DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Within The Gate
by John Greenleaf Whittier

L. M. C.
We sat together, last May-day, and talked
Of the dear friends who walked
Beside us, sharers of the hopes and fears
Of five and forty years,
Since first we met in Freedom's hope forlorn,
And heard her battle-horn
Sound through the valleys of the sleeping North,
Calling her children forth,
And youth pressed forward with hope-lighted eyes,
And age, with forecast wise
Of the long strife before the triumph won,
Girded his armor on.
Sadly, ass name by name we called the roll,
We heard the dead-bells toll
For the unanswering many, and we knew
The living were the few.
And we, who waited our own call before
The inevitable door,
Listened and looked, as all have done, to win
Some token from within.
No sign we saw, we heard no voices call;
The impenetrable wall
Cast down its shadow, like an awful doubt,
On all who sat without.
Of many a hint of life beyond the veil,
And many a ghostly tale
Wherewith the ages spanned the gulf between
The seen and the unseen,
Seeking from omen, trance, and dream to gain
Solace to doubtful pain,
And touch, with groping hands, the garment hem
Of truth sufficing them,
We talked; and, turning from the sore unrest
Of an all-baffling quest,
We thought of holy lives that from us passed
Hopeful unto the last,
As if they saw beyond the river of death,
Like Him of Nazareth,
The many mansions of the Eternal days
Lift up their gates of praise.
And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe,
Methought, O friend, I saw
In thy true life of word, and work, and thought
The proof of all we sought.
Did we not witness in the life of thee
Immortal prophecy?
And feel, when with thee, that thy footsteps trod
An everlasting road?
Not for brief days thy generous sympathies,
Thy scorn of selfish ease;
Not for the poor prize of an earthly goal
Thy strong uplift of soul.
Than thine was never turned a fonder heart
To nature and to art
In fair-formed Hellas in her golden prime,
Thy Philothea's time.
Yet, loving beauty, thou couldst pass it by,
And for the poor deny
Thyself, and see thy fresh, sweet flower of fame
Wither in blight and blame.
Sharing His love who holds in His embrace
The lowliest of our race,
Sure the Divine economy must be
Conservative of thee!
For truth must live with truth, self-sacrifice
Seek out its great allies;
Good must find good by gravitation sure,
And love with love endure.
And so, since thou hast passed within the gate
Whereby awhile I wait,
I give blind grief and blinder sense the lie
Thou hast not lived to die!
Lines Sent To Alexander Mclaughlan, Amaranth Station, With A Copy Of My Poems
by James McIntyre

We send to you these rugged rhymes
In memory of the olden times,
Great chief of our poetic clan,
Admired by all, McLaughlan.
The Rejected Member's Wife
by Thomas Hardy

We shall see her no more
On the balcony,
Smiling, while hurt, at the roar
As of surging sea
From the stormy sturdy band
Who have doomed her lord's cause,
Though she waves her little hand
As it were applause.
Here will be candidates yet,
And candidates' wives,
Fervid with zeal to set
Their ideals on our lives:
Here will come market-men
On the market-days,
Here will clash now and then
More such party assays.
And the balcony will fill
When such times are renewed,
And the throng in the street will thrill
With to-day's mettled mood;
But she will no more stand
In the sunshine there,
With that wave of her white-gloved hand,
And that chestnut hair.
January 1906.
Edith Conant
by Edgar Lee Masters

We stand about this place - we, the memories;
And shade our eyes because we dread to read:
"June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days."
And all things are changed.
And we - we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone,
For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here.
Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away,
Your father is bent with age;
He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house
Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face,
Your lyric voice!
How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken,
With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow,
Before the advent of the child which died with you.
It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories,
Who are forgotten by the world.
All is changed, save the river and the hill - 
Even they are changed.
Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same.
And we - we, the memories, stand here in awe,
Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears - 
In immeasurable weariness
Villanelle
by Victor James Daley

We said farewell, my youth and I,
When all fair dreams were gone or going,
And Love's red lips were cold and dry.
When white blooms fell from tree-tops high,
Our Austral winter's way of snowing,
We said farewell, my youth and I.
We did not sigh, what use to sigh
When Death passed as a mower mowing,
And Love's red lips were cold and dry?
But hearing Life's stream thunder by,
That sang of old through flowers flowing,
We said farewell, my youth and I.
There was no hope in the blue sky,
No music in the low winds blowing,
And Love's red lips were cold and dry.
My hair is black as yet, then why
So sad! I know not, only knowing
We said farewell, my youth and I.
All are not buried when they die;
Dead souls there are through live eyes showing
When Love's red lips are cold and dry.
So, seeing where the dead men lie,
Out of their hearts the grave-flowers growing,
We said farewell, my youth and I,
When Love's red lips were cold and dry.
Off Rough Point.
by Emma Lazarus

