DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
I Heard (Alas! 'Twas Only In A Dream)
by William Wordsworth

I heard (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
Strains, which, as sage Antiquity believed,
By waking ears have sometimes been received
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;
A most melodious requiem, a supreme
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam.
For is she not the votary of Apollo?
And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
That bliss awaits her which the ungenial Hollow
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires?
Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires!
She soared, and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow.
I Hear America Singing
by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics - each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat - the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench - the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter's song - the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother - or of the young wife at work - or of the girl sewing or washing - Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day - At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
White Night
by Anna Akhmatova

I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I've got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.
Seasons
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
I heard the forest's green heart beat
As if it heard the happy feet
Of one who came, like young Desire:
At whose fair coming birds and flowers
Sprang up, and Beauty, filled with fire,
Touched lips with Song amid the bowers
And Love led on the dancing Hours.
II.
And then I heard a voice that rang,
And to the leaves and blossoms sang:
"My child is Life: I dwell with Truth:
I am the Spirit glad of Birth:
I bring to all things joy and youth:
I am the rapture of the Earth.
Come look on me and know my worth."
III.
And then the woodland heaved a sigh,
As if it saw a shape go by
A shape of sorrow or of dread,
That seemed to move as moves a mist,
And left the leaves and flowers dead,
And with cold lips my forehead kissed,
While phantoms all around held tryst.
IV.
And then I heard a voice that spoke
Unto the fading beech and oak:
"I am the Spirit of Decay,
Whose child is Death, that means relief:
I breathe and all things pass away:
I am Earth's glory and its grief.
Come look on me: thy time is brief."
The Song
by Arthur Macy

I heard an old, familiar air
Strummed idly by a careless hand,
Yet in the melody were rare,
Sweet echoings from childhood land.
The well-remembered mother touch,
The wise denials and consents,
The trivial sorrows that were much,
Small pleasures that were large events;
The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings,
The daily problems unexplained,
Momentous as the cares of kings
That on unhappy thrones have reigned,
Came back with each unstudied tone;
And came that song remembered best,
Which, with a sweetness all its own,
Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.
And there, secure as Tarik's height,
He slumbered, shielded from alarms,
Safe from the mystery of night,
Close folded in the mother's arms.
Then Israel's mighty songs of old,
And all the modern masters' art,
Were less than simple lays that told
The secret of the mother's heart.
The sweetest melody that flows
From lips that win the world's applause
Charms not like that which childhood knows,
Unfettered by the curb of laws.
For though we rise to nobler themes,
To grander harmonies attain,
Their lives not in the academes
The magic of the simpler strain.
And we may spurn the cruder song,
Or name it anything we will,
Denounce the artifice as wrong,
Yet to the child 'tis music still.
Thus, list'ning to an idle air,
Struck lightly by a careless hand,
I heard, amid the cadence there,
The sweetest song of childhood land.
Song Of The New Year
by James Whitcomb Riley

I heard the bells at midnight
Ring in the dawning year;
And above the clanging chorus
Of the song, I seemed to hear
A choir of mystic voices
Flinging echoes, ringing clear,
From a band of angels winging
Through the haunted atmosphere:
"Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in."
And I thought of all the trials
The departed years had cost,
And the blooming hopes and pleasures
That are withered now and lost;
And with joy I drank the music
Stealing o'er the feeling there
As the spirit song came pealing
On the silence everywhere:
"Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in."
And I listened as a lover
To an utterance that flows
In syllables like dewdrops
From the red lips of a rose,
Till the anthem, fainter growing,
Climbing higher, chiming on
Up the rounds of happy rhyming,
Slowly vanished in the dawn:
"Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in."
Then I raised my eyes to Heaven,
And with trembling lips I pled
For a blessing for the living
And a pardon for the dead;
And like a ghost of music
Slowly whispered - lowly sung -
Came the echo pure and holy
In the happy angel tongue:
"Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
And the dawn of every morrow
Will in peace be ushered in."
Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
To Foreign Lands
by Walt Whitman

