DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Christ-Child
by Thomas O'Hagan

Across the waste, across the snow,
O the pity!    O the pity!
Past sentinel of friend and foe
O the pity!    O the pity!
Comes the Christ-Child clad in white
Through the storm-clouds of the night.
Bearing in His lily hands
Gift of peace to warring lands,
O the pity!    O the pity!
"Adeste fideles!" sing the choirs
O the pity!    O the pity!
Lurid flame the battle fires
O the pity!    O the pity!
Shepherds hear the heavenly song,
Mid the strife and piteous wrong;
Peace on earth but not of men,
Peace that knows not crime nor sin.
O the pity!    O the pity!
Lay your sceptres at His feet,
O the pity!    O the pity!
Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet,
O the pity!    O the pity!
Legions stretched in battle line,
Saw the star and knew the sign,
Yet forgot that Christ was born
Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn,
O the pity!    O the pity!
Christmas, 1914.
For Mrs. George McIntyre.
T.Y.S.O.N.
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go;
They travel down in sun and shine
On dusty stage, and slow.
The drovers, riding slowly on
To let the cattle spread,
Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone,
For old man Tyson's dead."
What tales there'll be in every camp
By men that Tyson knew!
The swagmen, meeting on the tramp,
Will yarn the long day through,
And tell of how he passed as "Brown",
And fooled the local men:
"But not for me, I struck the town,
And passed the message further down;
That's T.Y.S.O.N.!"
There stands a little country town
Beyond the border line,
Where dusty roads go up and down,
And banks with pubs combine.
A stranger came to cash a cheque,
Few were the words he said,
A handkerchief about his neck,
An old hat on his head.
A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed,
"Know me? Of course you do?"
"It's not my work," the boss replied,
"To know such tramps as you."
"Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,"
Replied the stranger then,
"I never care to make a splash,
I'm simple, but I've got the cash;
I'm T.Y.S.O.N."
But in that last great drafting-yard,
Where Peter keeps the gate,
And souls of sinners find it barred,
And go to meet their fate,
There's one who ought to enter in
For good deeds done on earth,
One who from Peter's self must win
That meed of sterling worth.
Not to the strait and narrow gate
Reserved for wealthy men,
But to the big gate, opened wide,
The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed,
Will saunter up, and then
Old Peter'll say: "Let's pass him through;
There's many a thing he used to do,
Good-hearted things that no one knew;
That's T.Y.S.O.N."
Ballad Of The Drover
by Henry Lawson

Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him,
And light of heart is he,
And stoutly his old pack-horse
Is trotting by his knee.
Up Queensland way with cattle
He travelled regions vast;
And many months have vanished
Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone
He hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware
Keep jingling to the tune.
Beyond the hazy dado
Against the lower skies
And yon blue line of ranges
The homestead station lies.
And thitherward the drover
Jogs through the lazy noon,
While hobble-chains and camp-ware
Are jingling to a tune.
An hour has filled the heavens
With storm-clouds inky black;
At times the lightning trickles
Around the drover's track;
But Harry pushes onward,
His horses' strength he tries,
In hope to reach the river
Before the flood shall rise.
The thunder from above him
Goes rolling o'er the plain;
And down on thirsty pastures
In torrents falls the rain.
And every creek and gully
Sends forth its little flood,
Till the river runs a banker,
All stained with yellow mud.
Now Harry speaks to Rover,
The best dog on the plains,
And to his hardy horses,
And strokes their shaggy manes;
`We've breasted bigger rivers
When floods were at their height
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home to-night!'
The thunder growls a warning,
The ghastly lightnings gleam,
As the drover turns his horses
To swim the fatal stream.
But, oh! the flood runs stronger
Than e'er it ran before;
The saddle-horse is failing,
And only half-way o'er!
When flashes next the lightning,
The flood's grey breast is blank,
And a cattle dog and pack-horse
Are struggling up the bank.
But in the lonely homestead
The girl will wait in vain,
He'll never pass the stations
In charge of stock again.
The faithful dog a moment
Sits panting on the bank,
And then swims through the current
To where his master sank.
And round and round in circles
He fights with failing strength,
Till, borne down by the waters,
The old dog sinks at length.
Across the flooded lowlands
And slopes of sodden loam
The pack-horse struggles onward,
To take dumb tidings home.
And mud-stained, wet, and weary,
Through ranges dark goes he;
While hobble-chains and tinware
Are sounding eerily.
The floods are in the ocean,
The stream is clear again,
And now a verdant carpet
Is stretched across the plain.
But someone's eyes are saddened,
And someone's heart still bleeds
In sorrow for the drover
Who sleeps among the reeds.
The Thrush
by Fay Inchfawn

