DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Future
by Matthew Arnold

A wanderer is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.
As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been.
Whether he wakes,
Where the snowy mountainous pass,
Echoing the screams of the eagles,
Hems in its gorges the bed
Of the new-born clear-flowing stream;
Whether he first sees light
Where the river in gleaming rings
Sluggishly winds through the plain;
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea 
As is the world on the banks,
So is the mind of the man.
Vainly does each, as he glides,
Fable and dream
Of the lands which the river of Time
Had left ere he woke on its breast,
Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed.
Only the tract where he sails
He wots of; only the thoughts,
Raised by the objects he passes, are his.
Who can see the green earth any more
As she was by the sources of Time?
Who imagines her fields as they lay
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough?
Who thinks as they thought,
The tribes who then roam'd on her breast,
Her vigorous, primitive sons?
What girl
Now reads in her bosom as clear
As Rebekah read, when she sate
At eve by the palm-shaded well?
Who guards in her breast
As deep, as pellucid a spring
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure?
What bard,
At the height of his vision, can deem
Of God, of the world, of the soul,
With a plainness as near,
As flashing as Moses felt
When he lay in the night by his flock
On the starlit Arabian waste?
Can rise and obey
The beck of the Spirit like him?
This tract which the river of Time
Now flows through with us, is the plain.
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border'd by cities and hoarse
With a thousand cries is its stream.
And we on its breast, our minds
Are confused as the cries which we hear,
Changing and shot as the sights which we see.
And we say that repose has fled
For ever the course of the river of Time.
That cities will crowd to its edge
In a blacker, incessanter line;
That the din will be more on its banks,
Denser the trade on its stream,
Flatter the plain where it flows,
Fiercer the sun overhead.
That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
Drink of the feeling of quiet again.
But what was before us we know not,
And we know not what shall succeed.
Haply, the river of Time 
As it grows, as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream 
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.
And the width of the waters, the hush
Of the grey expanse where he floats,
Freshening its current and spotted with foam
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike
Peace to the soul of the man on its breast 
As the pale waste widens around him,
As the banks fade dimmer away,
As the stars come out, and the night-wind
Brings up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.
In Memory of Edward Butler
by Henry Kendall

A voice of grave, deep emphasis
Is in the woods to-night;
No sound of radiant day is this,
No cadence of the light.
Here in the fall and flights of leaves
Against grey widths of sea,
The spirit of the forests grieves
For lost Persephone.
The fair divinity that roves
Where many waters sing
Doth miss her daughter of the groves
The golden-headed Spring.
She cannot find the shining hand
That once the rose caressed;
There is no blossom on the land,
No bird in last year's nest.
Here, where this strange Demeter weeps
This large, sad life unseen
Where July's strong, wild torrent leaps
The wet hill-heads between,
I sit and listen to the grief,
The high, supreme distress,
Which sobs above the fallen leaf
Like human tenderness!
Where sighs the sedge and moans the marsh,
The hermit plover calls;
The voice of straitened streams is harsh
By windy mountain walls;
There is no gleam upon the hills
Of last October's wings;
The shining lady of the rills
Is with forgotten things.
Now where the land's worn face is grey
And storm is on the wave,
What flower is left to bear away
To Edward Butler's grave?
What tender rose of song is here
That I may pluck and send
Across the hills and seas austere
To my lamented friend?
There is no blossom left at all;
But this white winter leaf,
Whose glad green life is past recall,
Is token of my grief.
Where love is tending growths of grace,
The first-born of the Spring,
Perhaps there may be found a place
For my pale offering.
For this heroic Irish heart
We miss so much to-day,
Whose life was of our lives a part,
What words have I to say?
Because I know the noble woe
That shrinks beneath the touch
The pain of brothers stricken low
I will not say too much.
But often in the lonely space
When night is on the land,
I dream of a departed face
A gracious, vanished hand.
And when the solemn waters roll
Against the outer steep,
I see a great, benignant soul
Beside me in my sleep.
Yea, while the frost is on the ways
With barren banks austere,
The friend I knew in other days
Is often very near.
I do not hear a single tone;
But where this brother gleams,
The elders of the seasons flown
Are with me in my dreams.
The saintly face of Stenhouse turns
His kind old eyes I see;
And Pell and Ridley from their urns
Arise and look at me.
By Butler's side the lights reveal
The father of his fold,
I start from sleep in tears, and feel
That I am growing old.
Where Edward Butler sleeps, the wave
Is hardly ever heard;
But now the leaves above his grave
By August's songs are stirred.
The slope beyond is green and still,
And in my dreams I dream
The hill is like an Irish hill
Beside an Irish stream.
Ballad. A Weedling Wild, On Lonely Lea
by John Clare