I heard that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle, the New World,
And to define America, her athletic Democracy;
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them what you wanted.
Voices Of The Night - Hymn To The Night.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[Greek quotation]
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,--
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace!    Peace!    Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
The New Commandment
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'Let go the Cross' - GERTRUDE RUNSHON.
I heard a strange voice in the distance calling
As from a star an echo might be falling.
It spoke four syllables, concise and brief,
Charged with a God-sent message of relief:
Let go the cross!    Oh, you who cling to sorrow,
Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.
Even as the Master left His cross below
And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.
Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your losses,
For with the tools of thought we build our crosses.
Forget your griefs, all grudges and all fear
And enter Paradise - its gates are near.
Heaven is a realm by loving souls created,
And hell was fashioned by the hearts that hated.
Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours,
Life pays the soul whose confidence endures,
The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures,
As after storms the soil yields fuller measures.
Let go the cross; roll self - the stone - away
And dwell with Love in Paradise to-day.
Seashore
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea
Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come?
Am I not always here, thy summer home?
Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve?
My breath thy healthful climate in the heats,
My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath?
Was ever building like my terraces?
Was ever couch magnificent as mine?
Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there learn
A little hut suffices like a town.
I make your sculptured architecture vain,
Vain beside mine. I drive my wedges home,
And carve the coastwise mountain into caves.
Lo! here is Rome and Nineveh and Thebes,
Karnak and Pyramid and Giant's Stairs
Half piled or prostrate; and my newest slab
Older than all thy race.
Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.
Rich are the sea-gods:--who gives gifts but they?
They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls:
They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise.
For every wave is wealth to Daedalus,
Wealth to the cunning artist who can work
This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O waves!
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?
I with my hammer pounding evermore
The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust,
Strewing my bed, and, in another age,
Rebuild a continent of better men.
Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out
The exodus of nations: I disperse
Men to all shores that front the hoary main.
I too have arts and sorceries;
Illusion dwells forever with the wave.
I know what spells are laid. Leave me to deal
With credulous and imaginative man;
For, though he scoop my water in his palm,
A few rods off he deems it gems and clouds.
Planting strange fruits and sunshine on the shore,
I make some coast alluring, some lone isle,
To distant men, who must go there, or die.
I Heard An Angel
by William Blake

I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing,
'Mercy, Pity, Peace
Is the world's release.'
Thus he sung all day
Over the new mown hay,
Till the sun went down
And haycocks looked brown.
I heard a Devil curse
Over the heath and the furze,
'Mercy could be no more,
If there was nobody poor,
And pity no more could be,
If all were as happy as we.'
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.
Down pour'd the heavy rain
Over the new reap'd grain ...
And Miseries' increase
Is Mercy, Pity, Peace.
The March
by John Collings Squire, Sir

I heard a voice that cried, "Make way for those who died!"
And all the coloured crowd like ghosts at morning fled;
And down the waiting road, rank after rank there strode,
In mute and measured march a hundred thousand dead.
A hundred thousand dead, with firm and noiseless tread,
All shadowy-grey yet solid, with faces grey and ghast,
And by the house they went, and all their brows were bent
Straight forward; and they passed, and passed, and passed, and passed.
But O there came a place, and O there came a face,
That clenched my heart to see it, and sudden turned my way;
And in the Face that turned I saw two eyes that burned,
Never-forgotten eyes, and they had things to say.
Like desolate stars they shone one moment, and were gone,
And I sank down and put my arms across my head,
And felt them moving past, nor looked to see the last,
In steady silent march, our hundred thousand dead.
To Springs And Fountains.
by Robert Herrick

I heard ye could cool heat, and came
With hope you would allay the same;
Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold,
Nor find that true which was foretold.
Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat
And labour with unequal heat;
Cure, cure yourselves, for I descry
Ye boil with love as well as I.
I Heard Immanuel Singing
by Vachel Lindsay