Across the land came a magic word
When the earth was bare and lonely,
And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
For 'twas I who heard, I only!
Then dreams came by, of the gladsome days,
Of many a wayside posy;
For a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps,
And the willow wands are rosy!
Oh! the time to be! When the paths are green,
When the primrose-gold is lying
'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway,
And the dear south wind comes sighing.
My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
So snug and warm and cosy,
When the kingcups gleam on the meadow stream,
Where the willow wands are rosy!
The Patchwork Bonnet
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Across the room my silent love I throw,
Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,
Your young stern profile and industrious fingers
Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show,
To Dinda's grave delight.
The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread
Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam:
The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,
O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,
Fulfilment of their dream.
Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten,
With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find,
Now wake to this most happy resurrection,
To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cotton
And staring at the blind.
Dinda in sing-song stretching out one hand
Calls for the playthings; mother does not hear:
Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean,
And all the world must wait till she touches land;
So Dinda cries in fear,
Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy,
And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind,
Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings;
And now the shadows make an Umbrian Mary
Adoring, on the blind.
Adown Winding Nith.
by Robert Burns

I.
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare:
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.
II.
The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is simplicity's child.
III.
The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
IV.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye.
V.
Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
VI.
But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare:
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.
To My Valentine.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Adieu! Adieu! may angels guard thee,
Hovering near thee night and day,
For all thy good deeds God reward thee,
The rest forgive and blot away.
May no gift nor grace be missing,
May He all on thee confer,
And add a heartfelt prayer and blessing
From the distant wanderer.
O'er the trackless, foaming ocean,
In weal or woe, ever shall be
Mingled in my heart's devotion
Many a prayer for thine and thee.
What tho' across thy memory never
Shall flit my once familiar name,
Hallowed by distance, thine for ever,
Memory shall conjure up again.
All thy follies ever hidden,
All thy virtues raised above,
Thy name, so long, so much forbidden,
Strangers shall learn from me to love.
Adieu! and may we meet in heaven,
Through Him, the Lord, who guides our ways;
And he to whom much was forgiven,
Shall swell the highest notes of praise.
The Farewell Of Clarimonde.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

(Suggested by the "Clarimonde" OF Th'ophile Gautier.)
Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.
Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,
Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,
And starve for those lost moments of delight.
Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties,
Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond:
Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties - -
The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.
Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chalice
Shall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss,
When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace,
And life flowed on in one eternal kiss.
Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee,
From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod!
I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach thee
A love more mighty than thy love of God.
Think not in all His Kingdom to discover
Such joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fond
I clasped thee - kissed thee - crowned thee my one lover:
Thou canst not find another Clarimonde.
I knew all arts of love: he who possessed me
Possessed all women, and could never tire;
A new life dawned for him who once caressed me;
Satiety itself I set on fire.
Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me;
Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast:
And all the passionate tide of love within me
I gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest?
Yet, for the love of God, thy hand hath riven
Our welded souls. But not in prayer well conned,
Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven,
Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde.
Horatian Ode On The Tercentenary Of "Don Quixote"
by Henry Austin Dobson

