DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Promise.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with drops of woe,
As when I last took leave of it and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life's early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last faultered them o'er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,
With youth's clear laughing voice of melody.
On the wild shore of the eternal deep,
Where we have stray'd so oft, and stood so long
Watching the mighty waters conquering sweep,
And listening to their loud triumphant song,
At sunny noon, dearest! I'll be with thee:
Not as when last I linger'd on the strand,
Tracing our names on the inconstant sand;
But in each bright thing that around shall be:
My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast,
Thou'lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest,
In its dark, rocky depths, thou'lt see my eyes,
My form, shall be the light cloud in the skies,
My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright,
And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.
A Romance In Real (Academic) Life.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

By the waters of Cam, as the shades were descending,
A Fellow sat moaning his desolate lot;
From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets, blending
Their tide with the river which heeded them not - 
"O! why did I leave," - thus he wearily muttered - 
"The silent repose, and the shade of my books,
Where the voice of a woman no sound ever uttered,
And I ne'er felt the magic of feminine looks?
"Then I rose when the east with Aurora was ruddy;
Took a plunge in my Pliny; collated a play;
No breakfast I ate, for I found in each study
A collation which lasted me all through the day.
"I know not what temptress first came to my garden
Of Eden, and lured me stern wisdom to leave;
But I rather believe that a sweet 'Dolly Varden'
Came into my rooms on a soft summer eve.
"From that hour to this, dresses silken and satin
Seem to rustle around me, like wings in a dream;
And eyes of bright blue, as I lecture in Latin,
Fill my head with ideas quite remote from my theme.
"My life was once lonely, and almost ascetic;
But now, if I venture to walk in the street,
With her books in her hand, some fair Peripatetic
Is sure to address me with whisperings sweet.
"O, dear DR. OXYTONE, tell me the meaning
Of this terrible phrase, which I cannot make out;
And what is the Latin for "reaping" and "gleaning?"
Is "podagra" the Greek, or the Latin for "gout?"
"'And what do you mean by "paroemiac bases?"
Did the ladies in Athens wear heels very high?
Do give me the rules for Greek accents, and Crasis?
Did CORNELIA drive out to dine in a fly?
"'When were bonnets first worn? was the toga becoming?
Were woman's rights duly respected in Rome?
What tune was that horrible Emperor strumming,
When all was on fire - was it Home, Sweet Home?"
"Such questions as these (sweetest questions!) assail me,
When I walk on our Trumpington-Road-Rotten-Row;
The voice of the charmer ne'er ceases to hail me
(Is it wisely she charmeth?) wherever I go.
"Locked up in my rooms, I sigh wearily 'ohe!'
But cards, notes, and letters pour in by each post;
From PHYLLIS, EUPHROSYNE, PHIDYLE, CHLOE,
AMARYLLIS and JANE, and a numberless host.
"And now, I must take either poison or blue-pill,
For things cannot last very long as they are."
He ceased, as the exquisite form of a pupil
Dawned upon him, serene as a beautiful star.
Much of syntax and "accidence moving" our Fellow
Discoursed as they sat by the murmuring stream,
Till, as young Desdemona was charmed by Othello,
She listened, as one who is dreaming a dream.
*            *            *            *            *            *
Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater,
Sees faces around him far dearer than books;
And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and "pater,"
Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS. OXYTONE'S looks.
(1871)
Before The Battle.
by Thomas Moore

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life--
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.
Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls--
Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1]
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound--
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!
By The Stream
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass,
And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.
And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries,
When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.
Our Army Of The Dead.
by William McKendree Carleton