We sat at twilight nigh the sea,
The fog hung gray and weird.
Through the thick film uncannily
The broken moon appeared.
We heard the billows crack and plunge,
We saw nor waves nor ships.
Earth sucked the vapors like a sponge,
The salt spray wet our lips.
Closer the woof of white mist drew,
Before, behind, beside.
How could that phantom moon break through,
Above that shrouded tide?
The roaring waters filled the ear,
A white blank foiled the sight.
Close-gathering shadows near, more near,
Brought the blind, awful night.
O friends who passed unseen, unknown!
O dashing, troubled sea!
Still stand we on a rock alone,
Walled round by mystery.
We Sat At The Window
by Thomas Hardy

(Bournemouth, 1875)
We sat at the window looking out,
And the rain came down like silken strings
That Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout
Babbled unchecked in the busy way
Of witless things:
Nothing to read, nothing to see
Seemed in that room for her and me
On Swithin's day.
We were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes,
For I did not know, nor did she infer
How much there was to read and guess
By her in me, and to see and crown
By me in her.
Wasted were two souls in their prime,
And great was the waste, that July time
When the rain came down.
Th' Demon o' Debt.
by John Hartley

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil,
An pity his sorrowful case;
But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil,
An noa mooar have that trubble to face.
But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger,
Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set,
An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger,
Be careful to keep aght o' debt.
For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity,
An when once yor fast in his grip,
Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty,
But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip.
He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst,
An then deeper an deeper yo get,
Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst,
An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.
Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care,
Yo wearily wear neet away;
An yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair,
An yo tremmel at th' commin o' day.
Yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street,
An yo shun friends yo once gladly met,
The burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't; - 
That soul-crushin burden o' debt.
Tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble,
An let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan;
Tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double,
An yo'll hold up yor heead like a man,
Better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee,
Till yo're able a new suit to get,
Nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be,
To be dog'd wi' that Demon o' Debt.
When Life Is Real
by Edgar Lee Masters

We rode, we rode against the wind.
The countless lights along the town
Made the town blacker for their fire,
And you were always looking down.
To 'scape the blustering breath of March,
Or was it for your mind's disguise?
Still I could shut my eyes and see
The turquoise color of your eyes.
Surely your ermine furs were warm,
And warm your flowing cloak of red;
Was it the wild wind kept you thus
Pensive and with averted head?
I scarcely spoke, my words were swept
Like winged things in the wind's despite.
We rode, and with what shadow speed
Across the darkness of the night!
Without a word, without a look.
What was the charm and what the spell
That made one hour of life become
A memory ever memorable?
*        *        *        *        *
All craft, all labor, all desire,
All toil of age, all hope of youth
Are shadows from the fount of fire
And mummers of the truth.
How bloodless books, how pulseless art,
Vain kingly and imperial zeal,
Vain all memorials of the heart!
When Life itself is real!
We traced the golden clouds of spring,
We roved the beach, we walked the land.
What was the world? A Phantom thing
That vanished in your hand.
You were as quiet as the sky.
Your eyes were liquid as the sea.
And in that hour that passed us by
We lived eternally.
The Harvard Regiment
by Helen Leah Reed

We saw the Regiment, alert and strong,
In marching line, on Soldiers' Field today,
Ah! ready they to battle with the wrong; - 
This flower of youth - eager and brave and gay.
And we, on-looking, cheered them as they passed,
And we, down-heartened, prayed a silent prayer,
Gazing upon them with a grim forecast,
And many a sad-eyed mother watched them there.
Proudly they turned, and at attention stood,
Or shouldered arms while war-like music thrilled.
"Alas!" we listened in unhappy mood!
"Why should these boys in martial ways be skilled?"
No comfort for our grieving was revealed,
Until we looked across the valiant line
To the old College, far beyond this Field
That honors men who fell at Freedom's shrine.
"Oh, ancient College, that so long hast bred
Son after son to heed his Country's call.
The answer to our questionings is read - 
In yonder Tower of your Memorial Hall."
The Old Gray Fox
by Arthur Conan Doyle

We started from the Valley Pride,
And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
Which lives on Hankley Down.
So here's to the master,
And here's to the man!
And here's to twenty couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here's a find without a wait!
Here's a hedge without a gate!
Here's the man who follows straight,
Where the old fox ran.
The Member rode his thoroughbred,
Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
Across the Hankley Down.
So here's to the master,
And here's to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Doctor's gray was going strong
Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
'Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
So here's to the master,
And here's to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Parson sadly fell away,
And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor he was seen no more
Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
Through all the winter day.
So here's to the master,
And here's to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
And when we found him gone to ground,
They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said 'Shame! The beast was game!
A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
His life is fairly won.
But may we meet the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
Before the year is done.
So here's to the master,
And here's to the man!
And here's to twenty couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here's a find without await!
Here's a hedge without a gate!
Here's the man who follows straight,
Where the old fox ran.
Hope.
by Friedrich Schiller

