DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Aspiration.
by Madison Julius Cawein

God knows I strive against low lust and vice,
Wound in the net of their voluptuous hair;
God knows that all their kisses are as ice
To me who do not care.
God knows, against the front of Fate I set
Eyes still and stern, and lips as bitter prest;
Raised clenched and ineffectual palms to let
Her rock-like pressing breast!
God knows what motive such large zeal inspires,
God knows the star for which I climb and crave,
God knows, and only God, the eating fires
That in my bosom rave.
I will not fall! I will not; thou dost lie!
Deep Hell! that seethest in thy simmering pit;
Thy thousand throned horrors shall not vie,
Or ever compass it!
But as thou sinkest from my soul away,
So shall I rise, rolled in the morning's rose,
Beyond this world, this life, this little day - 
God knows! God knows! God knows!
Thanksgiving Day.
by Thomas Frederick Young

God of the harvest, once again
Our joyful tones we raise,
For all Thy goodness, day by day,
We give Thee thankful praise.
With blessings rich, from fertile field,
And gifts from fruitful tree,
We wish, this day, our thanks to yield
With earnest hearts, to Thee.
We plough'd the ground, we sow'd the seed,
But Thou didst send the rain
In grateful show'rs, in time of need,
And now we've reap'd the grain.
The sun with grateful heat did shine;
The dew did nightly fall;
And now, for loaded tree and vine - 
We give Thee thanks for all.
The bee, in well-fill'd honey cells,
Her sweets for us hath stow'd,
The crystal water in the wells,
For us from springs hath flow'd.
The lowing herd, the prancing steed
Receiv'd we from Thy hand,
And we, this day, return our meed
Of praise, throughout the land.
Then let us sing with earnest hearts,
Tho' joyful be each lay,
And thankful ev'ry song that starts
On this Thanksgiving Day.
Looking Upwards In A Storm.
by William Cowper

God of my life, to thee I call,
Afflicted at thy feet I fall;
When the great water-floods prevail,[1]
Leave not my trembling heart to fail!
Friend of the friendless and the faint!
Where should I lodge my deep complaint?
Where but with thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor!
Did ever mourner plead with thee,
And thou refuse that mourner's plea?
Does not the word still fix'd remain,
That none shall seek thy face in vain?
That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst thou not hear and answer prayer;
But a prayer-hearing, answering God,
Supports me under every load.
Fair is the lot that's cast for me;
I have an Advocate with thee;
They whom the world caresses most
Have no such privilege to boast.
Poor though I am, despised, forgot,[2]
Yet God, my God, forgets me not:
And he is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.
Light Shining Out Of Darkness.
by William Cowper

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,[1]
And scan his work in vain:
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
Book Of The Minstrel.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

TALISMANS.
God is of the east possess'd,
God is ruler of the west;
North and south alike, each land
Rests within His gentle hand.
-
He, the only righteous one,
Wills that right to each be done.
'Mongst His hundred titles, then,
Highest praised be this! Amen.
-
Error seeketh to deceive me,
Thou art able to retrieve me;
Both in action and in song
Keep my course from going wrong.
The Tornado.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

God let me fall from His hand
One day at His forge when the elemental world
Was shaping. I am but a breath from His great bellows,
But here among the workshops of mankind
I am a fateful scourge.
I tear red strips from the proud cities of men;
I name my passage the Highway of Instant Death;
I splinter world-old forests with my laugh,
And whirl the ancient snows of Hecla sheer into Orion's eyes.
I dance on the deep under the big Indian stars,
And wrap the water spout about my sinuous hips
As a dancer winds her girdle. The ocean's horrid crew,
The octopus, the serpent, and the shark, with the heart of a coward,
Plunge downward when they hear my feet above on the sea-floor,
And hide in their slimy coverts. Brave men pray upon the straining decks
Till comes my mood to end them, and I strew the racing foam with wreckage.
I am a breath from God's forge. I remember His awful workshop,
How the hot globes spun off into infinite darkness, as system by system,
The universe was wrought; and then I remember the birth of the sun,
How God cried: "Let there be light!" and, blinding, bewildering, exulting,
The great orb flamed from His furnace, and only the Creator stood upright.
In that hour I fell from His hand.
I am a breath from God's forge,
And, being a part of creation, I shall also be a part of the end.
He has told me that there shall come a day
When the Seventh Angel shall open his last vial of wrath in the mid-air,
And in that day I shall dance with the thunder, the lightning, and the earthquake,
And, dancing, hear His voice cry out from Heaven's temple: "It is done!"
Dead Love
by Sara Teasdale

