DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CVIII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

When Sorrow (vsing mine owne fiers might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest
Through that darke furnace to my hart opprest,
There shines a ioy from thee my only light:
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my yong soule flutters to thee his nest,
Most rude Despaire, my daily vnbidden guest,
Clips streight my wings, streight wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow downe my heade, and say,
Ah, what doth Phoebus gold that wretch auaile
Whom Iron doores doe keepe from vse of day?
So strangely (alas) thy works on me preuaile,
That in my woes for thee thou art my ioy,
And in my ioyes for thee my onely annoy.
Lord Guy
by George F. Warren

When swallows Northward flew
Forth from his home did fare
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.
Swore he to cross the brine,
Pausing not, night nor day,
That he might Paynims slay
In Palestine.
Half a league on his way
Met he a shepherdess
Beaming with loveliness,
Fair as Young Day.
Gazed he in eyes of blue,
Saw love in hiding there
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.
"Let the foul Paynim wait!"
Plead Love, "and stay with me.
Cruel and cold the sea,
Here's brighter fate."
When swallows Southward flew
Back to his home did fare
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.
Led he his charger gay
Bearing a shepherdess
Beaming with happiness,
Fair as Young Day.
White lambs, be-ribboned blue,
Tends now with anxious care,
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.
His Sailing From Julia
by Robert Herrick

When that day comes, whose evening says I'm gone
Unto that watery desolation;
Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then pray,
That my wing'd ship may meet no Remora.
Those deities which circum-walk the seas,
And look upon our dreadful passages,
Will from all dangers re-deliver me,
For one drink-offering poured out by thee,
Mercy and Truth live with thee!    and forbear,
In my short absence, to unsluice a tear;
But yet for love's-sake, let thy lips do this,
Give my dead picture one engendering kiss;
Work that to life, and let me ever dwell
In thy remembrance, Julia.    So farewell.
Spring On The Down
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

When Spring blows o'er the land, and sunlight flies
Across the hills, we take the upland way.
I have her waist, the wooing wind her eyes
And lips and cheeks. His kissing makes her gay
As flowers. "Thou hast two lovers, O my dear,"
Say I; and she, "He takes what thou dost fear."
Song. Written During A Period When It Was Confidently Believed That The French Would Invade Our Country.
by John Carr (Sir)

When storms on the ocean
Create high emotion,
It pleases the wish
Of the monarch of fish,
For he gambols and sports in the motion.
Should a shoal of small fry
Attempt to draw nigh,
With a flap of his tail,
Th' imperial whale
Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.
Oh! thus, on the seas,
Just with the same ease,
Should the enemy come,
In ship, boat, or bomb,
We will knock them about as we please;
Till at last they shall cry,
"We are the small fry,
And Britannia's the whale,
By a flap of whose tail,
If we dare to approach her we die."
Johnny Appleseed
by Edgar Lee Masters

When the air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples
Hanging ungathered in frosted orchards along the Grand River,
I take the road that winds by the resting fields and wander
From Eastmanville to Nunica down to the Villa Crossing.
I look for old men to talk with, men as old as the orchards,
Men to tell me of ancient days, of those who built and planted,
Lichen gray, branch broken, bent and sighing,
Hobbling for warmth in the sun and for places to sit and smoke.
For there is a legend here, a tale of the croaking old ones
That Johnny Appleseed came here, planted some orchards around here,
When nothing was here but the pine trees, oaks and the beeches,
And nothing was here but the marshes, lake and the river.
Peter Van Zylen is ninety and this he tells me:
My father talked with Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side,
There by the road on the way to Fruitport, saw him
Clearing pines and oaks for a place for an apple orchard.
Peter Van Zylen says: He got that name from the people
For carrying apple-seed with him and planting orchards
All the way from Ohio, through Indiana across here,
Planting orchards, they say, as far as Illinois.
Johnny Appleseed said, so my father told me:
I go to a place forgotten, the orchards will thrive and be here
For children to come, who will gather and eat hereafter.
And few will know who planted, and none will understand.
I laugh, said Johnny Appleseed: Some fellow buys this timber
Five years, perhaps from to-day, begins to clear for barley.
And here in the midst of the timber is hidden an apple orchard.
How did it come here? Lord! Who was it here before me?
Yes, I was here before him, to make these places of worship,
Labor and laughter and gain in the late October.
Why did I do it, eh? Some folks say I am crazy.
Where do my labors end? Far west, God only knows!
Said Johnny Appleseed there on the hill-side: Listen!
Beware the deceit of nurseries, sellers of seeds of the apple.
Think! You labor for years in trees not worth the raising.
You planted what you knew not, bitter or sour for sweet.
No luck more bitter than poor seed, but one as bitter:
The planting of perfect seed in soil that feeds and fails,
Nourishes for a little, and then goes spent forever.
Look to your seed, he said, and remember the soil.
And after that is the fight: the foe curled up at the root,
The scale that crumples and deadens, the moth in the blossoms
Becoming a life that coils at the core of a thing of beauty:
You bite your apple, a worm is crushed on your tongue!
And it's every bit the truth, said Peter Van Zylen.
So many things love an apple as well as ourselves.
A man must fight for the thing he loves, to possess it:
Apples, freedom, heaven, said Peter Van Zylen.
The Three Roses
by Walter Savage Landor

