DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Reminiscences
by James McIntyre

On the laying of the corner stone of the Brock monument at Queenston Heights, and the final interment of the General who had fallen at the battle of Queenston, Oct. 13th, 1812. The remains of his Aide, Col. McDonald, were also deposited under the new tower.
A wail went o'er broad Canada,
When it was known a vile outlaw
Had at midnight's awful hour,
With ruffian hand blown up the tower.
'Neath which had slept the gallant Brock
Who bravely fell on Queenston's rock,
But graceful column soon shall rise,
Its beauteous shaft will kiss the skies.
For from Queenston's woody height
You may behold a pleasing sight,
The grim old veterans of the war,
Militiamen with many a scar.
Indian braves from each nation,
Grouped to pay their last ovation,
Round the remains of General Brock,
Who led them oft in battle's shock.
Old heroes now again do rally,
Feebly they move along the valley,
Not as they rushed in days of yore
When torrent like they onward bore.
And swept away the foeman's ranks
O'er Niagara's rugged banks,
So indignant was their grief
On losing of their warrior chief.
Now with triumphant funeral car,
Adorned with implements of war,
The sad procession slow ascends,
As round the hill its way it wends.
Marching to mournful, solemn note,
While grand old flags around it float,
And now may peace be never broken
'Mong lands where Saxon tongue is spoken.
"For peace hath victories by far
More glorious than horrid war,"
England doth Longfellow revere,
And America loves Shakespeare.
The oration on the above interesting occasion was delivered by the late Hon. William H. Merritt, projector of the Welland Canal. He served at the battle when a young man. We witnessed the interesting ceremony and shall never forget it.
The Outlaw
by Robert William Service

A wild and woeful race he ran
Of lust and sin by land and sea;
Until, abhorred of God and man,
They swung him from the gallows-tree.
And then he climbed the Starry Stair,
And dumb and naked and alone,
With head unbowed and brazen glare,
He stood before the Judgment Throne.
The Keeper of the Records spoke:
"This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.
The weak have wept beneath his yoke,
The strong have fled before his flame.
The blood of babes is on his sword;
His life is evil to the brim:
Look down, decree his doom, O Lord!
Lo! there is none will speak for him."
The golden trumpets blew a blast
That echoed in the crypts of Hell,
For there was Judgment to be passed,
And lips were hushed and silence fell.
The man was mute; he made no stir,
Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .
When all at once a mongrel cur
Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.
It licked his feet with whining cry.
Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?
It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;
Its master, yea, its God was there.
Then, as a thrill of wonder sped
Through throngs of shining seraphim,
The Judge of All looked down and said:
"Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him.
"And who shall love of these the least,
And who by word or look or deed
Shall pity show to bird or beast,
By Me shall have a friend in need.
Aye, though his sin be black as night,
And though he stand 'mid men alone,
He shall be softened in My sight,
And find a pleader by My Throne.
"So let this man to glory win;
From life to life salvation glean;
By pain and sacrifice and sin,
Until he stand before Me - clean.
For he who loves the least of these
(And here I say and here repeat)
Shall win himself an angel's pleas
For Mercy at My Judgment Seat."
A Wink From Hesper
by William Ernest Henley

A wink from Hesper, falling
Fast in the wintry sky,
Comes through the even blue,
Dear, like a word from you . . .
Is it good-bye?
Across the miles between us
I send you sigh for sigh.
Good-night, sweet friend, good-night:
Till life and all take flight,
Never good-bye.
Daybreak
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me."
It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."
And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!"
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing."
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near."
It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn."
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."
The Wind
by Sara Teasdale

A wind is blowing over my soul,
I hear it cry the whole night through,
Is there no peace for me on earth
Except with you?
Alas, the wind has made me wise,
Over my naked soul it blew,
There is no peace for me on earth
Even with you.
Sonnet 21
by Michael Drayton

A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd,
(Yet his dull Spirit her not one iot could moue)
Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,
To write him but one Sonnet to his Loue:
When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot,
Powr'd out what first from quicke Inuention came;
Nor neuer stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his Wit, that was to vse the same:
But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.
But soe, for you to Heau'n for Phraze I runne,
And ransacke all APOLLO'S golden Treasure;
Yet by my Troth, this Foole his Loue obtaines,
And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.
The King's High Way
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