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes - is our Army of the Dead.
On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine,
On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green,
By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast,
On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast,
In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines,
On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines,
Over all our happy country - over all our Nation spread,
Is a band of noble heroes - is our Army of the Dead.
Not with musket, and with saber, and with glad heart beating fast;
Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past;
Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note;
Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float;
Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp,
Come they grandly marching to us - for the boys are all in camp.
With forgetfulness upon it - each within his earthy bed,
Waiting for his marching orders - is our Army of the Dead.
Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents,
And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence;
And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife,
Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life;
And the brother's manly sorrow, and the father's mournful pride,
Can not give back to his country him who for his country died.
They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled,
Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.
When the years of Earth are over, and the cares of Earth are done,
When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun,
When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll,
And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll;
When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea,
The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille,
Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread,
To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!
Hymn Of The Reformers
by Henry Lawson

By the bodies and minds and souls that rot in a common sty
In the city's offal-holes, where the dregs of its horrors lie;
By the prayers that bubble out, but never ascend to God,
We swear the tyrants of earth to rout with tongue and with pen and sword!
By the child that sees the light where the pestilent air stagnates,
And the woman worn and white who under the street-lamp waits;
By the horror of vice that thrives in the dens of the wretched poor,
We swear to strike when the time arrives for all that is good and pure.
By the rights that were always ours, the rights that we ne'er enjoyed,
And the gloomy cloud that lowers on the brows of the unemployed;
By the struggling mothers and wives and the girls on the streets of sin,
We swear to strike when the time arrives, for our kind and our kith and kin.
By our burning hate for men who rob us of ours by right,
And banish to slum and stew the poor from the sun and light,
And the hellborn law that drives the exile o'er sea to roam,
We swear to strike when the time arrives for Happiness, Hearth, and Home.
By the little of manhood left in a world of want and sin,
By the rift in the dark clouds reft where the light still struggles in,
By the love that scarce survives in a stream that is sluggish and thin,
We swear to work till the time arrives, for ourselves and our kith and kin.
The little love may dry in its stream that scarcely flows,
The little of manhood die, and the rift in the dark clouds close,
And hope may vanish from earth, and all that is pure and bright,
We swear to strike ere that time has birth with the whole of our gathered might.
Villanelle Of Acheron
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

By the pale marge of Acheron,
Me thinks we shall pass restfully,
Beyond the scope of any sun.
There all men hie them one by one,
Far from the stress of earth and sea,
By the pale marge of Acheron.
'Tis well when life and love is done,
'Tis very well at last to be,
Beyond the scope of any sun.
No busy voices there shall stun
Our ears: the stream flows silently
By the pale marge of Acheron.
There is the crown of labour won,
The sleep of immortality,
Beyond the scope of any sun.
Life, of thy gifts I will have none,
My queen is that Persephone,
By the pale marge of Acheron,
Beyond the scope of any sun.
On Reading The Poem Of "Paris." By The Rev George Croly, A.M.
by Thomas Gent

By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth,
(While loud without the blast of winter sung),
Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth,
Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among,
Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread
Their painted wings, and sport their little day;
Anon, by beckoning recollection led
To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE,
Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek
Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak,
And to her horrent eye came passing on
Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone,
When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey,
As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung,
And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay!
Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul,
Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul,
Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport,
And tread light measures in her elfin court;
Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone,
Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne:
Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell,
Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell;
In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night
With pomp and music, revelry and light,
Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes,
In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies--
Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim,
To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him
Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer,
His fellow victims torpid with despair,
Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye
Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die!
Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings,
Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings:
At once the Patriot and the Poet glows,
And full the mingling inspiration flows:--
Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers
To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours--
To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far
Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star!
Magnetism.
by Emma Lazarus