When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part."
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from the same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day
Carried home my tenderest lay:
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
Gordon And Burnaby, 1885.
by James McIntyre

When the Chinese did rebel,
Gordon alone he could them quell,
With justice they his name revere,
The man who bullets did not fear.
It seemed as if his life had charm
That spear or lance could never harm,
He went alone this wondrous man
To fight false prophet of Soudan.
Assistance it arrives too late,
And traitors they have oped the gate,
To meet the foe he doth advance,
But fatal wound receives from lance.
And Britons all they do take pride
In Burnaby's Asiatic ride,
Russian mysteries to discover,
He crossed many a plain and river.
And his brave spirit led the van
To relieve Gordon in Soudan,
With his strong arm every blow
Laid at his feet some Arab foe.
But strong brave man who knew no fear,
He was transfixed by Arab spear,
And thus brave men their lives have lost,
Of war let nations never boast.
Unless it is in self defence,
Then they have glorious recompense,
But arts of peace they should be prized
By nations truly Christianized.
When The Dark Comes
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

When the dark comes,
'Is this the end?' I pray,
No answer from the night,
And then once more the day.
I take the world again
Upon my neck and go
Pace with the serious hours.
Since fate will have it so,
Begone dead man, unclasp
Your hands from round my heart,
I and my burden pass,
You and your peace depart.
Mirage
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When the beautiful mountain ash is turning -
As lovely a sight as the eyes desire;
When the leaves of the sumac bush are burning,
Like the steady flame of a winter fire;
When the weeds by the roadside all grow golden,
When maples are glowing and asters gleam,
It is then that the new is changed to the olden,
And back to my heart comes the past like a dream.
Like a mirage I see the blue haze o'er me,
The City of Youth that I left behind.
Oh! whitely its turrets are gleaming before me,
And out of the window lean faces kind.
And I hear the echo of jubilant voices;
There are cheeks of beauty and eyes of truth:
And every pulse in my heart rejoices -
There's no other place like the City of Youth.
And lo! the City is full of splendour,
And a voice in my soul breaks into song.
Yes, a passionate love, as fair as tender,
Creeps out of the grave where it slept so long.
As the strings of a harp by winds are shaken,
To endless music my heart is stirred,
When my name is breathed and my hand is taken,
Though I cannot utter a single word.
But with souls that are full of the beautiful weather,
And the perfect peace that has no name,
Under the autumn skies together
We stray, by the sumacs all aflame.
And the forest flushes to fuller glory:
Brighter glow asters and golden rod,
As eye unto eye tells the old, old story,
And the sunlight seems like the smile of God.
Alone I stand and sorrowful hearted;
The dead leaves fall in the chilly wind.
The mirage is fled, and the glory departed,
And the City of Youth is far behind.
Day And Night (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)
by James Stephens