God let me listen to your voice,
And look upon you for a space,
And then he took your voice away,
And dropped a veil before your face.
God let me look within your eyes,
And touch for once your clinging hand,
And then he left me all alone,
And took you to the Silent Land.
I cannot weep, I cannot pray,
My heart has very silent grown,
I only watch how God gives love,
And then leaves lovers all alone.
To-Morrows
by Abram Joseph Ryan

God knows all things -- but we
In darkness walk our ways;
We wonder what will be,
We ask the nights and days.
Their lips are sealed; at times
The bards, like prophets, see,
And rays rush o'er their rhymes
From suns of "days to be".
They see To-morrow's heart,
They read To-morrow's face,
They grasp -- is it by art --
The far To-morrow's trace?
They see what is unseen,
And hear what is unheard,
And To-morrow's shade or sheen
Rests on the poet's word.
As seers see a star
Beyond the brow of night,
So poets scan the far
Prophetic when they write.
They read a human face,
As readers read their page,
The while their thought will trace
A life from youth to age.
They have a mournful gift,
Their verses oft are tears;
And sleepless eyes they lift
To look adown the years.
To-morrows are to-days!
Is it not more than art?
When all life's winding ways
Meet in the poet's heart?
The present meets the past,
The future, too, is there;
The first enclasps the last
And never folds fore'er.
It is not all a dream;
A poet's thought is truth;
The things that are -- and seem
From age far back to youth --
He holds the tangled threads,
His hands unravel them;
He knows the hearts and heads
For thorns, or diadem.
Ask him, and he will see
What your To-morrows are;
He'll sing "What is to be"
Beneath each sun and star.
To-morrows! Dread unknown!
What fates may they not bring?
What is the chord? the tone?
The key in which they sing?
I see a thousand throngs,
To-morrows for them wait;
I hear a thousand songs
Intoning each one's fate.
And yours? What will it be?
Hush! song, and let me pray!
God sees it all -- I see
A long, lone, winding way;
And more! no matter what!
Crosses and crowns you wear:
My song may be forgot,
But Thou shalt not, in prayer.
Fragment of a Hymn.
by W. M. MacKeracher

God of mercy without measure!
God of all-embracing love!
Show'ring in Thy gracious pleasure
Countless blessings from above;
Bounteous benefits bestowing
In a kind, continuous course,
Favour from Thee ever flowing,
As a stream from ocean source.
Grateful praise my aspiration;
Pardon my presumptuous pen;
And accept my poor oblation,
And forgive its feeble strain;
Thou to whom such praise is given,
Too divine for mortal ears,
In the angel choirs of heaven
And the music of the spheres.
Pardon.
by Robert Herrick

God pardons those who do through frailty sin,
But never those that persevere therein.
Sin Severely Punished.
by Robert Herrick

God in His own day will be then severe
To punish great sins, who small faults whipt here.
The First Hymn.
by H. P. Nichols

God made the bright, round sun;
He made the pretty flowers;
The little birds, the trees, the clouds
The rain that falls in showers.
He made papa, mamma,
And baby brother, too;
And mother says He looks from Heaven,
And sees each thing I do.
Then I must try to be
Pleasant, and sweet, and mild;
For the good God who made me loves
A kind, obedient child.
Free Welcome.
by Robert Herrick

God He refuseth no man, but makes way
For all that now come or hereafter may.
Upon God.
by Robert Herrick

God is all fore-part; for, we never see
Any part backward in the Deity.
Psal. LXXXII.
by John Milton

God in the *1great *1assembly stands
Of Kings and lordly States,
Among the gods*2 on both his hands.
He judges and debates.
How long will ye *3pervert the right
With *4judgment false and wrong
Favouring the wicked by your might,
Who thence grow bold and strong?
*5Regard the *5weak and fatherless
*5Dispatch the *5poor mans cause,
And *6raise the man in deep distress
By *6just and equal Lawes.
Defend the poor and desolate,
And rescue from the hands
Of wicked men the low estate
Of him that help demands.
They know not nor will understand,
In darkness they walk on,
The Earths foundations all are *7mov'd
And *7out of order gon.
I said that ye were Gods, yea all
The Sons of God most high
But ye shall die like men, and fall
As other Princes die.
Rise God, *8judge thou the earth in might,
This wicked earth *redress,
For thou art he who shalt by right
The Nations all possess.
God's Power.
by Robert Herrick