We speak with the lip, and we dream in the soul,
Of some better and fairer day;
And our days, the meanwhile, to that golden goal
Are gliding and sliding away.
Now the world becomes old, now again it is young,
But "The better" 's forever the word on the tongue.
At the threshold of life hope leads us in 
Hope plays round the mirthful boy;
Though the best of its charms may with youth begin,
Yet for age it reserves its toy.
How We Found Our Verdict
by James Williams

We sat in the jury-box, twelve were we all,
And the clock was just pointing to ten in the hall,
His Lordship he bowed to the jury, and we
Bowed back to his Lordship as gravely as he.
The case of De Weller v. Jones was the first,
And we all settled down and prepared for the worst
When old Smithers, Q.C., began slowly to preach
Of a promise of marriage and action for breach.
A barmaid the plaintiff was, wondrous the skill
Wherewith she was wont her tall tankards to fill,
The defendant, a publican, sought for his bride
Such a paragon, urged by professional pride.
But the course of true love ran no smoother for her
Than the Pas de Calais or the bark of a fir,
The defendant discovered a widow with gold
In the bank and the plaintiff was left in the cold.
An hour Smithers spoke, and he said that the heart
Of the plaintiff at Jones's fell touch flew apart,
But a cheque for a thousand might help to repair
The destruction effected by love and despair.
Miss de Weller was called, and in ladylike tones
She described all the injury suffered from Jones,
How he called her at first "Angelina," and this
Soon cooled to "Miss Weller," and lastly to "Miss."
But the jury were shaken a little when Gore
Cross-examined about her engagements before,
For Jones was the sixth of the strings to her bow
And with five other verdicts she solaced her woe.
Re-examined by Smithers, she won us again,
For the tears of a maid are a terror to men,
Then his Lordship awoke from his nap and explained
How love that is frequent is love that is feigned.
Miss de Weller looked daggers, and under the paint
Of her cheeks she grew pale and fell down in a faint,
She played her trump-card in the late afternoon,
For damages satisfy girls who can swoon.
Till she fainted most thought that a farthing would do,
Though I was in favour of pounds--one or two;
But after the faint--and she was so well dressed--
At a hundred the void in her heart was assessed.
Thora's Song - ('Ashtaroth')
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

We severed in autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the barley
Are ripe for the harvest now.
We sunder'd one misty morning,
Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain,
Through the flowers those hills adorning,
Thou comest not back again.
My heart is heavy and weary
With the weight of a weary soul;
The mid-day glare grows dreary,
And dreary the midnight scroll.
The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,
'Neath the load of the golden grain;
I sigh for a mate more fickle,
Thou comest not back again.
The warm sun riseth and setteth,
The night bringeth moist'ning dew,
But the soul that longeth forgetteth
The warmth and the moisture, too;
In the hot sun rising and setting
There is naught save feverish pain;
There are tears in the night-dews wetting,
Thou comest not back again.
Thy voice in mine ear still mingles
With the voices of whisp'ring trees;
Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles
At each kiss of the summer breeze;
While dreams of the past are thronging
For substance of shades in vain,
I am waiting, watching, and longing,
Thou comest not back again.
Waiting and watching ever,
Longing and lingering yet,
Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,
Winds murmur and waters fret;
No answer they bring, no greeting,
No speech save that sad refrain,
Nor voice, save an echo repeating,
He cometh not back again.
Evening Hymn In The Hovels.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

"We sow the fertile seed and then we reap it;
We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread.
Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it,
While we hunger outside with hearts like lead.
Hallelujah!
"We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city.
Others inhabit there in pleasant ease.
We have no thing to ask of them save pity,
No answer they to give but what they please.
Hallelujah!
"Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers,
That we must toil and never know the light?
Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers,
That they must grind us dead here in the night?
Hallelujah!
"O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also
Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?
O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also
The happiness that we have given partake?
Hallelujah!"
Reminiscence
by John Charles McNeill

