DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
For Greece and Crete
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Storm and shame and fraud and darkness fill the nations full with night:
Hope and fear whose eyes yearn eastward have but fire and sword in sight:
One alone, whose name is one with glory, sees and seeks the light.
Hellas, mother of the spirit, sole supreme in war and peace,
Land of light, whose word remembered bids all fear and sorrow cease,
Lives again, while freedom lightens eastward yet for sons of Greece.
Greece, where only men whose manhood was as godhead ever trod,
Bears the blind world witness yet of light wherewith her feet are shod:
Freedom, armed of Greece was always very man and very God.
Now the winds of old that filled her sails with triumph, when the fleet
Bound for death from Asia fled before them stricken, wake to greet
Ships full-winged again for freedom toward the sacred shores of Crete.
There was God born man, the song that spake of old time said: and there
Man, made even as God by trust that shows him nought too dire to dare,
Now may light again the beacon lit when those we worship were.
Sharp the concert wrought of discord shrills the tune of shame and death,
Turk by Christian fenced and fostered, Mecca backed by Nazareth:
All the powerless powers, tongue-valiant, breathe but greed's or terror's breath.
Though the tide that feels the west wind lift it wave by widening wave
Wax not yet to height and fullness of the storm that smites to save,
None shall bid the flood back seaward till no bar be left to brave.
The One Refuge.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

I.
Storms gather o'er thy path,
Christian! - the sullen, tempest-darkened sky
Grows lurid with the elemental wrath, - 
Say, whither wilt thou fly?
God is my Refuge! - let the tempests come,
They will but speed me sooner to my home!
II.
Night lowers in sullen gloom,
Christian! - a long, dark night awaiteth thee,
Dreary as Egypt's night of fear and doom, - 
Where will thy hiding be?
God is my refuge! - in the dreary night
In Him I dwell, and have abundant light!
III.
Thine is a lonely way,
Christian! - and dangers all thy path infest;
Pitfalls and snares crowd all thy doubtful way, - 
Where is thy place of rest?
God is my Refuge! - safe in Him I move,
And feel no fear, kept by sustaining Love.
IV.
The grave - that dreary place,
Christian, the lonely dwelling in the dust
Awaits thee; 'tis the doom of all thy race, - 
Where, then, shall be thy trust?
God is my refuge! Sweet will be my rest
On the dear pillow that my Saviour pressed!
V.
Alas! - that dreamless sleep - 
Christian, its chains are strong, and hard to break;
All thy belov'd sleep on in silence deep,
And dost thou hope to wake?
God is my refuge! I shall wake and sing - 
"O grave! where is thy vict'ry? - death thy sting?"
An Old-fashioned Garden
by Ellis Parker Butler

Strange, is it not? She was making her garden,
Planting the old-fashioned flowers that day
Bleeding-hearts tender and bachelors-buttons
Spreading the seeds in the old-fashioned way.
Just in the old fashioned way, too, our quarrel
Grew until, angrily, she set me free
Planting, indeed, bleeding hearts for the two of us,
Ordaining bachelor's buttons for me.
Envoi
Strange, was it not? But seeds planted in anger
Sour in the earth and, ere long, a decay
Withered the bleeding hearts, blighted the buttons,
And, we were wed, in the old-fashioned way.
Headdress
by Paul Cameron Brown

Stravinsky's Firebird,
Debussy's La Mer
lilting arrangement like a windmill
with a little Hottentot of a bird
scurrying over leaves
like hot coals,
nest a pudding arrangement,
oven-shaped,
dappled with a string.
She is alternatively
lady of the green shoots,
Empress of an Andes of twigs
for this cow-pie upended
between trees
is fortress and manor,
blockhouse and Maginot Line
careening between the branches
much as a sloth
toe ambles
across the roof of a forest
gingerly stepping on noise,
clinging to velvet footpads,
sitting between shadows
within the roar of a clearing.
Bear And Falls.
by James McIntyre

Strange incidents do happen ever
On the famed Niagara river,
This thought to mind it now recalls
Event three miles above the falls.
Thrilling ventures there abound,
A bear which weighed eight hundred pounds,
Hunters they do him discover
As he was swimming down the river.
They felt he would be glorious prize
This grand fat bear of mighty size,
Three men they jump'd into canoe,
A skilful and determined crew.
Soon alongside of him they row,
But kindly feelings he doth show,
Quick he scrambled o'er the boat side
For to enjoy a good boat ride.
And as o'er the side he straddles
They hit him on head with paddles,
But all in vain, so two of crew
A short time bade the bear adieu.
And soon they swiftly swam to shore,
But current down the river bore
Man, bear and boat, the sound appals
Of roaring mighty water falls.
But vigorous now he plys the oar,
In hopes to safely reach the shore,
But this made bear to grin and growl
And wear on brow a horrid scowl.
So poor man sore against his will
Finds that in boat he must keep still,
Or else be hugged to death by bear,
While sound of falls becomes more near.
But his two friends so brave and true
Row quick 'longside in a canoe,
And fire in bruin leaden balls,
Thus saving friend from bear and falls.
The Cat.
by H. P. Nichols