God is so potent, as His power can
Draw out of bad a sovereign good to man.
Hymn To Apollo
by John Keats

1.
God of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
Of the patient year,
Where where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,
The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm too low crawling for death?
O Delphic Apollo!
2.
The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen'd the sound
Of breeding thunder
Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute
Till the thunder was mute,
Why was I not crush'd such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo!
3.
The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,
Was at his old labour,
When, who who did dare
To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo!
Youth And Age.
by Robert Herrick

God on our youth bestows but little ease;
But on our age most sweet indulgences.
The Pruner
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

God is a zealous pruner,
For He knows--
Who, falsely tender, spares the knife
But spoils the rose.
To A Republican Friend, 1848
by Matthew Arnold

God knows it, I am with you. If to prize
Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few,
But priz'd, but lov'd, but eminent in you,
Man's fundamental life: if to despise
The barren optimistic sophistries
Of comfortable moles, whom what they do
Teaches the limit of the just and true
And for such doing have no need of eyes:
If sadness at the long heart-wasting show
Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted:
If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow
The armies of the homeless and unfed:
If these are yours, if this is what you are,
Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share
God Is
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

God is;
God sees;
God loves;
God knows.
And Right is Right;
And Right is Might.
In the full ripeness of His Time,
All these His vast prepotencies
Shall round their grace-work to the prime
Of full accomplishment,
And we shall see the plan sublime
Of His beneficent intent.
Live on in hope!
Press on in faith!
Love conquers all things,
Even Death.
What God Is.
by Robert Herrick

God is above the sphere of our esteem,
And is the best known, not defining Him.
God's Measure.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

God measures souls by their capacity
For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
Who is all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits
And looks out on the palpitating world,
And feels his heart swell in him large enough
To hold all men within it, he is near
His great Creator's standard, though he dwells
Outside the pale of churches, and knows not
A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
Of Scripture even. What God wants of us
Is that outreaching bigness that ignores
All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,
And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.
God's Gifts Not Soon Granted.
by Robert Herrick

God hears us when we pray, but yet defers
His gifts, to exercise petitioners;
And though a while He makes requesters stay,
With princely hand He'll recompense delay.
God, And Lord.
by Robert Herrick

God is His name of nature; but that word
Implies His power when He's called the Lord.
Playmates.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

God permits industrious angels
Afternoons to play.
I met one, -- forgot my school-mates,
All, for him, straightway.
God calls home the angels promptly
At the setting sun;
I missed mine. How dreary marbles,
After playing Crown!
Loading And Unloading.
by Robert Herrick

God loads and unloads, thus His work begins,
To load with blessings and unload from sins.
God's Measure
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

God measures souls by their capacity
For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
Who loveth most is nearest kin to God,
Who is all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits
And looks out on the palpitating world,
And feels his heart swell in him large enough
To hold all men within it, he is near
His great Creator's standard, though he dwells
Outside the pale of churches, and knows not
A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line
Of Scripture even.    What God wants of us
Is that outreaching bigness that ignores
All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds,
And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.
God's Descent.
by Robert Herrick

God is then said for to descend, when He
Doth here on earth some thing of novity;
As when in human nature He works more
Than ever yet the like was done before.
God's Presence.
by Robert Herrick

God is all-present to whate'er we do,
And as all-present, so all-filling too.
Fringed Gentian.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows
There came a purple creature
That ravished all the hill;
And summer hid her forehead,
And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition;
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North evoked it.
"Creator! shall I bloom?"
Mercy And Love.
by Robert Herrick

God hath two wings which He doth ever move;
The one is mercy, and the next is love:
Under the first the sinners ever trust;
And with the last He still directs the just.
Upon God.
by Robert Herrick

God is not only said to be
An Ens, but Supraentity.
Poor Kings
by William Henry Davies

God's pity on poor kings,
They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
Cries come from East and West, 
"Come, open this new Dock,
Building, Bazaar or Fair."
Lord, what a wretched life
Such men must bear.
They're followed, watched and spied,
No liberty they know;
Some eye will watch them still,
No matter where they go.
When in green lanes I muse,
Alone, and hear birds sing,
God's pity then, say I,
On some poor king.
Hardening Of Hearts.
by Robert Herrick