A weedling wild, on lonely lea,
My evening rambles chanc'd to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower:
Expos'd to wind and heavy rain,
Its head bow'd lowly on the plain;
And silently it seem'd in pain
Of life's endanger'd hour.
"And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray?
And cast my injur'd sweets away,"--
Its silence seemly sigh'd--
"A moment's idol of thy mind?
And is a stranger so unkind,
To leave a shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?"
And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And low it droop'd upon the plain,
To fate resign'd to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And "Come," said I, "thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine;"
So took the root and all.
Gray Nights
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!)
Through a long, sandy track of No Man's Land,
Where only poppies grew among the sand,
The which we, plucking, cast with scant esteem,
And ever sadlier, into the sad stream,
Which followed us, as we went, hand in hand,
Under the estranged stars, a road unplanned,
Seeing all things in the shadow of a dream.
And ever sadlier, as the stars expired,
We found the poppies rarer, till thine eyes
Grown all my light, to light me were too tired,
And at their darkening, that no surmise
Might haunt me of the lost days we desired,
After them all I flung those memories!
A Waft Of Perfume
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A waft of perfume from a bit of lace
Moved lightly by a passing woman's hand;
And on the common street, a sensuous grace
Shone suddenly from some lost time and land.
Tall structures changed to dome and parapet;
The stern-faced Church an oracle became;
In sheltered alcoves marble busts were set;
And on the wall frail Lais wrote her name.
Phryne before her judges stood at bay,
Fearing the rigour of Athenian laws;
Till Hyperides tore her cloak away,
And bade her splendid beauty plead its cause.
Great Alexander walking in the dusk,
Dreamed of the hour when Greek with Greek should meet;
From Thais' window attar breathed, and musk:
His footsteps went no farther down the street.
Faint and more faint the pungent perfume grew;
Of wall and parapet remained no trace.
Temple and statue vanished from the view:
The city street again was commonplace.
On Himself
by Robert Herrick

A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here,
Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year;
Long I have lasted in this world; 'tis true
But yet those years that I have lived, but few.
Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell,
Lives not those years, but he that lives them well:
One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he
Of all those three-score has not lived half three:
He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast
Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.
The Family Burying-Ground.
by Madison Julius Cawein

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep
Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep,
Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead,
On which oblivious mosses creep
And lichens gray as lead.
Warm days the lost cows as they pass
Rest here and browse the juicy grass
That springs about its sun-scorched stones;
Afar one hears their bells' deep brass
Waft melancholy tones.
Here the wild morning-glory goes
A-rambling as the myrtle grows,
Wild morning-glories pale as pain,
With holy urns, that hint at woes,
The night hath filled with rain.
Here are blackberries largest seen,
Rich, winey dark, whereon the lean
Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat,
That bend not to the shadowed green
The heavy bearded wheat.
At dark, for its forgotten dead,
A requiem, of no known wind said,
Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,
While to thin starlight overhead
The shivering screech-owl sobs.
Dora.
by Jean Ingelow

