DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
On a Cone of the Big Trees
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Brown foundling of the Western wood,
Babe of primeval wildernesses!
Long on my table thou hast stood
Encounters strange and rude caresses;
Perchance contented with thy lot,
Surroundings new, and curious faces,
As though ten centuries were not
Imprisoned in thy shining cases.
Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days
Of grateful rest, the week of leisure,
The journey lapped in autumn haze,
The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure,
The morning ride, the noonday halt,
The blazing slopes, the red dust rising,
And then the dim, brown, columned vault,
With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.
Once more I see the rocking masts
That scrape the sky, their only tenant
The jay-bird, that in frolic casts
From some high yard his broad blue pennant.
I see the Indian files that keep
Their places in the dusty heather,
Their red trunks standing ankle-deep
In moccasins of rusty leather.
I see all this, and marvel much
That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able
To keep the company of such
As throng thy friend's the poet's table:
The latest spawn the press hath cast,
The 'modern popes,' 'the later Byrons,'
Why, e'en the best may not outlast
Thy poor relation Sempervirens.
Thy sire saw the light that shone
On Mohammed's uplifted crescent,
On many a royal gilded throne
And deed forgotten in the present;
He saw the age of sacred trees
And Druid groves and mystic larches;
And saw from forest domes like these
The builder bring his Gothic arches.
And must thou, foundling, still forego
Thy heritage and high ambition,
To lie full lowly and full low,
Adjusted to thy new condition?
Not hidden in the drifted snows,
But under ink-drops idly spattered,
And leaves ephemeral as those
That on thy woodland tomb were scattered?
Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak
The moral of thy simple story:
Though life is all that thou dost seek,
And age alone thy crown of glory,
Not thine the only germs that fail
The purpose of their high creation,
If their poor tenements avail
For worldly show and ostentation.
Love Me
by Sara Teasdale

Brown-thrush singing all day long
In the leaves above me,
Take my love this April song,
"Love me, love me, love me!"
When he harkens what you say,
Bid him, lest he miss me,
Leave his work or leave his play,
And kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!
The Simplon Pass
by William Wordsworth

Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first and last, and midst, and without end.
The Dutiful Child (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER.
Brother and sister are a-Maying gone;
By my sick father's bed I watch alone;
Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,
To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home;
I sit and read of Joseph, in the land
Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand
Before him - but they know him not; aside
He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide:
Scarce to these words an utterance can he give;
I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live,
My father, the old man of whom ye speak?
And tears are falling on my father's cheek.
Though my loved mother rests among the dead,
And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,
We think not, whilst we turn the holy page,
Of this vain world - of sorrow and of age!
And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed,
Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!
Disquiet
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Brother, my thought of you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Goes up about you
As her own scent
Goes up about the rose.
The bracelets on my arms
Have grown too large
Because you went away.
I think the sun of love
Melted the snow of parting,
For the white river of tears has overflowed.
But though I am sad
I am still beautiful,
The girl that you desired
In April.
Brother, my love for you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Brightens about you
As her own rays
Brighten about the moon.
Love Poem of Cambodia.
The Diggers
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Bristling Billy the porcupine,
A person that nobody liked,
Sinking a shaft on an ant-bed mine,
Came on a burrowing lizard's line,
And the lizard was badly spiked.
"You're a blundering fool," said the snake's half-brother,
And that was how one thing led to another.
Weary Willie the wombat king
Said he was champion excavator;
But the Bristler said, "You ain't no such thing;
You couldn't dig up a new pertater!"
So a match was made on their mining skill,
Bristling Billy and Weary Will.
Both of the creatures were stout as steel,
With knife-like claws that could dig for ever.
The wombat dug with the greater zeal,
But he hadn't the style or the action clever
Of Bristling Billy, who looked a winner
Till he struck some ants, and he stopped for dinner.
Down where the ants had hid their young
Underground in a secret tunnel,
Scooping them up with his sticky tongue
Into his mouth that was like a funnel:
"Why should I dig for your wagers scanty,"
Said he, "when I'm feeling so full and ant-y?"
A kangaroo who has lost his cash
Was wild at this most absurd come-uppance.
"Now listen, you poor ant-eating trash,
I'd give you a kick in the ribs for twopence!"
"Well, when I've finished with this here diet,"
Said Bristling Billy, "you come and try it."
Bristling Billy the porcupine,
A person that nobody likes,
Wanders away on his lonely line,
Rattles his fearful spikes.
Says he, "There's none of you long-haired squibs
Is game to give me a kick in the ribs."
Ad Finem
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Britain!    Our Britain!    uprisen in the splendour
Of your white wrath at treacheries so vile;
Roused from your sleep, become once more defender
Of those high things which make life worth life's while!
Now, God be thanked for even such a wakening
From the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease,
If it but bring about the great heart-quickening,
Of which are born the larger liberties.
Ay, better such a rousing up from slumber;
Better this fight for His High Empery;
Better--e'en though our fair sons without number
Pave with their lives the road to victory.
But--Britain!    Britain!    What if it be written,
On the great scrolls of Him who holds the ways,
That to the dust the foe shall not be smitten
Till unto Him we pledge redeem'd days?--
Till unto Him we turn--in deep soul-sorrow,
For all the past that was so stained and dim,
For all the present ills--and for a morrow
Founded and built and consecrated to Him.
Take it to heart!    This ordeal has its meaning;
By no fell chance has such a horror come.
Take it to heart!--nor count indeed on winning,
Until the lesson has come surely home.
Take it to heart!--nor hope to find assuagement
Of this vast woe, until, with souls subdued,
Stripped of all less things, in most high engagement,
We seek in Him the One and Only Good.
Not of our own might shall this tribulation
Pass, and once more to earth be peace restored;
Not till we turn, in solemn consecration,
Wholly to Him, our One and Sovereign Lord.
The Traveller
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Bristling with steeples, high against the hill,
Like some great thistle in the rosy dawn
It stood; the Town-of-Christian-Churches, stood.
The Traveller surveyed it with a smile.
'Surely,' He said, 'here is the home of peace;
Here neighbour lives with neighbour in accord;
God in the heart of all.    Else why these spires?'
(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)
The sudden shriek of whistles changed the sound
From mellow music into jarring noise.
Then down the street pale hurrying children came,
And vanished in the yawning Factory door.
He called to them:    'Come back, come unto Me.'
The Foreman cursed, and caned Him from the place.
(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)
Forth from two churches came two men, and met,
Disputing loudly over boundary lines,
Hate in their eyes, and murder in their hearts.
A haughty woman drew her skirts aside
Because her fallen sister passed that way.
The Traveller rebuked them all.    Amazed,
They asked in indignation, 'Who are you,
Daring to interfere in private lives?'
The Traveller replied, 'My name is CHRIST.'
(Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)
The Tree Of Life.
by Toru Dutt

Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!
Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,
My hand was in my father's, and I felt
His presence near me. Thus we often past
In silence, hour by hour. What was the need
Of interchanging words when every thought
That in our hearts arose, was known to each,
And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone
A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.
I was awake:--It was an open plain
Illimitable,--stretching, stretching--oh, so far!
And o'er it that strange light,--a glorious light
Like that the stars shed over fields of snow
In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,
Only intenser in its brilliance calm.
And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,
For I was wide awake,--it was no dream,
A tree with spreading branches and with leaves
Of divers kinds,--dead silver and live gold,
Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!
Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked
A few small sprays, and bound them round my head.
Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves!
No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt
The fever in my limbs--"And oh," I cried,
"Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves."
One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched
His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!"
Never, oh never had I seen a face
More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full
Of holy pity and of love divine.
Wondering I looked awhile,--then, all at once
Opened my tear-dimmed eyes--When lo! the light
Was gone--the light as of the stars when snow
Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more,
Was seen the Angel's face. I only found
My father watching patient by my bed,
And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.
Indian Mutiny.
by James McIntyre

British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn,
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.
But the British Lion he quick o'erthrew,
Both the high and the low Hindoo,
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws.
Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.
by Thomas Moore

Bring the bright garlands hither,
Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
Shine to the last thro' flowers.
Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
Bright to the last drop flowing!
At Bala-Sala, Isle Of Man
by William Wordsworth

Broken in fortune, but in mind entire
And sound in principle, I seek repose
Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire
Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me,
A grey-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee;
A shade, but with some sparks of heavenly fire
Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note
The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams
Of sunset ever there, albeit streams
Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought,
I thank the silent Monitor, and say
"Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day!"
Broken
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