(Published at Madrid, by Francisco de Robles, January 1605)
"Para mi sola nacio don Quixote, y yo para el."--CERVANTES.
Advents we greet of great and small;
Much we extol that may not live;
Yet to the new-born Type we give
No care at all!
This year,[1]--three centuries past,--by age
More maimed than by LEPANTO'S fight,--
This year CERVANTES gave to light
His matchless page,
Whence first outrode th' immortal Pair,--
The half-crazed Hero and his hind,--
To make sad laughter for mankind;
And whence they fare
Throughout all Fiction still, where chance
Allies Life's dulness with its dreams--
Allies what is, with what but seems,--
Fact and Romance:--
O Knight of fire and Squire of earth!--
O changing give-and-take between
The aim too high, the aim too mean,
I hail your birth,--
Three centuries past,--in sunburned SPAIN,
And hang, on Time's PANTHEON wall,
My votive tablet to recall
That lasting gain!
A Memory
by Barcroft Boake

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed,
The evening cowslips ope'd
Their yellow eyes to look at her,
The love-sick lilies moped
With envy that she rather chose
To take a creamy-petalled rose
And lean it 'gainst her ebon hair,
All in that garden fair.
A languid breeze, with stolen scent
Of box-bloom in his grasp,
Sighed out his longing in her ear,
And with his dying gasp
Scattered the perfume at her feet
To blend with others not less sweet;
He loved her, but she did not care,
All in that garden fair.
The rose she honoured nodded down,
His comrades burst with spite:
Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed
To barely last the night;
Are hearts to her but as that flower,
The plaything of a careless hour,
To lacerate and never spare
All in that garden fair.
I held her hand that I might trace
Her fortune in its palm;
A bolder moonbeam than the rest
Crept up and kissed her arm,
And, kissing once, was loth to leave,
So hid himself within the sleeve
That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,
All in that garden fair.
I traced her fortune: love and wealth,
Tho' life, alas! was short,
But will that wealth be bought with love?
Or love with wealth be bought?
I know not, knowing only this
Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss,
I longed to, but I did not dare
All in that garden fair.
But she, alas! is not for me,
And I am not for her;
Yet ever deep within my thoughts
A faint regret must stir
A thrill of longing that among
Those moonlit paths with lover's tongue
I might return, and woo her there
All in that garden fair.
Adieu!
by John Clare

"Adieu, my love, adieu!
Be constant and be true
As the daisies gemmed with dew,
Bonny maid."
The cows their thirst were slaking,
Trees the playful winds were shaking;
Sweet songs the birds were making
In the shade.
The moss upon the tree
Was as green as green could be,
The clover on the lea
Ruddy glowed;
Leaves were silver with the dew,
Where the tall sowthistles grew,
And I bade the maid adieu
On the road.
Then I took myself to sea,
While the little chiming bee
Sung his ballad on the lea,
Humming sweet;
And the red-winged butterfly
Was sailing through the sky,
Skimming up and bouncing by
Near my feet.
I left the little birds,
And sweet lowing of the herds,
And couldn't find out words,
Do you see,
To say to them good bye,
Where the yellow cups do lie;
So heaving a deep sigh,
Took to sea.
Adrift! A Little Boat Adrift!
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?
So sailors say, on yesterday,
Just as the dusk was brown,
One little boat gave up its strife,
And gurgled down and down.
But angels say, on yesterday,
Just as the dawn was red,
One little boat o'erspent with gales
Retrimmed its masts, redecked its sails
Exultant, onward sped!
Italy
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Across the sea I heard the groans
Of nations in the intervals
Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones
Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones,
And sucked by priestly cannibals.
I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained
By martyr meekness, patience, faith,
And lo! an athlete grimly stained,
With corded muscles battle-strained,
Shouting it from the fields of death!
I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight,
Among the clamoring thousands mute,
I only know that God is right,
And that the children of the light
Shall tread the darkness under foot.
I know the pent fire heaves its crust,
That sultry skies the bolt will form
To smite them clear; that Nature must
The balance of her powers adjust,
Though with the earthquake and the storm.
God reigns, and let the earth rejoice!
I bow before His sterner plan.
Dumb are the organs of my choice;
He speaks in battle's stormy voice,
His praise is in the wrath of man!
Yet, surely as He lives, the day
Of peace He promised shall be ours,
To fold the flags of war, and lay
Its sword and spear to rust away,
And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!
Advance - Come Forth From Thy Tyrolean Ground
by William Wordsworth