A wonderful Way is The King's High Way;
It runs through the Nightlands up to the Day;
From the wonderful WAS, by the wonderful IS,
To the still more wonderful IS TO BE,--
Runs The King's High Way.
Through the crooked by-ways of history,
Through the times that were dark with mystery,
From the cities of man's captivity,
By the shed of The Child's nativity,
And over the hill by the crosses three,
By the sign-post of God's paternity,
From Yesterday into Eternity,--
Runs The King's High Way.
And wayfaring men, who have strayed, still say
It is good to travel The King's High Way.
Through the dim, dark Valley of Death, at times,
To the peak of the Shining Mount it climbs,
While wonders, and glories, and joys untold
To the eyes of the visioned each step unfold,--
On The King's High Way.
And everywhere there are sheltering bowers,
Plenished with fruits and radiant with flowers,
Where the weary of body and soul may rest,
As the steeps they breast to the beckoning crest,--
On The King's High Way.
And inns there are too, of comforting mien,
Where every guest is a King or a Queen,
And room never lacks in the inns on that road,
For the hosts are all gentle men, like unto God,--
On The King's High Way.
The comrades one finds are all bound the same way,
Their faces aglow in the light of the day;
And never a quarrel is heard, nor a brawl,
They're the best of good company, each one and all,--
On The King's High Way.
So, gallantly travel The King's High Way,
With hearts unperturbed and with souls high and gay,
There is many a road that is much more the mode,
But none that so surely leads straight up to God,
As The King's High Way.
Lines To A Shamrock - A Song Of Exile
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair
As the sweet rose to other eyes might be,
Because its leaves spread in my native air,
And the same land gave birth to it and me.
They were as plentiful as drops of dew
In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere,
Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new,
Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair
Because I dwelt with my own people then,
Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true,
That from my cradle loved me, and again
We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu
I am a stranger here, I have not seen
One friendly face of all that I have known,
And my heart mourns for thee my island green,
Because I am a stranger and alone
So thou art welcome as a friend to me,
Tell me where lay the sod that brought thee forth,
Idly I wonder as I look at thee
If thou hast come, as I did, from the North?
From the green glens that he beside the sea
From cloud capt Sleive mis of the shamrock vest?
From near old castles, where the dread banshee
Waits for the native lords when laid to rest?
Or did the tartaned stranger call thee where
Mount Cashel's Lord rules o'er a fair domain?
Or grass grown ruin all that's left to bear
Of a lost race the all but fading name?
The lovely Maine lingers in flowing through
The peaceful place that was my childhood's home,
Myriads of shamrocks on its margin grew,
Was it from these thy sisters thou hast come?
Such fair broad meadows by Maine water lay,
Erin her mantle green for carpet spread,
In merry childhood there we met to play,
Dashing the dew from many a shamrock's head.
Where sleep the village dead there is a spot
That's dearer far than all the rest to me;
It's interwoven with full many a thought,
And with my young heart's childish history.
She was most fair that sleeps that sod beneath;
The fair form shrined a soul akin to mine,
And the sharp pain of heart ties cut by death,
Has softened been but left unhealed by time
And Erin spread her skirt across her grave,
And there were shamrocks nestling on the breast,
And blue bells and all flowers that softly wave,
Making more beautiful her place of rest.
If 'twas from there the stranger gathered thee
I would forgive the sacrilege, and thou
A precious relic to my breast would be,
Nor prized the less because thou'rt withered now.
Ah me! I know thou canst not answer me,
Yet sight of thee must all these thoughts awake;
Enough, from mine own land thou comest, thou'lt be
Welcome to Erin's child alone for Erin's sake.
The Horse and the Wolf.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A wolf who, fall'n on needy days,
In sharp look-out for means and ways,
Espied a horse turn'd out to graze.
His joy the reader may opine.
"Once got," said he, "this game were fine;
But if a sheep, 'twere sooner mine.
I can't proceed my usual way;
Some trick must now be put in play."
This said,
He came with measured tread,
And told the horse, with learned verbs,
He knew the power of roots and herbs, - 
Whatever grew about those borders, - 
He soon could cure of all disorders.
If he, Sir Horse, would not conceal
The symptoms of his case,
He, Doctor Wolf, would gratis heal;
For that to feed in such a place,
And run about untied,
Was proof itself of some disease,
As all the books decide.
"I have, good Doctor, if you please,"
Replied the horse, "as I presume,
Beneath my foot, an aposthume."
"My son," replied the learned leech,
"That part, as all our authors teach,
Is strikingly susceptible
Of ills which make acceptable
What you may also have from me - 
The aid of skilful surgery."
The fellow, with this talk sublime,
Watch'd for a snap the fitting time.
Meanwhile, suspicious of some trick,
The weary patient nearer draws,
And gives his doctor such a kick,
As makes a chowder of his jaws.
Exclaim'd the Wolf, in sorry plight,
"I own those heels have served me right.
I err'd to quit my trade, as I will not in future;
Me Nature surely made for nothing but a butcher."
The Wolf And The Lamb
by Walter Crane