Stop, naughty pussy! that's not fair!
Jump down this minute from the chair!
You've eaten my nice slice of bread.
And here are only crumbs instead.
I for a minute left the room
To listen to the "Buy a broom,"
And now I think it's quite too bad
That you my luncheon should have had.
Her mother said, "My dear, if you
Had done what you were told to do,
And put the plate upon the shelf,
You might have had the bread yourself.
"But if you have no thought nor care,
And leave your luncheon on a chair,
You must not blame poor pussy-cat;
She knows no better, dear, than that.
"The one who left her bread about
Upon the chair, while she went out,--
The one who hangs her head for shame,--
My little girl's the one to blame!"
Hi-Spy
by Eugene Field

Strange that the city thoroughfare,
Noisy and bustling all the day,
Should with the night renounce its care,
And lend itself to children's play!
Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,
And have been so since Abel's birth,
And shall be so till dolls and toys
Are with the children swept from earth.
The self-same sport that crowns the day
Of many a Syrian shepherd's son,
Beguiles the little lads at play
By night in stately Babylon.
I hear their voices in the street,
Yet 't is so different now from then!
Come, brother! from your winding-sheet,
And let us two be boys again!
Inscription For The Entrance To A Wood.
by William Cullen Bryant

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
In Horto Rev. J. Still, - Apud Knoyle, Villam Amoenissimam.
by William Lisle Bowles

Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree
Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads,
Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake
A sweet and silent transport at thine heart,
In spring-time, whilst the bee hums heedless nigh,
Rejoice! for thee the verdant spot is dressed,
Circled with laurels green, and sprinkled o'er
With many a budding rose: the shrubs all ring
To the birds' warblings, and by fits the air
Whispers amid the foliage o'er thine head!
Rejoice, and oh! if life's sweet spring be thine,
So gather its brief rose-buds, and deceive
The cares and crosses of humanity.
Epigram On The Feuds About Handel And Bononcini.
by Alexander Pope

Strange! all this difference should be
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!
Youth To The Poet
by George Parsons Lathrop

(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)
Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth,
Affinity between two forms of truth! - 
As if the dawn and sunset watched each other,
Like and unlike as children of one mother
And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes
Of young men see the prophecy arise
Of what their lives shall be when all is told;
And, in the far-off glow of years called old,
Those other eyes look back to catch a trace
Of what was once their own unshadowed grace.
But here in our dear poet both are blended - 
Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended; - 
Even as his song the willowy scent of spring
Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing,
And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun,
In strains that ever delicately run;
So musical and wise, page after page,
The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage.
The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers,
And day-break glory haunts his evening hours.
Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral:
That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel,
Which - smiling not, but trembling at the touch - 
Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much.
EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879.
The Euthanasia Of Van.
by Thomas Moore

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?"
--LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.
Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick Vansittart drop
Into his grave in peace.
Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,
Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
Till Nick Vansittart's dead!
Take pity on a dotard's fears,
Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
Be dark as were the rest.
You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
Speed not so fast away--
Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats,
A few months longer stay.
Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go--
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick--to Nick below.
Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan,
Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
Let nothing bad be mended.
Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,
Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
That Van may die in peace.
So shall he win a fame sublime
By few old rag-men gained;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense nor justice reigned.
So shall his name thro' ages past,
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from "the days of Nicholas,"
With fond and sad regret;--
And sighing say, "Alas, had he
"Been spared from Pluto's bowers,
"The blessed reign of Bigotry
"And Rags might still be ours!"
Thrown Away
by Rudyard Kipling

Stopped in the straight when the race was his own
Look at him cutting it'cur to the bone!
Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden
What did he carry and how was he ridden?
May be they used him too much at the start.
May be Fate's weight-cloth are breaking his heart.
And some are sulky, while some will plunge.
(So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!)
Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge.
(There! There! Who wants to kill you?)
Some, there are losses in every trade,
Wreck their hearts ere bitted and made,
Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard,
And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard.
Song Of The American Indian
by William Lisle Bowles

Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb
The heights of yonder hills sublime;
For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[1]
That oft the murmuring thunders swell,
Of power from the impending steep
To hurl thee headlong to the deep;
But secure with us abide,
By the winding river's side;
Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,
And think not of a world of care.
The lonely cayman,[2] where he feeds
Among the green high-bending reeds,
Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart
Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
Home returning from our toils,
Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils;
And we will sing our loudest strain
O'er the forest-tyrant slain!
Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear
The beauteous cardinal sing clear;
Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,
Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade;
And the sun, with bursting ray,
Quivers on the branches gray.
By the river's craggy banks,
O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks,
Where the bush-bee[3] hums his song,
Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
To-night at least, in this retreat,
Stranger! rest thy wandering feet;
To-morrow, with unerring bow,
To the deep thickets fearless we will go.
After Sunset - Sonnets
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

'Si quis piorum Manibus locus.'
I.
Straight from the sun's grave in the deep clear west
A sweet strong wind blows, glad of life: and I,
Under the soft keen stardawn whence the sky
Takes life renewed, and all night's godlike breast
Palpitates, gradually revealed at rest
By growth and change of ardours felt on high,
Make onward, till the last flame fall and die
And all the world by night's broad hand lie blest.
Haply, meseems, as from that edge of death,
Whereon the day lies dark, a brightening breath
Blows more of benediction than the morn,
So from the graves whereon grief gazing saith
That half our heart of life there lies forlorn
May light or breath at least of hope be born.
II.
The wind was soft before the sunset fled:
Now, while the cloud-enshrouded corpse of day
Is lowered along a red funereal way
Down to the dark that knows not white from red,
A clear sheer breeze against the night makes head,
Serene, but sure of life as ere a ray
Springs, or the dusk of dawn knows red from grey,
Being as a soul that knows not quick from dead.
From far beyond the sunset, far above,
Full toward the starry soundless east it blows
Bright as a child's breath breathing on a rose,
Smooth to the sense as plume of any dove;
Till more and more as darkness grows and glows
Silence and night seem likest life and love.
III.
If light of life outlive the set of sun
That men call death and end of all things, then
How should not that which life held best for men
And proved most precious, though it seem undone
By force of death and woful victory won,
Be first and surest of revival, when
Death shall bow down to life arisen again?
So shall the soul seen be the self-same one
That looked and spake with even such lips and eyes
As love shall doubt not then to recognise,
And all bright thoughts and smiles of all time past
Revive, transfigured, but in spirit and sense
None other than we knew, for evidence
That love's last mortal word was not his last
Inscriptions Written With A Slate Pencil Upon A Stone, The Largest Of A Heap Lying Near A Deserted Quarry, Upon One Of The Islands At Rydal.
by William Wordsworth

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bled in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness! But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains, if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour, think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
Sonnet CXCVII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno.
HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.
Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,
Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.
I had return'd, to break the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en
If all their other gifts together join'd,
When from the right eye--rather the right sun--
Of my dear Lady to my right eye came
The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess'd and wings
It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued their course.
ANON.
To A Mountain Spring
by Richard Le Gallienne

Strange little spring, by channels past our telling,
Gentle, resistless, welling, welling, welling;
Through what blind ways, we know not whence
You darkling come to dance and dimple - 
Strange little spring!
Nature hath no such innocence,
And no more secret thing - 
So mysterious and so simple;
Earth hath no such fairy daughter
Of all her witchcraft shapes of water.
When all the land with summer burns,
And brazen noon rides hot and high,
And tongues are parched and grasses dry,
Still are you green and hushed with ferns,
And cool as some old sanctuary;
Still are you brimming o'er with dew
And stars that dipped their feet in you.
And I believe when none is by,
Only the young moon in the sky - 
The Greeks of old were right about you - 
A naiad, like a marble flower,
Lifts up her lovely shape from out you,
Swaying like a silver shower.
So in old years dead and gone
Brimmed the spring on Helicon,
Just a little spring like you - 
Ferns and moss and stars and dew - 
Nigh the sacred Muses' dwelling,
Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling.
The Turning of the Tide
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Storm, strong with all the bitter heart of hate,
Smote England, now nineteen dark years ago,
As when the tide's full wrath in seaward flow
Smites and bears back the swimmer. Fraud and fate
Were leagued against her: fear was fain to prate
Of honour in dishonour, pride brought low,
And humbleness whence holiness must grow,
And greatness born of shame to be so great.
The winter day that withered hope and pride
Shines now triumphal on the turning tide
That sets once more our trust in freedom free,
That leaves a ruthless and a truthless foe
And all base hopes that hailed his cause laid low,
And England's name a light on land and sea.
Room To Roam
by George MacDonald

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam?
Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.
Inscriptions Written With A Slate Pencil Upon A Stone
by William Wordsworth

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bled in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness! But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains, if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour, think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
Strange Fits Of Passion Have I Known
by William Wordsworth

Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eye I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"