Advance, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime! On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.
Adversity.
by Robert Herrick

Adversity hurts none, but only such
Whom whitest fortune dandled has too much.
Adam
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text of this half-carol, half-ballad is taken from the Sloane MS. 2593, whence we get Saint Stephen and King Herod and other charming pieces like the well-known carol, 'I syng of a mayden.' It is written in eight long lines in the MS.
The Story.--Wright, who printed the above MS. for the Warton Club in 1856, remarks that Adam was supposed to have remained bound in the limbus patrum from the time of his death until the Crucifixion. In the romance of Owain Miles (Cotton MS. Calig. A. ii.) the bishops told Owain that Adam was 'yn helle with Lucyfere' for four thousand six hundred and four years. On account of this tradition incorporated in the carol, I have ventured to include it as a ballad, although it does not find a place in Professor Child's collection.
ADAM
1.
Adam lay i-bowndyn,
bowndyn in a bond,
Fowre thowsand wynter
thowt he not to long;
2.
And al was for an appil,
an appil that he tok,
As clerkes fyndyn wretyn
in here book.
3.
Ne hadde the appil take ben,
the appil taken ben,
Ne hadde never our lady
a ben hevene qwen.
4.
Blyssid be the tyme
that appil take was!
Therfore we mown syngyn
Deo gracias.
Lines Addressed To A Young Lady In Germany, Who, Until Her Sister, Honoured The Author By Walking With Him In The Evening.
by John Carr (Sir)

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part,
Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart,
Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense;
Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence.
Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone,
And on our steps the moon-beam only shone,
Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace,
And all the sweet expression of thy face;
And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell,
Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well
Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour,
The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r!
So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close,
The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose!
The Harp
by Virna Sheard

Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky
The harp of all the world is hung on high,
And through its shining strings the swallows fly.
The little silver fingers of the rain
Oft touch it softly to a low refrain,
That all day long comes o'er and o'er again.
And when the storms of God above it roll,
The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul
To songs of wild delight or bitter dole.
And through the quiet night, as faint and far
As melody down-drifted from a star,
Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are.
But only flying words of joy and woe,
Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below,
Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow.
And in the cities that men call their own,
And in the unnamed places, waste and lone,
This harp forever sounds Life's undertone.
All Things Run Well For The Righteous.
by Robert Herrick

Adverse and prosperous fortunes both work on
Here, for the righteous man's salvation;
Be he oppos'd, or be he not withstood,
All serve to th' augmentation of his good.
What went ye out for to see?
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Across the sea, along the shore,
In numbers more and ever more,
From lonely hut and busy town,
The valley through, the mountain down,
What was it ye went out to see,
Ye silly folk of Galilee?
The reed that in the wind doth shake?
The weed that washes in the lake?
The reeds that waver, the weeds that float?
A young man preaching in a boat.
What was it ye went out to hear
By sea and land, from far and near?
A teacher? Rather seek the feet
Of those who sit in Moses' seat.
Go humbly seek, and bow to them,
Far off in great Jerusalem.
From them that in her courts ye saw,
Her perfect doctors of the law,
What is it came ye here to note?
A young man preaching in a boat.
A prophet! Boys and women weak!
Declare, or cease to rave;
Whence is it he hath learned to speak?
Say, who his doctrine gave?
A prophet? Prophet wherefore he
Of all in Israel tribes?
He teacheth with authority,
And not as do the Scrib's.
Allurement
by Madison Julius Cawein