A wolf, wanting lamb for his dinner,
Growled out--"Lamb you wronged me, you sinner."
Bleated Lamb--"Nay, not true!"
Answered Wolf--"Then 'twas Ewe--
Ewe or lamb, you will serve for my dinner."
Fraud And Violence Have No Scruples
A Wanderer's Song
by John Masefield

A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.
And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.
Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.
Cubits
by Paul Cameron Brown

A woman is a trough
hardly that    -    a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.
A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.
Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping    - 
a plane dusting crops.
A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core    - 
a marshmellow for a heart.
Patience
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

A wind comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds
Like spray across the town,
And a train, roaring forth,
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.
Whither I turn and set
Like a needle steadfastly,
Waiting ever to get
The news that she is free;
But ever fixed, as yet,
To the lode of her agony.
A Woman Waits For Me
by Walt Whitman

A woman waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.
Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results,
promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,
These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of
itself.
Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his
sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.
Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of
those women.
They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-
possess'd of themselves.
I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
others' sakes;
Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.
It is I, you women--I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I
press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
within me.
Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new
artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
immortality, I plant so lovingly now.
Let Me Sing Of What I Know
by William Allingham

A wild west Coast, a little Town,
Where little Folk go up and down,
Tides flow and winds blow:
Night and Tempest and the Sea,
Human Will and Human Fate:
What is little, what is great?
Howsoe'er the answer be,
Let me sing of what I know.
Lines Written To A Translator Of Greek Poetry.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

A wild spring upland all this charmed page,
Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage,
Mad, chaste, and lovely! This, a darker spot
Where lone Antigone bewails her lot.
Death for her spouse, her bridal-bed the tomb.
And this, again, is some rich palace-room.
Where Phsedra pines: "0 woodlands! 0, the sea!"
Or some sweet walk of Sappho, beauteously
Built o'er with rose, with bloom of purple grapes!
They are all here, the ancient Attic shapes
Of passion, beauty, terror, love, and shame;
Proud shadows, you do summon them by name:
Achaean princes, Helen, the young god.
Fair Dionysus, CEdipus, who trod
Such ways of doom! Aye, these and more than these
You call across the ages and the seas!
And each one, answering, doth dream he lists
To the great voices of old tragedists!
The Noble Woman.
by W. M. MacKeracher