A waxing moon that, crescent yet,
In all its silver beauty set,
And rose no more in the lonesome night
To shed full-orbed its longed-for light.
Then was it dark; on wold and lea,
In home, in heart, the hours were drear.
Father and mother could no light see,
And the hearts trembled and there was fear.
- So on the mount, Christ's chosen three,
Unware that glory it did shroud,
Feared when they entered into the cloud.
She was the best part of love's fair
Adornment, life's God-given care,
As if He bade them guard His own,
Who should be soon anear His throne.
Dutiful, happy, and who say
When childhood smiles itself away,
'More fair than morn shall prove the day.'
Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest,
How shall be bettering of your best!
That promise heaven alone shall view,
That hope can ne'er with us come true,
That prophecy life hath not skill,
No, nor time leave that it fulfil.
There is but heaven, for childhood never
Can yield the all it meant, for ever.
Or is there earth, must wane to less
What dawned so close by perfectness.
How guileless, sweet, by gift divine,
How beautiful, dear child, was thine - 
Spared all their grief of thee bereaven.
Winner, who had not greatly striven,
Hurts of sin shall not thee soil,
Carking care thy beauty spoil.
So early blest, so young forgiven.
Among the meadows fresh to view,
And in the woodland ways she grew,
On either side a hand to hold,
Nor the world's worst of evil knew,
Nor rued its miseries manifold,
Nor made discovery of its cold.
What more, like one with morn content.
Or of the morrow diffident,
Unconscious, beautiful she stood,
Calm, in young stainless maidenhood.
Then, with the last steps childhood trod,
Took up her fifteen years to God.
Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last,
All life is better for thy past.
Farewell till love with sorrow meet,
To learn that tears are obsolete.
Lines On The Death Of A Young Mother
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

A voice missed by the dear home-hearth - 
A voice of music and gentle mirth - 
A voice whose lingering sweetness long
Will float through many a Sabbath song,
And many a hallowed, evening hymn,
Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim!
- But that missing voice, with a richer tone,
Is heard in the anthems before the throne;
And another voice and another lyre,
Are added now to the angel-choir!
There's a missing face when the board is spread - 
There's a vacant seat at the table's head, - 
A watchful eye and a helpful hand
That will come no more to that broken band.
- But she sits to-day at the board above,
In the tender light of a holier love;
And the kindling eye and the beaming face
At the feast on high hold a nobler place!
A form is missed in the hour of prayer,
At the altar, now, there's an empty chair,
Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely won
Strength, e'en yet, for "Thy will be done!"
- But that missing form in its saintly dress
Of Christ's unsullied righteousness,
Bows with worshipful accents sweet,
Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet
A step is missed by the cradle bed
Where an infant nestles its sleeping head - 
Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest,
Deeming his pillow her gentle breast
- But the feet that moved with a soundless tread
In the calm still night by that cradle bed,
Beyond the waters of death now stand
Mid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land
O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart - 
O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart - 
More than all others doomed to miss
The glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss, - 
Nothing is lost that you miss to day - 
Not even the beautiful, death cold clay
But Jesus guards it with watchful eye,
Soon to restore it no more to die,
Clothed in the bloom of immortal life,
The sinless mother, the sainted wife!
Nursery Rhyme. XLIII. Literal
by Unknown

A was an apple-pie;
B bit it;
C cut it;
D dealt it;
E eat it;
F fought for it;
G got it;
H had it;
J joined it;
K kept it;
L longed for it;
M mourned for it;
N nodded at it;
O opened it;
P peeped in it;
Q quartered it;
R ran for it;
S stole it;
T took it;
V viewed it;
W wanted it;
X, Y, Z, and amperse-and,
All wish'd for a piece in hand.
The Lost Pleiad.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