By the impulse of my will,
By the red flame in my blood,
By me nerves' electric thrill,
By the passion of my mood,
My concentrated desire,
My undying, desperate love,
I ignore Fate, I defy her,
Iron-hearted Death I move.
When the town lies numb with sleep,
Here, round-eyed I sit; my breath
Quickly stirred, my flesh a-creep,
And I force the gates of death.
I nor move nor speak - you'd deem
From my quiet face and hands,
I were tranced - but in her dream,
SHE responds, she understands.
I have power on what is not,
Or on what has ceased to be,
From that deep, earth-hollowed spot,
I can lift her up to me.
And, or ere I am aware
Through the closed and curtained door,
Comes my lady white and fair,
And embraces me once more.
Though the clay clings to her gown,
Yet all heaven is in her eyes;
Cool, kind fingers press mine eyes,
To my soul her soul replies.
But when breaks the common dawn,
And the city wakes - behold!
My shy phantom is withdrawn,
And I shiver lone and cold.
And I know when she has left,
She is stronger far than I,
And more subtly spun her weft,
Than my human wizardry.
Though I force her to my will,
By the red flame in my blood,
By my nerves' electric thrill,
By the passion of my mood,
Yet all day a ghost am I.
Nerves unstrung, spent will, dull brain.
I achieve, attain, but die,
And she claims me hers again.
Mandalay
by Rudyard Kipling

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud,
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd,
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
But that's all shove be'ind me, long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .
I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and,
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be,
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
Donald Ross.
by James McIntyre

By the side of a moss
Lived young Donald Ross,
Among the heathery hills
And the mountain rills,
In a snug little cot
Content with his lot
He never knew sorrow
With his wife and wee Flora.
But an order went forth
O'er the land of the north,
To burn many a home
So the wild deer might roam,
With grief he then did toss
Every night Donald Ross,
And sad seemed the morrow
For his wife and sma' Flora.
O it was a cruel deed
But nobles do not heed
The sorrows of the poor
Drove on a barren moor,
Where he wove a wreath
Of the blooming heath,
For to crown with glory
The brow of little Flory.
He then bade farewell
To his mountain dell,
Where his fathers appears
Had lived a thousand years,
With their few goats and sheep
Which feed on hills so steep,
O it was a sad story
For bonnie little Flory.
He sought a distant strand,
In Canada bought land,
To him a glorious charm
To view his own broad farm,
His horses and his cows,
Cultivators and plows,
And now his daughter Flora
She is the flower of Zorra.
Alain's Choice.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

By the side of a silvery streamlet,
That flowed through meadows green,
Lay a youth on the verge of manhood
And a boy of fair sixteen;
And the elder spake of the future,
That bright before them lay,
With its hopes full of golden promise
For some sure, distant day.
And he vowed, as his dark eye kindled,
He would climb the heights of fame,
And conquer with mind or weapon
A proud, undying name.
On the darling theme long dwelling
Bright fabrics did he build,
Which the hope in his ardent bosom
With splendor helped to gild.
At length he paused, then questioned:
"Brother, thou dost not speak;
In the vague bright page of the future
To read dost thou never seek?"
Then the other smiled and answered,
"Of that am I thinking now,
And the crown which I too am striving
To win my ambitious brow."
"What! - a crown? Thou hast spirit, brother;
Say, of laurels will it be?
Thy choice, the life of a soldier,
Undaunted - joyous - free.
Though by wind and sun undarkened
Is thy blooming, boyish face,
To thy choice thou'lt do all honor,
For 'tis worthy of thy race!
"Am I wrong? Well, 'tis more likely,
With thy love of ancient lore,
Thou would'st choose the scholar's garland,
Not laurels wet with gore;
I'll not chide - 'tis surely noble,
By mere simple might of pen,
To rule with master power
The minds of thy fellow-men."
But still shook his head the younger:
"What! unguessed thy secret yet?
Ha! I know now what thou seekest
To deck thy curls of jet:
Bright buds!" and he, laughing, scattered
Blossoms on brow and cheek,
"Pleasure's wreath of smiting flowers
Is the crown that thou dost seek."
"Not so - of all, that were vainest!
'Tis a crown immortal - rare - 
Here on earth I must strive to win it,
But, brother, I'll wear it there!"
And he raised to the blue sky o'er him
Eyes filled with tender thought, - 
Who shall doubt that to him was given
The glorious crown he sought?
The War Song Of William The Conqueror.
by A. H. Laidlaw