(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)
This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune: - 
"Last night I lay a-sleeping,
There came a dream so fair,
I stood in Old Jerusalem
Beside the temple there, - " etc.
Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily.    It is here given to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it.
# To be sung. #
I heard Immanuel singing
Within his own good lands,
I saw him bend above his harp.
I watched his wandering hands
Lost amid the harp-strings;
Sweet, sweet I heard him play.
His wounds were altogether healed.
Old things had passed away.
All things were new, but music.
The blood of David ran
Within the Son of David,
Our God, the Son of Man.
He was ruddy like a shepherd.
His bold young face, how fair.
Apollo of the silver bow
Had not such flowing hair.
# To be read very softly, but in spirited response. #
I saw Immanuel singing
On a tree-girdled hill.
The glad remembering branches
Dimly echoed still
The grand new song proclaiming
The Lamb that had been slain.
New-built, the Holy City
Gleamed in the murmuring plain.
The crowning hours were over.
The pageants all were past.
Within the many mansions
The hosts, grown still at last,
In homes of holy mystery
Slept long by crooning springs
Or waked to peaceful glory,
A universe of Kings.
# To be sung. #
He left his people happy.
He wandered free to sigh
Alone in lowly friendship
With the green grass and the sky.
He murmured ancient music
His red heart burned to sing
Because his perfect conquest
Had grown a weary thing.
No chant of gilded triumph - 
His lonely song was made
Of Art's deliberate freedom;
Of minor chords arrayed
In soft and shadowy colors
That once were radiant flowers: - 
The Rose of Sharon, bleeding
In Olive-shadowed bowers: - 
And all the other roses
In the songs of East and West
Of love and war and worshipping,
And every shield and crest
Of thistle or of lotus
Or sacred lily wrought
In creeds and psalms and palaces
And temples of white thought: - 
# To be read very softly, yet in spirited response. #
All these he sang, half-smiling
And weeping as he smiled,
Laughing, talking to his harp
As to a new-born child: - 
As though the arts forgotten
But bloomed to prophecy
These careless, fearless harp-strings,
New-crying in the sky.
# To be sung. #
"When this his hour of sorrow
For flowers and Arts of men
Has passed in ghostly music,"
I asked my wild heart then - 
What will he sing to-morrow,
What wonder, all his own
Alone, set free, rejoicing,
With a green hill for his throne?
What will he sing to-morrow
What wonder all his own
Alone, set free, rejoicing,
With a green hill for his throne?
Voices
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
I heard the ancient forest talk,
(Its voice was like a wandering breeze):
It said, "Who is it comes to walk
Along my paths when, white as chalk,
The moon hangs o'er my sleeping trees?
What presence is it no one sees?"
II.
And then I heard a voice reply,
That seemed far off yet very near;
It sounded from the earth and sky,
And said, "A spirit walketh here,
Whom mortals know as Awe and Fear.
Terrible and beautiful am I."
III.
And then I heard the meadows say,
(Their voice was as the sound of streams,
Or rain that comes from far away):
"Who sits amid us here and dreams,
When sunlight on our blossoms gleams,
And keeps us company all day?"
IV.
And then I heard a voice intone,
A voice not near yet all around:
"I am that spirit, yea, thine own,
Who worketh wonders in the ground:
Some call me Love that hath no bound,
And I am beautiful alone."
Female Revenge.
by James McIntyre

"Revenge is sweet, especially to women." - Byron.
I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
That you are a charming fairy,
And that to town he'd give you drive,
But just as sure as you're alive,
He does intend to have the bliss,
Of stealing from your lips a kiss.
I'll let him drive me now, Jane,
His efforts they will all be vain,
I hate him, and I him defy,
And anger flashed from her eye,
The monster's wiles I will defeat,
Peck of strong onions I will eat.
A Dream
by William Allingham

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; 
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew 
Going one by one and two by two. 
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd; 
Townsfellows all, from first to last; 
Born in the moonlight of the lane, 
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again. 
Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd 
At soldiers once, but now more staid; 
Those were the strangest sight to me 
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too; 
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed; 
Some that I had not known were dead. 
A long, long crowd, where each seem'd lonely, 
Yet of them all there was one, one only, 
Raised a head or look'd my way; 
She linger'd a moment, she might not stay. 
How long since I saw that fair pale face! 
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place 
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, 
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest! 
On, on, a moving bridge they made 
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, 
Young and old, women and men; 
Many long-forgot, but remembered then, 
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment after; 
And then a music so lofty and gay, 
That eve morning, day by day, 
I strive to recall it if I may.
Hymn To The Night.
by William Henry Giles Kingston

