Three Roads Joined
by Thomas Hardy

Where three roads joined it was green and fair,
And over a gate was the sun-glazed sea,
And life laughed sweet when I halted there;
Yet there I never again would be.
I am sure those branchways are brooding now,
With a wistful blankness upon their face,
While the few mute passengers notice how
Spectre-beridden is the place;
Which nightly sighs like a laden soul,
And grieves that a pair, in bliss for a spell
Not far from thence, should have let it roll
Away from them down a plumbless well
While the phasm of him who fared starts up,
And of her who was waiting him sobs from near,
As they haunt there and drink the wormwood cup
They filled for themselves when their sky was clear.
Yes, I see those roads now rutted and bare,
While over the gate is no sun-glazed sea;
And though life laughed when I halted there,
It is where I never again would be.
A Worn Rose
by Lola Ridge

Where to-day would a dainty buyer
Imbibe your scented juice,
Pale ruin with a heart of fire;
Drain your succulence with her lips,
Grown sapless from much use...
Make minister of her desire
A chalice cup where no bee sips - 
Where no wasp wanders in?
Close to her white flesh housed an hour,
One held you... her spent form
Drew on yours for its wasted dower - 
What favour could she do you more?
Yet, of all who drink therein,
None know it is the warm
Odorous heart of a ravished flower
Tingles so in her mouth's red core...