DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Habitation
by John Drinkwater

High up in the sky there, now, you know,
In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,
Tenantless, and no creature there to go
Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep
Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears
Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,
The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs
Silence is but by tip-toe silence met.
All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by
From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.
Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May -
Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,
With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day
To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep,
This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,
Breathing upon that still, insensible place,
Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,
And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,
That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,
One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,
Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,
Signs that even the curious man would miss,
Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,
Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride
Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide
Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ...
The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb -
But we are there - we are waiting ourselves who come.
London Types - IV. Beef-Eater
by William Ernest Henley

His beat lies knee-high through a dust of story - 
A dust of terror and torture, grief and crime;
Ghosts that are ENGLAND'S wonder, and shame, and glory
Throng where he walks, an antic of old time;
A sense of long immedicable tears
Were ever with him, could his ears but heed;
The stern Hic Jacets of our bloodiest years
Are for his reading, had he eyes to read,
But here, where CROOKBACK raged, and CRANMER trimmed,
And MORE and STRAFFORD faced the axe's proving,
He shows that Crown the desperate Colonel nimmed,
Or simply keeps the Country Cousin moving,
Or stays such Cockney pencillers as would shame
The wall where some dead Queen hath traced her name.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXX. Riddles.
by Unknown

[The Holly Tree.]
Highty, tighty, paradighty clothed in green,
The king could not read it, no more could the queen;
They sent for a wise man out of the East,
Who said it had horns, but was not a beast!
The Ark: A Poem For Music.
by William Lisle Bowles

MICHAEL, ARCHANGEL.
High on Imaus' solitary van,
Which overlooked the kingdoms of the world,
With stature more majestic, his stern brow
In the clear light, the thunder at his feet;
In his right hand the flaming sword that waved
O'er Eden's gate; and in his left the trump,
That on the day of doom shall sound and wake
Earth's myriads, starting from the wormy grave,
The great archangel stood: and, hark, his voice!
AIR.
It comes, it comes, o'er cities, temples, towers;
O'er mountain heights I see the deluge sweep;
Heard ye from earth the cry at that last hour?
Heard ye the tossing of the desert deep?
How dismal is its roar!
I heard the sound of multitudes no more.
Great Lord of heaven and earth, thy voice is fate;
Thou canst destroy, as first thou didst create!
He stood and sounded the archangel's trump;
And now a choir of seraphim drew near,
By Raphael led: in sad and solemn strains,
They raised their supplication to Heaven's throne.
CHORUS.
O Thou whose mighty voice, "Let there be light!"
Dread Chaos heard, when the great sun from night
Burst forth, and demon shadows fled away,
And the green earth sprang beautiful to day!
Oh! merciful in judgment, hear our prayer;
Behold the world which Thou hast made so fair,
And man the mourner, man the sinner, spare.
GABRIEL (RECITATIVE).
Oh! what a change have sin and sorrow made!
In the beginning, God created heaven
And earth; and man, amid the works of God,
Majestic stood, his noblest creature, formed
In God's own image; and his fair abode
Was visited by seraph shapes of light,
And sin and death were not.
TRIO.
Mourn, mourn, ye bowers
Of paradise, ye pleasant hills and woods!
Mourn; for the dreadful voice hath passed that shrunk
Your streams, and withered all your blooming flowers.
And thou, created in God's image, man!
Go forth into the nether world; "for dust
Thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
RECITATIVE.
So, led by Sin and Death, and his pale troop,
Impatient came, and all this goodly scene,
As at the withering of a demon's curse, was blasted.
Then they two went forth, from whom
Their children sorrow and sin and death derived:
They two went forth into the forlorn world,
Heart-struck, but not despairing.
From that hour
Death's shadow walks on earth, a hideous form,
Saddening the very sun; and giant crimes
Have multiplied, till to the throne of God,
And the serene air of untroubled bliss,
The noise of violence, and the cries of blood,
Have from the ground ascended.
Therefore God
Me hath commissioned to uplift the trump
Of doom, and sweep this world of sin away!
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXXIV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

High way, since you my chiefe Pernassus be,
And that my Muse, to some eares not vnsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses feete
More oft then to a chamber-melodie.
Now, blessed you beare onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you of dutie greet
With thankes and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still faire, honord by publicke heede;
By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
Nor blam'd for bloud, nor sham'd for sinfull deed;
And that you know I enuy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of yeares you Stellaes feet may kisse.
Hills Of The West
by Madison Julius Cawein