I.
Broken!
It's only a ring - a plain, old ring,
Worn down to a thread almost - 
Fling it away - the useless thing!
What value now can it boast? - 
Fling it away!
Yet stay! - oh stay
Ere you cast it away!
There's a tale of the vanished years
That ever will cling,
To that broken ring,
That hallows and endears - 
Oh stay!
In vain! - in vain! - What matters it now
That tenderest memories cling
To that thread of gold so wasted and old - 
Who cares for a broken ring? - 
Fling it away!
II.
Broken!
It's only a vase - an old, stone vase - 
Ancient and out of style - 
That has stood for years in the chimney place,
Provoking many a smile - 
Throw it away!
Yet stay! - that vase
Held honored place
In the sight of prince and peer
And the flowers it held
Were gathered of old
By the lovely and the dear! - 
Oh stay!
In vain! - In vain! - What matters it now
How honored was once its place!
It is broken, and old, and the hearts are cold
That cherished the old stone vase - 
Throw it away!
III.
Broken!
It's only a promise - as light as air - 
Though earnestly, solemnly given,
Made to be broken - yet who should care? - 
Do you think it was heard in Heaven? - 
Break it to day!
Yet stay! - that breath
Is a blast of death
To an innocent human heart!
Unsay the word,
For God has heard!
And He taketh the wronged one's part - -
Break it not to-day!
In vain! - in vain! - What matters it now?
It was only a breath - no more!
A faithless promise - a traitor's vow - 
Such things have happened before - 
It's broken to-day!
IV.
Broken!
It's only a heart - a human heart - 
That has throbbed for years and years,
With the burning pain and the cruel smart
Whose agony knows no tears - 
Cast it away'
Yet stay! - oh stay!
A father, grey
And sorrowful, prayed for her long
And a mother's love
Bore to God above
The tale of her poor childs wrong! - 
Cast it not away!
In vain! - 'Tis a story old and worn - 
This story of falsehood's art - 
Of the harsh world's withering blight and scorn, - 
Who cares for the broken heart
That's been cast away?
Upon Penny.
by Robert Herrick

Brown bread Tom Penny eats, and must of right,
Because his stock will not hold out for white.
Baby's Seaside Grave.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")
[XXXVIII., 1840.]
Brown ivy old, green herbage new;
Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;
An ancient chapel where a crew,
Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.
A far-off forest's darkling frown,
Which makes the prudent start and tremble,
Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,
And clouds in demon hordes assemble.
Land birds which twit the mews that scream
Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;
Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream
Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.
Alow, aloft, no lull - all life,
But far aside its whirls are keeping,
As wishfully to let its strife
Spare still the mother vainly weeping
O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.
Bring Your Beauty
by John Frederick Freeman

Bring your beauty, bring your laughter, bring even your fears,
Bring the grief that is, the joy that was in other years,
Bring again the happiness, bring love, bring tears.
There was laughter once, there were grave, happy eyes,
Talk of firm earth, old earth-sweeping mysteries:
There were great silences under clear dark skies.
Now is silence, now is loneliness complete; all is done.
The thrush sings at dawn, too sweet, up creeps the sun:
But all is silent, silent, for all that was is done.
Yet bring beauty and bring laughter, and bring even tears,
And cast them down; strew your happiness and fears,
Then leave them to the darkness of thought and years.
Fears in that darkness die; they have no spring.
Grief in that darkness is a bird that wants wing....
O love, love, your brightness, your beauty bring.
Charms.
by Robert Herrick

Bring the holy crust of bread,
Lay it underneath the head;
'Tis a certain charm to keep
Hags away, while children sleep.
Brother Artist!
by George MacDonald

Brother artist, help me; come!
Artists are a maimed band:
I have words but not a hand;
Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.
Had I thine, when words did fail--
Vassal-words their hasting chief,
On the white awaiting leaf
Shapes of power should tell the tale.
Had I hers of music-might,
I would shake the air with storm
Till the red clouds trailed enorm
Boreal dances through the night.
Had I his whose foresight rare
Piles the stones with lordliest art,
From the quarry of my heart
Love should climb a heavenly stair!
Had I his whose wooing slow
Wins the marble's hidden child,
Out in passion undefiled
Stood my Psyche, white as snow!
Maimed, a little help I pray;
Words suffice not for my end;
Let thy hand obey thy friend,
Say for me what I would say.
Draw me, on an arid plain
With hoar-headed mountains nigh,
Under a clear morning sky
Telling of a night of rain,
Huge and half-shaped, like a block
Chosen for sarcophagus
By a Pharaoh glorious,
One rude solitary rock.
Cleave it down along the ridge
With a fissure yawning deep
To the heart of the hard heap,
Like the rent of riving wedge.
Through the cleft let hands appear,
Upward pointed with pressed palms
As if raised in silent psalms
For salvation come anear.
Turn thee now--'tis almost done!--
To the near horizon's verge:
Make the smallest arc emerge
Of the forehead of the sun.
One thing more--I ask too much!--
From a brow which hope makes brave
Sweep the shadow of the grave
With a single golden touch.
Thanks, dear painter; that is all.
If thy picture one day should
Need some words to make it good,
I am ready to thy call.
Spanish Air.--"Ya Desperto."
by Thomas Moore