When the bright eyes of the day
Open on the dusk, to see
Mist and shadow fade away
And the sun shine merrily,
Then I leave my bed and run
Out to frolic in the sun.
Through the sunny hours I play
Where the stream is wandering,
Plucking daisies by the way;
And I laugh and dance and sing,
While the birds fly here and there
Singing on the sunny air.
When the night comes, cold and slow,
And the sad moon walks the sky,
When the whispering wind says "Boh,
Little boy!" and makes me cry,
By my mother I am led
Home again and put to bed.
The Bells Of Ys
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,
Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery tones came floating down,
But life stood still with uncovered head,
And doers of ill did good instead,
And abroad the Peace of God was shed,
When the bells aloft sang softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Aloft, and aloft, and alow.
And still those Bells ring softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low.
Though full twelve hundred years have gone,
Since the waves rolled over the old gray town,
Bold men of the sea, in the grip of the flow,
Still hear the Bells, as they pass and go,
Or win to life with their hearts aglow,
When the Bells below sing softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Alow, and alow, and alow.
O the Mystical Bells, they still ring softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,--
For the sound of their singing shall never die
In the hearts that are tuned to their melody;
And down in the world's wild rush and roar,
That sweeps us along to the Opening Door.
Hearts still beat high as they beat of yore,
When the Bells sing softly--softly--softly,
Soft--and sweet--and low,
The Silver Bells and the Golden Bells,--
Alow, and aloft, and alow.
Yer Old Cob Pipe.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door,
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
II.
When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm,
And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
III.
When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne,
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
IV.
When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king,
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
V.
When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head,
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
The Occultation
by Thomas Hardy

When the cloud shut down on the morning shine,
And darkened the sun,
I said, "So ended that joy of mine
Years back begun."
But day continued its lustrous roll
In upper air;
And did my late irradiate soul
Live on somewhere?
De Profundis - II
by Thomas Hardy

"Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me
. . . Non est qui requirat animam meam." - Ps. cxli.
When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
The stout upstanders say, All's well with us: ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.
Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet;
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here?
. . .
Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
1895-96.
Second Reading. To Vittoria Colonna. The Model And The Statue.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Se ben concetto.
When that which is divine in us doth try
To shape a face, both brain and hand unite
To give, from a mere model frail and slight,
Life to the stone by Art's free energy.
Thus too before the painter dares to ply
Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write
Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite
Wise minds to judge his figured history.
So, born a model rude and mean to be
Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth,
Lady, from you, you fountain of all worth!
Each overplus and each deficiency
You will make good. What penance then is due
For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?
Crowride
by A. R. Ammons

When the crow
lands, the
tip of the sprung spruce
bough weighs
so low, the
system so friction-free,
the bobbing lasts
way past any
interest in the subject.
By The Margin Of The Great Deep
by George William Russell

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow, and silver gleam,
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
I am one with the twilight's dream.
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every heart of man is wrapt within the mother's breast:
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I am one with their hearts at rest.
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
Word or touch from the lips beside.
Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw,
From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such primeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe,
Growing one with its silent stream.
How The Whale Got His Throat
by Rudyard Kipling

When the cabin port-holes are dark and green
Because of the seas outside
When the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)
And steward falls into the soup-tureen,
And trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
And you aren't waked or washed or dressed,
Why, then you will know (if you haven't guessed)
You're "Fifty North and Forty West!"
The Roof
by John Collings Squire, Sir

I
When the clouds hide the sun away
The tall slate roof is dull and grey,
And when the rain adown it streams
'Tis polished lead with pale-blue gleams.
When the clouds vanish and the rain
Stops, and the sun comes out again,
It shimmers golden in the sun
Almost too bright to look upon.
But soon beneath the steady rays
The roof is dried and reft of blaze,
'Tis dusty yellow traversed through
By long thin lines of deepest blue.
Then at the last, as night draws near,
The lines grow faint and disappear,
The roof becomes a purple mist,
A great square darkening amethyst
Which sinks into the gathering shade
Till separate form and colour fade,
And it is but a patch which mars
The beauty of a field of stars.
II
It stands so lonely in the sky
The sparrows never come thereby,
The glossy starlings seldom stop
To preen and chatter on the top.
For a whole week sometimes up there
No wing-wave stirs the quiet air,
The roof lies silent and serene
As though no life had ever been;
Till some bright afternoon, athwart
The edge two sudden shadows dart,
And two white pigeons with pink feet
Flutter above and pitch on it.
Jerking their necks out as they walk
They talk awhile their pigeon-talk,
A low continuous murmur blent
Of mock reproaches and content.
Then cease, and sit there warm and white
An hour, till in the fading light
They wake, and know the close of day,
Flutter above, and fly away,
Leaving the roof whereon they sat
As 'twas before, a peaceful flat
Expanse, as silent and serene
As though no life had ever been.
Honors.
by Friedrich Schiller