A void is in the sky!
A light has ceased the seaman's path to cheer,
A star has left its ruby throne on high,
A world forsook its sphere.
Thy sisters bright pursue their circling way,
But thou, lone wanderer! thou hast left our vault for aye.
Did Sin invade thy bowers,
And Death with sable pinion sweep thine air,
Blasting the beauty of thy fairest flowers,
And God admit no prayer?
Didst thou, as fable saith, wax faint and dim
With the first mortal breath between thy zone and Him?
Did human love, with all
Its passionate might and meek endurance strong,--
The love that mocks at Time and scorns the pall,
Through conflict fierce and long,--
Live in thy soul, yet know no future's ray?
Then, mystic world! 't was well that thou shouldst pass away.
Perchance a loftier fate
Removed thy radiance from our feeble sight.
Did HE, whose Spirit wills but to create,
Far upward urge thy flight
From this low fraction of expiring time,
To realms where ages roll, as hours, in peace sublime?
E'en there does science soar
With trembling pinion, bright and eager eye,
Striving to reach the still-receding shore
That bounds the vision high:
Immortal longings fill the fettered mind;
Unfathomed glory lies around it, veiled and shrined!
Oh! when the brooding cloud
Shall pass like mist from o'er our straining sight,
And, as the sun-born insect, from its shroud
The soul speed forth in might,
From phase to phase in Being's endless day,
Shall we behold thy light, and learn thy future way?
Standing-Stone Creek.
by Madison Julius Cawein

A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain
Has washed the brown rocks bare,
Leads tangled from a lonely lane
Down to a creek's broad stair
Of stone, that, through the solitude,
Winds onward to a quiet wood.
An intermittent roof of shade
The beech above it throws;
Along its steps a balustrade
Of beauty builds the rose;
In which, a stately lamp of green
At intervals the cedar's seen.
The water, carpeting each ledge
Of rock that runs across,
Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge
Of ferns and grass and moss;
And in its deeps the wood and sky
Seem patterns of the softest dye.
Long corridors of pleasant dusk
Within the house of leaves
It reaches; where, on looms of musk,
The ceaseless locust weaves
A web of summer; and perfume
Trails a sweet gown from room to room.
Green windows of the boughs, that swing,
It passes, where the notes
Of birds are glad thoughts entering,
And butterflies are motes;
And now a vista where the day
Opens a door of wind and ray.
It is a stairway for all sounds
That haunt the woodland sides;
On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds,
Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;
And, like fond parents, following these,
The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.
The Monument Commonly Called Long Meg And Her Daughters, Near The River Eden
by William Wordsworth

A weight of awe, not easy to be borne,
Fell suddenly upon my Spirit cast
From the dread bosom of the unknown past,
When first I saw that family forlorn.
Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn
The power of years pre-eminent, and placed
Apart, to overlook the circle vast
Speak, Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn
While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night;
Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud;
At whose behest uprose on British ground
That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round
Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite
The inviolable God, that tames the proud!
The Last Masquerade
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A wan new garment of young green
Touched, as you turned your soft brown hair
And in me surged the strangest prayer
Ever in lover's heart hath been.
That I who saw your youth's bright page,
A rainbow change from robe to robe,
Might see you on this earthly globe,
Crowned with the silver crown of age.
Your dear hair powdered in strange guise,
Your dear face touched with colours pale:
And gazing through the mask and veil
The mirth of your immortal eyes.
A Session With Uncle Sidney - IV - And Makes Nursery Rhymes - 4 "It"
by James Whitcomb Riley