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right--
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remembered well
Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?
What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin, Thine!
The Raven's Tomb
by Walter De La Mare

'Build me my tomb,' the Raven said,
'Within the dark yew-tree,
So in the Autumn yewberries
Sad lamps may burn for me.
Summon the haunted beetle,
From twilight bud and bloom,
To drone a gloomy dirge for me
At dusk above my tomb.
Beseech ye too the glowworm
To bear her cloudy flame,
Where the small, flickering bats resort,
Whistling in tears my name.
Let the round dew a whisper make,
Welling on twig and thorn;
And only the grey cock at night
Call through his silver horn.
And you, dear sisters, don your black
For ever and a day,
To show how sweet a raven
In his tomb is laid away.'
The Child's Dream.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Buried in childhood's cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay,
A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray;
And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,
Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.
Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt'ring wings
Of hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings;
With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there,
While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o'er the fragrant air.
"Child, list to me," he softly said, "on mission high I'm here:
Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav'n bows in loving fear;
I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth's strife,
To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond'rous life.
"Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?
Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?
I come to bid thee leave it all - to turn from its bright bloom,
And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.
"Thou shudderest, child! with restless gaze from me thou turn'st away;
'Mid summer flowers and singing birds wouldst thou remain to play;
Thou still wouldst bask in the dear light of thy fond father's smile,
And on thy mother's doating heart would linger yet awhile.
"'Tis well, sweet child, I blame thee not, but in spheres far away
Are blossoms lovelier far than those which tempt thee here to stay;
And if the love of parents fond with joy thy heart doth fill,
In those bright distant realms is One who loves thee better still!
"That One for thee in suffering lived - for thy sake, too, he died;
Oh! like the ocean is His love, as deep, my child, as wide.
Leave, then, this earth ere hideous sin thy spotless brow shall dim - 
One struggling breath, one parting pang, and then thou'lt be with Him!"
A smile lit up the sleeper's face, but soon it softly fled,
The rose leaf cheeks and lips grew wan - could it be the child was dead?
Yes, dead - and spared the ills of life, and in bright bliss above
The pure soul nestles in the light of God's unbounded Love.
Dirge. (Brisbane.) "A Little Soldier Of The Army Of The Night."
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Bury him without a word!
No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
And the blind spring's breath.
Nature slays ten, yet the one
Reaches but to a part
Of what's to be done, to be sung.
Keep we a proud heart!
Let us not glose her waste
With lies and dreams;
Fawn on her wanton haste,
Say it but seems.
Comrades, with faces unstirred,
Scorning grief's dole,
Though with him, with him lies interred
Our heart and soul,
Bury him without a word!
No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
And the blind spring's breath.
Epigram To Mr. Bury, An Eminent Surgeon In Coventry, On His Having Performed A Successful Operation, In A Case Of Deeply-Seated Inflammation In The Neck, When The Patient Was In Extreme Danger Of Immediate Suffocation
by Thomas Oldham

Bury, for practice bold and skill
Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,
He cuts his patient's throat!
*        *        *        *        *
When Satan tempts a priest to rise,
'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,
And mount's ambition's ladder:
To heaven's own call that bids him be,
Like Christ, full of humility,
He's deafer than an adder.
A Prayer For Strength.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Carico d'anni.
Burdened with years and full of sinfulness,
With evil custom grown inveterate,
Both deaths I dread that close before me wait,
Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.
No strength I find in mine own feebleness
To change or life or love or use or fate,
Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late,
Which only helps and stays our nothingness.
'Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn
For that celestial home, where yet my soul
May be new made, and not, as erst, of nought:
Nay, ere Thou strip her mortal vestment, turn
My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole
And pure before Thy face she may be brought.