[Dignities would be the better title, if the word were not so essentially unpoetical.]
When the column of light on the waters is glassed,
As blent in one glow seem the shine and the stream;
But wave after wave through the glory has passed,
Just catches, and flies as it catches, the beam
So honors but mirror on mortals their light;
Not the man but the place that he passes is bright.
The Feast Of Freedom.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Lorsqu'' l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")
[Bk. II. v., 1823.]
[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet - at the prison gate - known as the "Free Festival." - CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."]
TO YE KINGS.
When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old
By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold
An idolatrous cause,
Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout
Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout
Of "the People's" applause.
On the eve of that day of their evenings the last!
At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast,
Rich, unstinted, unpriced,
That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled,
With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread
For the martyrs of Christ.
Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline
On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine
Fill'd his cup to the brim!
Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose,
Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,
All united for him!
Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse,
In profusion procured was put forth to enhance
The repast that they gave;
And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight,
Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night
The elect of the grave.
And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain,
Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain
The bloodthirsty arena;
Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds
And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs
Shame the restless hyena.
They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve,
In their turn on the morrow were destined to give
To the lions their food;
For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board,
Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,
Death administering stood.
Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power,
But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour - 
'Tis your knell that it rings!
To the popular tiger a prey is decreed,
And the maw of Republican hunger will feed
On a banquet of Kings!
"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)
Julia. An Ode.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

[NOTE. - The following imitation of Cowper's Boadicea was written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]
When the Cambridge flower-show ended,
And the flowers and guests were gone,
And the evening shades descended,
Roamed a man forlorn alone.
Sage beside the River slow
Sat the Don renowned for lore
And in accents soft and low
To the elms his love did pour.
"Julia, if my learned eyes
Gaze upon thy matchless face:
'Tis because I feel there lies
Magic in thy lovely grace.
"I will marry! write that threat
In the ink I daily waste:
Marry - pay each College debt - 
College Ale no more will taste.
"Granta, far and wide renowned,
Frowns upon the married state;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark!    Reform is at the gate.
"Other Fellows shall arise,
Proud to own a husband's name:
Proud to own their infants' cries - 
Harmony the path to fame.
"Then the progeny that springs
From our ancient College walls,
Armed with trumpets, noisy things,
Shall astound us by their squalls.
"Sounds no wrangler yet has heard,
Our posterity shall fright:
E'en 'the Eagle,' [1] valiant bird,
Shall betake itself to flight."
Such the thoughts that through him whirl'd
Pensively reclining there:
Smiling, as his fingers curled
His divinely-glowing hair.
He, with all a lover's pride,
Felt his manly bosom glow,
Sought the Bull, besought the Bride,
All she said was "No, Sir, No!"
Julia, pitiless as cold,
Lo the vengeance due from Heaven!
College Living he doth hold;
Single bliss to thee is given.
[1] "The Eagle" is the well-known Magazine of St. John's College, Cambridge.
A Dead House.
by George MacDonald

When the clock hath ceased to tick
Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
On a dead house, not a home!
But when, like an old sun's ghost,
Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound--hark! there again!--
No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
Walking through the bare-floored house!
And with lightning on the stair
To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
From the raging northern coasts,
Then, mid sieging light and sound,
All the house is live with ghosts!
Brother, is thy soul a cell
Empty save of glittering motes,
Where no live loves live and dwell,
Only notions, things, and thoughts?
Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath
Tempest-shaking ridge and post,
Find thyself alone with Death
In a house where walks no ghost.
Psalm CXIV
by William Cowper

When the blest seed of Terah's faithful Son,[1]
After long toil their liberty had won,
And past from Pharian[2] fields to Canaan Land,
Led by the strength of the Almighty's hand,
Jehovah's wonders were in Israel shown,
His praise and glory was in Israel known.
That saw the troubl'd Sea, and shivering fled,
And sought to hide his froth-becurled head
Low in the earth, Jordan's clear streams recoil,
As a faint host that hath receiv'd the foil.
The high, huge-bellied Mountains skip like Rams
Amongst their Ewes, the little Hills like Lambs.
Why fled the Ocean? And why skip'd the Mountains?
Why turned Jordan toward his Crystal Fountains?
Shake earth, and at the presence be aghast
Of him that ever was, and ay shall last,
That glassy floods from rugged rocks can crush,
And make soft rills from the fiery flint-stones gush.