A wee little worm in a hickory-nut
Sang, happy as he could be, - 
"O I live in the heart of the whole round world,
And it all belongs to me!"
The Weed
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A weed is but an unloved flower!
Go dig, and prune, and guide, and wait,
Until it learns its high estate,
And glorifies some bower.
A weed is but an unloved flower!
All sin is virtue unevolved,
Release the angel from the clod - 
Go love thy brother up to God.
Behold each problem solved.
All sin is virtue unevolved.
The Unattained.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A vision beauteous as the morn,
With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming,
Slow glided o'er a field late shorn
Where walked a poet idly dreaming.
He saw her, and joy lit his face,
"Oh, vanish not at human speaking,"
He cried, "thou form of magic grace,
Thou art the poem I am seeking.
"I've sought thee long! I claim thee now - 
My thought embodied, living, real."
She shook the tresses from her brow.
"Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal.
I am the phantom of desire - 
The spirit of all great endeavor,
I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,'
That calls men up and up forever.
"'Tis not alone thy thought supreme
That here upon thy path has risen;
I am the artist's highest dream,
The ray of light he cannot prison.
I am the sweet ecstatic note
Than all glad music gladder, clearer,
That trembles in the singer's throat,
And dies without a human hearer.
"I am the greater, better yield,
That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbor,
For me he bravely tills the field
And whistles gayly at his labor.
Not thou alone, O poet soul,
Dost seek me through an endless morrow,
But to the toiling, hoping whole
I am at once the hope and sorrow.
The spirit of the unattained,
I am to those who seek to name me,
A good desired but never gained.
All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."
Knight-Errant
by Paul Cameron Brown

A well-thumbed book
like a well-thumbed life,
"whilst you walk this earth"
yet nothing is "afoot",
as so many small boys
throwing stones through the funeral parlour
glass door.
A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting
across the face of the multitude is terrible
algebra running into unfathomable sums.
"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher
used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,
learning lessons in a strange stamina
sort of way.
One of the multitude died last night &
is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.
Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek
at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his
last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious
even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour
to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the
month to go packing. Finale.
"Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping
prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses
into the apparent.
One sees a lot by the moon.
Crisp, fall air and
leaves yellowing
frightened from their wits
to end their brief, balloon walk. Such
faraway faces of Eve and a boat
moored to a dock.
Crossing streets - 
a gray, fusillade church,
knight-errant, breaks the night.
Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.
Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the
stained glass window I see her. She seems
to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through
at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?
Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating
are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;
shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting
what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.
Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their
reward".
More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies
and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's
cork.
This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist
collecting,
watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a
glade.
The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that
makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black
funeral vestments for me.
Standing close to the clock and thinking.
A luxury bought with time,
in every evening weeping in the corner.
A Song Of Dreams
by Clark Ashton Smith

A voice came to me from the night, and said,
What profit hast thou in thy dreaming
Of the years that are set
And the years yet unrisen?
Hast thou found them tillable lands?
Is there fruit that thou canst pluck therein,
Or any harvest to be mown?
Shalt thou dig aught of gold from the mines of the past,
Or trade for merchandise
In the years where all is rotten?
Are they a sea that will bring thee to any shore,
Or a desert that vergeth upon aught but the waste?
Shalt thou drink from the springs that are emptied,
Or find sustenance in shadows?
What value hath the future given thee?
Is there aught in the days yet dark
That thou canst hold with thy hands?
Are they a fortress
That will afford thee protection
Against the swords of the world?
Is there justice in them
To balance the world's inequity,
Or benefit to outweigh its loss?
Then spake I in answer, saying,
Of my dreams I have made a road,
And my soul goeth out thereon
To that unto which no eye hath opened,
Nor ear become keen to hearken -
To the glories that are shut past all access
Of the keys of sense;
Whose walls are hidden by the air,
And whose doors are concealed with clarity.
And the road is travelled of secret things,
Coming to me from far -
Of bodiless powers,
And beauties without colour or form
Holden by any loveliness seen of earth.
And of my dreams have I builded an inn
Wherein these are as guests.
And unto it come the dead
For a little rest and refuge
From the hollowness of the unharvestable wind,
And the burden of too great space.
The fields of the past are not void to me,
Who harvest with the scythe of thought;
Nor the orchards of future years unfruitful
To the hands of visionings.
I have retrieved from the darkness
The years and the things that were lost,
And they are held in the light of my dreams,
With the spirits of years unborn,
And of things yet bodiless.
As in an hospitable house,
They shall live while the dreams abide.