Hills of the west, that gird
Forest and farm,
Home of the nestling bird,
Housing from harm,
When on your tops is heard
Storm:
Hills of the west, that bar
Belts of the gloam,
Under the twilight star,
Where the mists roam,
Take ye the wanderer
Home.
Hills of the west, that dream
Under the moon,
Making of wind and stream,
Late-heard and soon,
Parts of your lives that seem
Tune.
Hills of the west, that take
Slumber to ye,
Be it for sorrow's sake
Or memory,
Part of such slumber make
Me.
To George Frederick Watts
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

On the Eightieth Anniversary of his Birth,
High thought and hallowed love, by faith made one,
Begat and bare the sweet strong-hearted child,
Art, nursed of Nature; earth and sea and sun
Saw Nature then more godlike as she smiled.
Life smiled on death, and death on life: the Soul
Between them shone, and soared above their strife,
And left on Time's unclosed and starry scroll
A sign that quickened death to deathless life.
Peace rose like Hope, a patient queen, and bade
Hell's firstborn, Faith, abjure her creed and die;
And Love, by life and death made sad and glad,
Gave Conscience ease, and watched Good Will pass by.
All these make music now of one man's name,
Whose life and age are one with love and fame.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXV. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A Star.]
Higher than a house, higher than a tree;
Oh, whatever can that be?
Farewell Lines
by William Wordsworth

"Hign bliss is only for a higher state,"
But, surely, if severe afflictions borne
With patience merit the reward of peace,
Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good,
Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here
With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof
To you accorded, never be withdrawn,
Nor for the world's best promises renounced.
Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend,
Fresh from the crowded city, to behold
That lonely union, privacy so deep,
Such calm employments, such entire content.
So when the rain is over, the storm laid,
A pair of herons oft-times have I seen,
Upon a rocky islet, side by side,
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;
And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen,
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared,
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light,
Each with the other, on the dewy ground,
Where He that made them blesses their repose.
When wandering among lakes and hills I note,
Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired,
And guarded in their tranquil state of life,
Even, as your happy presence to my mind
Their union brought, will they repay the debt,
And send a thankful spirit back to you,
With hope that we, dear Friends! shall meet again.
In July
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

His beauty bore no token,
No sign our gladness shook;
With tender strength unbroken
The hand of Life he took:
But the summer flowers were falling,
Falling and fading away,
And mother birds were calling,
Crying and calling
For their loves that would not stay.
He knew not Autumn's chillness,
Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's.
He lived with Summer's stillness
And sun and sunlit things:
But when the dusk was falling
He went the shadowy way,
And one more heart is calling,
Crying and calling
For the love that would not stay.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXII. Relics.
by Unknown

Hink, minx! the old witch winks,
The fat begins to fry:
There's nobody at home but jumping Joan,
Father, mother, and I.
The Lost Tails of Miletus
by Bret Harte (Francis)

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.
Vainly the Maenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her,
The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan the renowned, the accomplished
Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances;
High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing:
'Ai! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!'
Her then Zeus answered slow: 'O daughter of song and sorrow,
Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation!
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
Look and behold thy sheep.' And lo! they returned to her tailless!
Sonnet
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

High on the wall that holds Jerusalem
I saw one stand under the stars like stone.
And when I perish it shall not be known
Whether he lived, some strolling son of Shem,
Or was some great ghost wearing the diadem
Of Solomon or Saladin on a throne:
I only know, the features being unshown,
I did not dare draw near and look on them.
Did ye not guess ... the diadem might be
Plaited in stranger style by hands of hate ...
But when I looked, the wall was desolate
And the grey starlight powdered tower and tree:
And vast and vague beyond the Golden Gate
Heaved Moab of the mountains like a sea.
From Gotz Von Berlichingen.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

ACT II.
LIEBETRAUT plays and sings.
His bow and dart bearing,
And torch brightly flaring,
Dan Cupid on flies;
With victory laden,
To vanquish each maiden
He roguishly tries.
Up! up!
On! on!
His arms rattle loudly,
His wings rustle proudly,
And flames fill his eyes.
Then finds he each bosom
Defenseless and bare;
They gladly receive him
And welcome him there.
The point of his arrows
He lights in the glow;
They clasp him and kiss him
And fondle him so.
He e o! Pap!
Disguises
by Thomas Edward Brown

High stretched upon the swinging yard,
I gather in the sheet;
But it is hard
And stiff, and one cries haste.
Then He that is most dear in my regard
Of all the crew gives aidance meet;
But from His hands, and from His feet,
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:
Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet
With fragrance as of nard,
And myrrh, and cassia spiced,
He proffers me to taste.
Then I to Him: 'Art Thou the Christ?'
He saith, 'Thou say'st.'
Like to an ox
That staggers 'neath the mortal blow,
She grinds upon the rocks:
Then straight and low
Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks
The cradle's rigged; with swerving of the blast
We go,
Our Captain last,
Demands
'Who fired that shot?' Each silent stands,
Ah, sweet perplexity!
This too was He.
I have an arbour wherein came a toad
Most hideous to see,
Immediate, seizing staff or goad,
I smote it cruelly.
Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed,
I looked, and it was He!
The Noble Balm
by Ben Jonson