A woman on an empire's throne
Has sat in queenly pride,
And swayed the sceptre of her power
O'er land and ocean wide:
A crown of gold adorned the head
That held a nation's fate,
And courtly knights and princely peers
Did on her bidding wait.
A woman too in ancient days
Has borne the warrior's brand,
And by heroic deed performed
Has saved her native land.
She too has sung inspiring songs,
And told entrancing tales;
Has softened and has swayed the mind
Where bolder genius fails.
But nobler far than thron'd queen,
Or heroine of fame,
Or she who by her potent pen
Has won illustrious name,
Is she who seeks the needy out,
Nor scorns the wretched's door,
But, with compassion Christlike, loves
To help the humble poor.
The Horse And The Wolf.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A wolf, what time the thawing breeze
Renews the life of plants and trees,
And beasts go forth from winter lair
To seek abroad their various fare, - 
A wolf, I say, about those days,
In sharp look-out for means and ways,
Espied a horse turn'd out to graze.
His joy the reader may opine.
'Once got,' said he, 'this game were fine;
But if a sheep, 'twere sooner mine.
I can't proceed my usual way;
Some trick must now be put in play.'
This said,
He came with measured tread,
As if a healer of disease, - 
Some pupil of Hippocrates, - 
And told the horse, with learned verbs,
He knew the power of roots and herbs, - 
Whatever grew about those borders, - 
And not at all to flatter
Himself in such a matter,
Could cure of all disorders.
If he, Sir Horse, would not conceal
The symptoms of his case,
He, Doctor Wolf, would gratis heal;
For that to feed in such a place,
And run about untied,
Was proof itself of some disease,
As all the books decide.
'I have, good doctor, if you please,'
Replied the horse, 'as I presume,
Beneath my foot, an aposthume.'
'My son,' replied the learned leech,
'That part, as all our authors teach,
Is strikingly susceptible
Of ills which make acceptable
What you may also have from me - 
The aid of skilful surgery;
Which noble art, the fact is,
For horses of the blood I practise.'
The fellow, with this talk sublime,
Watch'd for a snap the fitting time.
Meanwhile, suspicious of some trick,
The wary patient nearer draws,
And gives his doctor such a kick,
As makes a chowder of his jaws.
Exclaim'd the wolf, in sorry plight,
'I own those heels have served me right.
I err'd to quit my trade,
As I will not in future;
Me nature surely made
For nothing but a butcher.'
The Elopement
by Thomas Hardy

"A woman never agreed to it!" said my knowing friend to me.
"That one thing she'd refuse to do for Solomon's mines in fee:
No woman ever will make herself look older than she is."
I did not answer; but I thought, "you err there, ancient Quiz."
It took a rare one, true, to do it; for she was surely rare -
As rare a soul at that sweet time of her life as she was fair.
And urging motives, too, were strong, for ours was a passionate case,
Yea, passionate enough to lead to freaking with that young face.
I have told no one about it, should perhaps make few believe,
But I think it over now that life looms dull and years bereave,
How blank we stood at our bright wits' end, two frail barks in distress,
How self-regard in her was slain by her large tenderness.
I said: "The only chance for us in a crisis of this kind
Is going it thorough!" "Yes," she calmly breathed. "Well, I don't mind."
And we blanched her dark locks ruthlessly: set wrinkles on her brow;
Ay she was a right rare woman then, whatever she may be now.
That night we heard a coach drive up, and questions asked below.
"A gent with an elderly wife, sir," was returned from the bureau.
And the wheels went rattling on, and free at last from public ken
We washed all off in her chamber and restored her youth again.
How many years ago it was! Some fifty can it be
Since that adventure held us, and she played old wife to me?
But in time convention won her, as it wins all women at last,
And now she is rich and respectable, and time has buried the past.
La Mer
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

A white mist drifts across the shrouds,
A wild moon in this wintry sky
Gleams like an angry lion's eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.
The muffled steersman at the wheel
Is but a shadow in the gloom; -
And in the throbbing engine-room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.
The shattered storm has left its trace
Upon this huge and heaving dome,
For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.
The Sonnets XX - A woman's face with nature's own hand painted
by William Shakespeare

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
Magdalene.
by Jean Blewett

A woman in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the soul filled full of shame.
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the envy of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she.
Oh, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And spake her name, and took her hand in His.
And what He said
Is past the telling. There are things the heart
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world;
And when He went His way,
Upon her brow, where shame had lain,
Was set the one sweet word:
Forgiveness.
Sonnets: Idea XXI
by Michael Drayton

A witless gallant a young wench that wooed--
Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move--
Intreated me as e'er I wished his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love.
When I as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Poured out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot;
Much like his wit that was to use the same.
But with my verses he his mistress won,
Who doated on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to heaven for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure!
Yet by my troth, this fool his love obtains,
And I lose you for all my wit and pains!