We sang old love-songs on the way
In sad and merry snatches,
Your fingers o'er the strings astray
Strumming the random catches.
And ever, as the skiff plied on
Among the trailing willows,
Trekking the darker deeps to shun
The gleaming sandy shallows,
It seemed that we had, ages gone,
In some far summer weather,
When this same faery moonlight shone,
Sung these same songs together.
And every grassy cape we passed,
And every reedy island,
Even the bank'd cloud in the west
That loomed a sombre highland;
And you, with dewmist on your hair,
Crowned with a wreath of lilies,
Laughing like Lalage the fair
And tender-eyed like Phyllis:
I know not if 't were here at home,
By some old wizard's orders,
Or long ago in Crete or Rome
Or fair Provencal borders,
But now, as when a faint flame breaks
From out its smouldering embers,
My heart stirs in its sleep, and wakes,
And yet but half-remembers
That you and I some other time
Moved through this dream of glory,
Like lovers in an ancient rhyme,
A long-forgotten story.
A Voice Of The Loyal North
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

JANUARY THIRD
We sing "Our Country's" song to-night
With saddened voice and eye;
Her banner droops in clouded light
Beneath the wintry sky.
We'll pledge her once in golden wine
Before her stars have set
Though dim one reddening orb may shine,
We have a Country yet.
'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past,
The fault of sires or sons;
Our soldier heard the threatening blast,
And spiked his useless guns;
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall,
By mad invaders torn;
But saw it from the bastioned wall
That laughed their rage to scorn!
What though their angry cry is flung
Across the howling wave, - 
They smite the air with idle tongue
The gathering storm who brave;
Enough of speech! the trumpet rings;
Be silent, patient, calm, - 
God help them if the tempest swings
The pine against the palm!
Our toilsome years have made us tame;
Our strength has slept unfelt;
The furnace-fire is slow to flame
That bids our ploughshares melt;
'T is hard to lose the bread they win
In spite of Nature's frowns, - 
To drop the iron threads we spin
That weave our web of towns,
To see the rusting turbines stand
Before the emptied flumes,
To fold the arms that flood the land
With rivers from their looms, - 
But harder still for those who learn
The truth forgot so long;
When once their slumbering passions burn,
The peaceful are the strong!
The Lord have mercy on the weak,
And calm their frenzied ire,
And save our brothers ere they shriek,
"We played with Northern fire!"
The eagle hold his mountain height, - 
The tiger pace his den
Give all their country, each his right!
God keep us all! Amen!
Human Life's Mystery
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,
We build the house where we may rest,
And then, at moments, suddenly,
We look up to the great wide sky,
Inquiring wherefore we were born'
For earnest or for jest?
The senses folding thick and dark
About the stifled soul within,
We guess diviner things beyond,
And yearn to them with yearning fond;
We strike out blindly to a mark
Believed in, but not seen.
We vibrate to the pant and thrill
Wherewith Eternity has curled
In serpent-twine about God's seat;
While, freshening upward to His feet,
In gradual growth His full-leaved will
Expands from world to world.
And, in the tumult and excess
Of act and passion under sun,
We sometimes hear, oh, soft and far,
As silver star did touch with star,
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness
Through all things that are done.
God keeps His holy mysteries
Just on the outside of man's dream;
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath His eyes,
Like swans adown a stream.
Abstractions, are they, from the forms
Of His great beauty? exaltations
From His great glory? strong previsions
Of what we shall be? intuitions
Of what we are, in calms and storms,
Beyond our peace and passions?
Things nameless! which, in passing so,
Do stroke us with a subtle grace.
We say, 'Who passes?' they are dumb.
We cannot see them go or come:
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow
Upon a blind man's face.
Yet, touching so, they draw above
Our common thoughts to Heaven's unknown,
Our daily joy and pain advance
To a divine significance,
Our human love, O mortal love,
That light is not its own!
And sometimes horror chills our blood
To be so near such mystic Things,
And we wrap round us for defence
Our purple manners, moods of sense,
As angels from the face of God
Stand hidden in their wings.
And sometimes through life's heavy swound
We grope for them! with strangled breath
We stretch our hands abroad and try
To reach them in our agony,
And widen, so, the broad life-wound
Which soon is large enough for death.
Outside The Casement
by Thomas Hardy

A Reminiscence Of The War
We sat in the room
And praised her whom
We saw in the portico-shade outside:
She could not hear
What was said of her,
But smiled, for its purport we did not hide.
Then in was brought
That message, fraught
With evil fortune for her out there,
Whom we loved that day
More than any could say,
And would fain have fenced from a waft of care.
And the question pressed
Like lead on each breast,
Should we cloak the tidings, or call her and tell?
It was too intense
A choice for our sense,
As we pondered and watched her we loved so well.
Yea, spirit failed us
At what assailed us;
How long, while seeing what soon must come,
Should we counterfeit
No knowledge of it,
And stay the stroke that would blanch and numb?
And thus, before
For evermore
Joy left her, we practised to beguile
Her innocence when
She now and again
Looked in, and smiled us another smile.