High-spirited friend,
I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound:
Your fate hath found
A gentler and more agile hand to tend
The cure of that which is but corporal;
And doubtful days, which were named critical,
Have made their fairest flight
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind
Wrapp'd in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply,
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd,
Must now be rein'd.
True valour doth her own renown command
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought
This fame which you have caught:
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
'Tis wisdom, and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXVIII - The Welsh Marches
by Alfred Edward Housman

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.
The flag of morn in conqueror's state
Enters at the English gate:
The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to Wales.
Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother's marriage-bed;
There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:
When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,
Couched upon her brother's grave
The Saxon got me on the slave.
The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;
Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.
In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;
They cease not fighting, east and west,
On the marches of my breast.
Here the truceless armies yet
Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
They kill and kill and never die;
And I think that each is I.
None will part us, none undo
The knot that makes one flesh of two,
Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
Strangling-When shall we be slain?
When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How long, how long, till spade and hearse
Put to sleep my mother's curse?
Incompatibility
by Charles Baudelaire

Higher there, higher, far from the ways,
from the farms and the valleys, beyond the trees,
beyond the hills and the grasses' haze,
far from the herd-trampled tapestries,
you discover a sombre pool in the deep
that a few bare snow-covered mountains form.
The lake, in light's, and night's, sublime sleep,
is never disturbed in its silent storm.
In that mournful waste, to the unsure ear,
come faint drawn-out sounds, more dead than the bell,
of some far-off cow, the echoes unclear,
as it grazes the slope, of a distant dell.
On those hills where the wind effaces all signs,
on those glaciers, fired by the sun's pure light,
on those rocks, where dizziness threatens the mind,
in that lake's vermilion presage of night,
under my feet, and above my head,
silence, that makes you wish to escape;
that eternal silence, of the mountainous bed
of motionless air, where everything waits.
You would say that the sky, in its loneliness,
gazed at itself in the glass, and, up there,
the mountains listened, in grave watchfulness
to the mystery nothing that's human can hear.
And when, by chance, a wandering cloud
darkens the silent lake, moving by,
you might think that you saw some spirit's robe,
or else its clear shadow, travelling, over the sky.
From The Cantata For N. F. S. Grundtvig (1872)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

His day was the greatest the Northland has seen,
It one was with the midnight-sun's wonders serene:
The light wherein he sat was the light of God's true peace,
And that has never morning, nor night when it must cease.
In light of God's peace shone the history he gave,
The spirit's course on earth that shall conquer the grave.
Might of God's pure peace thus our fathers' mighty way
Before us for example and warning open lay.
In light of God's peace he beheld with watchful eye
The people at their work and the spirit's strivings high.
In light of God's pure peace he would have all learning glow,
And where his word is honored the "Folk-High-Schools" must grow.
In light of God's peace stood 'mid sorrow and care
For Denmark's folk his comfort, a castle strong and fair;
In light of God's pure peace there shall once again be won
And thousand-fold increased, what seems lost now and undone.
In light of God's peace stands his patriarch-worth,
The sum and the amen of a manful life on earth.
In light of God's pure peace how his face shone, lifted up,
When white-haired at the altar he held th' atoning cup.
In light of God's peace came his word o'er the wave,
In light of God's pure peace sound the sweet psalms he gave.
In light of God's pure peace, as its sunbeam curtains fall
To hide him from us, stands now his memory for all.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXXVII. Jingles.
by Unknown

High, ding, cockatoo-moody,
Make a bed in a barn, I will come to thee;
High, ding, straps of leather,
Two little puppy-dogs tied together;
One by the head, and one by the tail,
And over the water these puppy-dogs sail.
Palomydes.
by Henry Austin Dobson

Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,
Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--
The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.
But, unloved ever, still must love the same,
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.
So I, who strove to You I may not earn,
Methinks, am come unto so high a place,
That though from hence I can but vainly yearn
For that averted favour of your face,
I shall not turn.
No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,
To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,
Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,
And cry your name in my extremity,
As Palomyde,
Until the issue come. Will it disclose
No gift of grace, no pity made complete,
After much labour done,--much war with woes?
Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;--
Ah, Death--who knows?
What Then?
by William Butler Yeats

His chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
"i(What then?" sang Plato's ghost. "What then?")
Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
"i(What then?" sang Plato's ghost. " What then?")
All his happier dreams came true --
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
poets and Wits about him drew;
"i(What then.?" sang Plato's ghost. "What then?")
The work is done," grown old he thought,
"According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought";
i(But louder sang that ghost, "What then?")
In Hospital - XV - 'The Chief'
by William Ernest Henley

His brow spreads large and placid, and his eye
Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still.
Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill -
His face at once benign and proud and shy.
If envy scout, if ignorance deny,
His faultless patience, his unyielding will,
Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill,
Innumerable gratitudes reply.
His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties,
And seems in all his patients to compel
Such love and faith as failure cannot quell.
We hold him for another Herakles,
Battling with custom, prejudice, disease,
As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell.
James B. Maynard
by James Whitcomb Riley

His daily, nightly task is o'er -
He leans above his desk no more.
His pencil and his pen say not
One further word of gracious thought.
All silent is his voice, yet clear
For all a grateful world to hear;
He poured abroad his human love
In opulence unmeasured of -
While, in return, his meek demand, -
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand
In recognition of the true
World's duty that he lived to do.
So was he kin of yours and mine -
So, even by the hallowed sign
Of silence which he listens to,
He hears our tears as falls the dew.
Caliban on Ariel
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

"His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract"
The tongue is loosed of that most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness. Listen: "Lo,
The real god of song, Lord Stephano,
That's a brave god, if ever god were brave,
And bears celestial liquor: but," the knave
(A most ridiculous monster) howls, "we know
From Ariel's lips what springs of poison flow,
The chicken-heart blasphemer! Hear him rave!"
Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, the witch whose name
Is darkness, and the sun her eyes' offence,
Though hell's hot sewerage breed no loathlier elf,
Men cry not shame upon thee, seeing thy shame
So perfect: they but bid thee'"Hag-seed, hence!"
A.H.
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

High was her heart, and yet was well inclined,
Her manners made of bounty well refined;
Far capitals and marble courts, her eye still seemed to see,
Minstrels and kings and high-born dames, and of the best that be.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): George Chapman
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

High priest of Homer, not elect in vain,
Deep trumpets blow before thee, shawms behind
Mix music with the rolling wheels that wind
Slow through the labouring triumph of thy train:
Fierce history, molten in thy forging brain,
Takes form and fire and fashion from thy mind,
Tormented and transmuted out of kind:
But howsoe'er thou shift thy strenuous strain,
Like Tailor1 smooth, like Fisher2 swollen, and now
Grim Yarrington3 scarce bloodier marked than thou,
Then bluff as Mayne's4 or broad-mouthed Barry's5 glee ,
Proud still with hoar predominance of brow
And beard like foam swept off the broad blown sea,
Where'er thou go, men's reverence goes with thee.
A Hill Song.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Hills where once my love and I
Let the hours go laughing by!
All your woods and dales are sad,--
You have lost your Oread.
Falling leaves! Silent woodlands!
Half your loveliness is fled.
Golden-rod, wither now!
Winter winds, come hither now!
All the summer joy is dead.
There's a sense of something gone
In the grass I linger on.
There's an under-voice that grieves
In the rustling of the leaves.
Pine-clad peaks! Rushing waters!
Glens where we were once so glad!
There's a light passed from you,
There's a joy outcast from you,--
You have lost your Oread.
His Broad Brimmed Hat Push'd Back With Careless Air
by Joaquin Miller

His broad brimmed hat push'd back with careless air,
The proud vaquero sits his steed as free
As winds that toss his black, abundant hair.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXII. Games.
by Unknown

Highty cock O!
To London we go,
To York we ride;
And Edward has pussy-cat tied to his side;
He shall have little dog tied to the other,
And then he goes trid trod to see his grandmother.
Blue-Coat.
by Richard Hunter

His dressing-gown's blue, and
His girdle is red;
He wears a black cap
On top of his head.
He carries a candle
To give you a light,
In case you should ever
Get up in the night.
The Coral Island (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)
by James Stephens

His arms were round a chest of oaken wood,
It was clamped with brass and iron studs, and seemed
An awful weight.    After a while he stood
And I stole near to him., His white eyes gleamed
As he peeped secretly about; he laid
The oaken chest upon the ground, then drew
A great knife from his belt, and stuck the blade
Into the ground and dug.    The clay soon flew
In all directions underneath a tree,
And when the hole was deep he put the box
Down there, and threw the clay back cunningly,
Stamping the ground quite flat; then like a fox
He crept among the trees....    I went next day
To dig the treasure up, but I lost my way.