"By the splendor of God!" was a characteristic oath of William the Conqueror.
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
To fight to the death for Old England's crown,
To reign by God's grace or in gore go down.
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
Sword in hand, by a King who dares
To fight that God and our Right be made
Our Right Divine by a bloody blade,
Sword in hand, by a King who dares,
By a King who dares.
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
In swoop for fierce flesh, like a bird of prey,
In scent of the blood of the brave to-day,
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
Sword in hand, for the Love of God!
Since blood is holy and royal wine,
Advance! Drink health to the Norman line,
Sword in hand, for the Love of God!
For the Love of God!
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
Beware of the shock of the serried rank!
Beware of the brand of the fiery Frank!
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
Sword in hand, by the Grace of God,
We fight till death for Old England's crown,
Till Harold, or We, with our crowns, go down,
Sword in hand, by the Grace of God!
By the Grace of God!
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
To fight to the death for Old England's crown,
To reign by God's grace or in gore go down.
By the splendor of God! We come! We come!
Sword in hand, by a King who dares
To fight that God and our Right be made
Our Right Divine by a bloody blade,
Sword in hand, by a King who dares,
By a King who dares!
By The Runic Stone
by Thomas Hardy

(Two who became a story)
By the Runic Stone
They sat, where the grass sloped down,
And chattered, he white-hatted, she in brown,
Pink-faced, breeze-blown.
Rapt there alone
In the transport of talking so
In such a place, there was nothing to let them know
What hours had flown.
And the die thrown
By them heedlessly there, the dent
It was to cut in their encompassment,
Were, too, unknown.
It might have strown
Their zest with qualms to see,
As in a glass, Time toss their history
From zone to zone!
Draw The Sword, O Republic!
by Edgar Lee Masters

By the blue sky of a clear vision,
And by the white light of a great illumination,
And by the blood-red of brotherhood,
Draw the sword, O Republic!
Draw the sword!
For the light which is England,
And the resurrection which is Russia,
And the sorrow which is France,
And for peoples everywhere
Crying in bondage,
And in poverty!
You have been a leaven in the earth, O Republic!
And a watch-fire on the hill-top scattering sparks;
And an eagle clanging his wings on a cloud-wrapped promontory:
Now the leaven must be stirred,
And the brands themselves carried and touched
To the jungles and the black-forests.
Now the eaglets are grown, they are calling,
They are crying to each other from the peaks - 
They are flapping their passionate wings in the sunlight,
Eager for battle!
As a strong man nurses his youth
To the day of trial;
But as a strong man nurses it no more
On the day of trial,
But exults and cries: For Victory, O Strength!
And for the glory of my City, O treasured youth!
You shall neither save your youth,
Nor hoard your strength
Beyond this hour, O Republic!
For you have sworn
By the passion of the Gaul,
And the strength of the Teuton,
And the will of the Saxon,
And the hunger of the Poor,
That the white man shall lie down by the black man,
And by the yellow man,
And all men shall be one spirit, as they are one flesh,
Through Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy.
And forasmuch as the earth cannot hold
Aught beside them,
You have dedicated the earth, O Republic,
To Wisdom, Liberty and Democracy!
By the Power that drives the soul to Freedom,
And by the Power that makes us love our fellows,
And by the Power that comforts us in death,
Dying for great races to come - 
Draw the sword, O Republic!
Draw the Sword!
On A Fete At Carlton House: Fragment.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

By the mossy brink,
With me the Prince shall sit and think;
Shall muse in visioned Regency,
Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty.
To Julia, In Her Dawn, Or Daybreak.
by Robert Herrick

By the next kindling of the day,
My Julia, thou shalt see,
Ere Ave-Mary thou canst say
I'll come and visit thee.
Yet ere thou counsel'st with thy glass,
Appear thou to mine eyes
As smooth, and nak'd, as she that was
The prime of paradise.
If blush thou must, then blush thou through
A lawn, that thou mayst look
As purest pearls, or pebbles do
When peeping through a brook.
As lilies shrin'd in crystal, so
Do thou to me appear;
Or damask roses when they grow
To sweet acquaintance there.