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there - 
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace!    Peace!    Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
Song of Azael.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

I heard the voice of the Death Angel speak,
As slowly he pass'd me by,
And I saw him throw snow on the crimson cheek,
And darken the laughing eye.
I saw him glide down through many a street;
Tears followed him like spring rain;
And yet ever unheeding tears or prayers,
He mattered his wild wild refrain,
"Come away with me, sweet baby so bright,
I love the young flowers of the rosebud's hue,
What? mother would keep thee always in sight,
And see the sad tears in those eyes so blue.
Come with me, little one.
All thorns and crosses for you are done,
Mother will meet thee where all is fair,
Grown to the height of the angels there.
Quiet and deep,
Be now thy sleep,
Baby, so white.
For thou shalt travel where sorrow and strife
Never shall darken thy pathway again.
Azael must take home to the Lord of Life
The darlings He bought on the cross with pain.
Ah! you smile, little one.
Pleasure and glory for you are won,
Near to the angels, you're not afraid
Of going with me far into the shade.
The casket grows cold,
The jewel I hold,
For hearts of love.
Come along with me, thou trader in gold,
Many have turned from thy office to-day.
Thou hast no time to consider the claim
Of the wronged or helpless who crossed thy way.
You shudder, trembling one.
Close up the ledger, business is done.
Let you stay till your vessel comes in?
I'll take you far from the market's din,
And you'll have time,
In that strange clime,
To meditate.
For thou wilt awaken, I would not hold.
If I could, the past from memory's ken.
I fancy that other ledgers unfold,
Their pages for some of you business men;
Rest to night, tired one.
Not half of your merchandise is done?
The steamers, the banks, the corn exchange?
No, Azael deals not in notes or change;
He keeps no gold,
In his fingers cold,
He takes no bribe.
Come along with me, sweet lady so fair,
Who told thee I was so grim and so cold;
Know you that I covet that sunny hair,
And those delicate arms's caressing fold;
Fear me not, gentle one.
What if the hymn and the task are done,
In my arms there is far calmer rest,
Then thou wilt find on thy lover's breast.
Sleep, sleep for awhile,
Then waken to smile,
Ever and aye.
True life is progressive, my lady fair,
And thou wilt re-open those radiant eyes;
Think you that I have no burden of care,
Azael has to account for each prize.
Banish doubt, gentle one.
Quicksands and pitfalls for thee are all done;
Human love may ere long deceive thee,
But Azael's love will never leave thee
Till those earth-dim eyes
Look on Paradise,
Never to weep.
The song of Azael melted away,
On the solemn midnight's bieath,
I thought of the talents, the oilless lamps--
Oh, Azael, Angel of Death,
I know that ere long thou wilt come for me.
Immanuel, Lord of life,
By Thy victory gained on the bitter cross,
Save in that hour of strife.
The Rendition
by John Greenleaf Whittier

I heard the train's shrill whistle call,
I saw an earnest look beseech,
And rather by that look than speech
My neighbor told me all.
And, as I thought of Liberty
Marched handcuffed down that sworded street,
The solid earth beneath my feet
Reeled fluid as the sea.
I felt a sense of bitter loss,
Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath,
And loathing fear, as if my path
A serpent stretched across.
All love of home, all pride of place,
All generous confidence and trust,
Sank smothering in that deep disgust
And anguish of disgrace.
Down on my native hills of June,
And home's green quiet, hiding all,
Fell sudden darkness like the fall
Of midnight upon noon!
And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong,
Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod,
Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God
The blasphemy of wrong.
"O Mother, from thy memories proud,
Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth,
Lend this dead air a breeze of health,
And smite with stars this cloud.
"Mother of Freedom, wise and brave,
Rise awful in thy strength," I said;
Ah me! I spake but to the dead;
I stood upon her grave
The Two Songs
by William Blake

I heard an Angel Singing
When the day was springing:
"Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world's release."
So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And the haycocks looked brown.
I heard a devil curse
Over the heath and the furse:
"Mercy vould be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace,
Misery's increase
Are mercy, pity, and peace."
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.