Across the world she sends me word,
From gardens fair as Falerina's,
Now by a blossom, now a bird,
To come to her, who long has lured
With magic sweeter than Alcina's.
I know not what her word may mean,
I know not what may mean the voices
She sends as messengers serene,
That through the silvery silence lean,
To tell me where her heart rejoices.
But I must go! I must away!
Must take the path that is appointed!
God grant I find her realm some day!
Where, by her love, as by a ray,
My soul shall be anointed.
The Play
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd with woe
You all but sicken at the shifting scenes.
And yet be patient. Our Playwright may show
In some fifth Act what this wild Drama means.
Marshal Ney's Farewell.
by A. H. Laidlaw

Adieu to France! Land of the Brave, farewell!
Sleep sweetly there, thy sons will watch by thee,
High as thy hills their burning blood will swell,
To leave thee as they find thee, fair and free.
The nations gaze and tremble at thy spell,
A vision of eternal Liberty,
Emerging from a swift and bloody birth,
The terror, wonder, glory of the earth.
Yet, France, farewell! One son may find his grave
Beneath thy soil, and leave thee marching still,
Napoleon with his millions of the brave,
Along the paths of glory, at thy will.
Soldiers, farewell! And when your banners wave
Above my bones beside some nameless hill,
Stop not the thunder of your glorious tread,
To mark me sleeping with th' inglorious dead.
And farewell, Foes! Brave hearts and grand of soul;
We fought in fierceness, now in peace we part.
My luckless heart hath ever been the goal
Sought by your sabres, but in vain, O Heart!
Welcome to death amid the drum's far roll,
Great souls, where I no more will dare your dart.
'Tis best to die where war's bluff banners wave,
Swathed in your guerdon, "Bravest of the brave."
Farewell, the storm-voiced Steed! the hero Horse
That snuffs the battle's sulphury breath afar;
The proudest form, the best compacted force,
That hurls the earthquake on the field of war.
No more I'll ride, on his terrific course,
That meteor maddened through the lines ajar,
While the foe, blanching at the onset, reels
Before his breath and thunder of his heels.
Farewell, volcanic din, Olympian brattle,
The bursting bomb, the thousand-throated cheer
Tartarean roar, the volleyed rifle rattle,
The rocket's lightning line of fire and fear.
I sought my fate 'mid foes in brilliant battle,
Gorging with souls the hungry atmosphere;
I find my fate from one cold coward's command,
A dozen bullets, and a friendly hand.
Thus I, once Michael Ney, Marshal of France,
And soon a heap of dust, dishonored, sink; - 
I, who have vanned the Empire's fierce advance
In triple continents of fame to drink,
And bore its backward but still levelled lance
From Borodino to the icy brink
Of Beresina; thence defiance hurled
To the linked thunders of th' embattled world.
No bandage bring. Stark-eyed the hero dies.
Do you not know that thus for twenty years
I've faced both ball and bullet! - for no prize
But weal of France, my country? In man's ears,
Yea and before God's all-beholding eyes,
I swear I never wronged her. But Death nears.
Marshal no more, behold a man expire!
So now, make ready! Aim! Dear comrades, fire!
A Girl's Faith.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Across the miles that stretch between,
Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,
There shines a face I have not seen
Which yet doth make my world more bright.
He may be near, he may be far,
Or near or far I cannot see,
But faithful as the morning star
He yet shall rise and come to me.
What though fate leads us separate ways,
The world is round, and time is fleet.
A journey of a few brief days,
And face to face we two shall meet.
Shall meet beneath God's arching skies,
While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam,
And looking in each other's eyes
Shall hold the past but as a dream.
But round and perfect and complete,
Life like a star shall climb the height,
As we two press with willing feet
Together toward the Infinite.
And still behind the space between,
As back of dawns the sunbeams play,
There shines the face I have not seen,
Whose smile shall wake my world to Day.