God's said our hearts to harden then,
Whenas His grace not supples men.
Confusion Of Face.
by Robert Herrick

God then confounds man's face when He not bears
The vows of those who are petitioners.
Lagrimas.
by John Milton Hay

God send me tears!
Loose the fierce band that binds my tired brain,
Give me the melting heart of other years,
And let me weep again!
Before me pass
The shapes of things inexorably true.
Gone is the sparkle of transforming dew
From every blade of grass.
In life's high noon
Aimless I stand, my promised task undone,
And raise my hot eyes to the angry sun
That will go down too soon.
Turned into gall
Are the sweet joys of childhood's sunny reign;
And memory is a torture, love a chain
That binds my life in thrall.
And childhood's pain
Could to me now the purest rapture yield;
I pray for tears as in his parching field
The husbandman for rain.
We pray in vain!
The sullen sky flings down its blaze of brass;
The joys of life all scorched and withering pass;
I shall not weep again.
Religion. I-34 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

God's mean and careless servant - while I wander
Deep in the madness of Philosophy, - 
Now backward I must set my sail, and ponder
Where my forsaken course retraced shall be.
For Jupiter, who with his glittering fire
So often cleaves apart the threatening clouds,
His wing'd car and thundering horses higher
Toward air has driven where no shadow shrouds.
Whereat the sluggish earth, each vagrant river, - 
The Styx, and hated T'narus' dread abode,
And the Atlantic borders shake and shiver.
Ah - to reverse high things and low, our God
Is able, and the mighty he can lower,
The obscure can raise. From this man Fortune steals
The crown to give to that one; - in her power,
Showing with hissing wings the joy she feels.
God's Presence.
by Robert Herrick

God's evident, and may be said to be
Present with just men, to the verity;
But with the wicked if He doth comply,
'Tis, as St. Bernard saith, but seemingly.
The Singers
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

God sent his Singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.
The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.
A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.
And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart,
But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave a various gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.
"These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony."
God's Anger Without Affection.
by Robert Herrick

God when He's angry here with anyone,
His wrath is free from perturbation;
And when we think His looks are sour and grim,
The alteration is in us, not Him.
L'envoi
by John Charles McNeill

God willed, who never needed speech,
"Let all things be:"
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea
And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Rememberings
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
Where life fell short of some desire
In you and me,
Feeling for beauty which our eyes
Could never see,
Behold, from out the void we willed
That it should be,
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Of humanhood
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.
Russia To The Pacifists
by Rudyard Kipling

God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,
But leave your sports a little while the dead are borne this way!
Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.
God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there?
Singing: Break ground for a wearied host
That have no ground to keep.
Give them the rest that they covet most . . .
And who shall next to sleep, good sirs,
In such a trench to sleep?
God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pass.
We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.
For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride
Three hundred years it flourished in three hundred days it died.
Singing: Pour oil for a frozen throng,
That lie about the ways.
Give them the warmth they have lacked so long...
And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,
On such a pyre to blaze?
God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!
Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,
Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,
And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.
Singing: Break bread for a starving folk
That perish in the field.
Give them their food as they take the yoke . . .
And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,
For such a bribe to yield?
God rest you merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!
Was ever Kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood and earth?
'Twixt the summer and the snow-seeding-time and frost 
Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!
Singing: Let down by the foot and the head 
Shovel and smooth it all !
So do we bury a Nation dead...
And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,
With your good help to fall?
God's Mercy.
by Robert Herrick

God's boundless mercy is, to sinful man,
Like to the ever-wealthy ocean:
Which though it sends forth thousand streams, 'tis ne'er
Known, or else seen, to be the emptier;
And though it takes all in, 'tis yet no more
Full, and fill'd full, than when full fill'd before.
Prescience.
by Robert Herrick

God's prescience makes none sinful; but th' offence
Of man's the chief cause of God's prescience.
At the Wedding March
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

God with honour hang your head,
Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed
With lissome scions, sweet scions,
Out of hallowed bodies bred.
Each be other's comfort kind:
D'ep, d'eper than divined,
Divine charity, dear charity,
Fast you ever, fast bind.
Then let the March tread our ears:
I to him turn with tears
Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock,
D'als tr'umph and immortal years.