DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Pines
by Robert William Service

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines;
The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines,
And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.
On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed;
We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast;
From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.
To the niggard lands were we driven; 'twixt desert and foe are we penned.
To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend;
Ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end.
Ours from the bleak beginning, through the 'ons of death-like sleep;
Ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing deep;
Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier-creep.
Wind of the East, wind of the West, wandering to and fro,
Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know
The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go!
We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where the eagles soar;
The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash and roar;
But where one falls from the crumbling walls shoots up a hardy score.
We spring from the gloom of the canyon's womb; in the valley's lap we lie;
From the white foam-fringe where the breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky
We climb, and we peer in the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye, -
Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where the vision ranges free:
Pines and pines and the shadow of pines as far as the eye can see;
A steadfast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery.
Sun, moon and stars, give answer; shall we not staunchly stand
Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand,
Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last lone land!
In Re A Gentleman, One
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

We see it each day in the paper,
And know that there's mischief in store;
That some unprofessional caper
Has landed a shark on the shore.
We know there'll be plenty of trouble
Before they get through with the fun,
Because he's been coming the double
On clients, has "Gentleman, One".
Alas for the gallant attorney,
Intent upon cutting a dash!
He starts on life's perilous journey
With rather more cunning than cash.
And fortune at first is inviting,
He struts his brief hour in the sun,
But, lo! on the wall is the writing
Of Nemesis, "Gentleman, One".
For soon he runs short of the dollars,
He fears he must go to the wall;
So Peters' trust-money he collars
To pay off his creditor, Paul;
Then robs right and left, for he goes it
In earnest when once he's begun.
Descensus Averni, he knows it;
It's easy for "Gentleman, One".
The crash comes as soon as the seasons,
He loses his coin in a mine,
Or booming in land, or for reasons
Connected with women and wine.
Or maybe the cards or the horses
A share of the damage have done,
No matter, the end of the course is
The same: "Re a Gentleman, One."
He struggles awhile to keep going,
To stave off detection and shame;
But creditors, clamorous growing,
Ere long put an end to the game.
At length the poor soldier of Satan
His course to a finish has run,
And just think of Windeyer waiting
To deal with "A Gentleman, One"!
And some face it boldly, and brazen
The shame and the utter disgrace;
While others, more sensitive, hasten
Their names and their deeds to efface.
They snap the frail thread which the Furies
And Fates have so cruelly spun.
May the great Final Judge and His juries
Have mercy on "Gentleman, One"!
In Memoriam. - Mr. Samuel Tudor,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.
We saw him on a winter's day,
Beneath the hallowed dome,
Where for so many years his heart
Had found its Sabbath-home,
Yet not amid his ancient seat
Or in the accustomed place
Arose his fair, and reverend brow,
And form of manly grace.
Then Music, through the organ's soul
Melodious descant gave,
But yet his voice so rich and sweet
Swell'd not the sacred stave,
The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave
Were lingering still to cheer
His parting visit to the fane
Which he had help'd to rear.
And flowers were on the coffin-lid
And o'er his bosom strown,
Fit offering for the friend who loved
The plants of every zone,
And bade them in his favor'd cell
Unfold their charms sublime,
And felt the florist's genial joy
Repel the frost of time.
No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,
Save when her loss he wept,
Whose image in his constant soul
Its angel presence kept,
But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed
To cheer his lonely breast,
For tenderest love in filial hearts
His latest moments blest.
And so, for more than ninety years
Flow'd on his cloudless span,
In love of Nature, and of Art,
And kindred love for man,
Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,
To all our City dear,
His cordial tones, his greeting words
No more on earth we hear.
Last of that band of noble men
Who for their Church's weal
Took counsel in her hour of need
And wrought with tireless zeal,
Nor in their fervent toil declined
Nor loiter'd on their ways,
Until her Gothic towers arose
And her full chant of praise.
But as we laid him down with tears,
The westering Sun shone bright,
And through the ice-clad evergreens
Diffused prismatic light,
Type of the glory that awaits
The rising of the just,
And so, we left him in the grave
That Christ his Lord had blest.
Adam's Curse
by William Butler Yeats

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, "A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, "To be born woman is to know --
Although they do not talk of it at school --
That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, "It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
My Sister Nell And I
by Joseph Horatio Chant

We strolled down by the river side,
My sister Nell and I,
To watch the waters onward glide,
And vessels passing by.
On Nature's floor of lovely green,
Bedecked with flowers of gold,
The purple sassafras as sheen,
Which trumpet vines enfold.
We played our youthful games for hours,
And told our childish tales;
Adorned each brow with fragrant flowers,
And slept 'neath cooling gales.
For I was then but nine years old,
And she was only seven;
Yet joys like ours can ne'er be told--
They savored much of heaven.
Close by the bank, in shady nooks,
The waxen lilies grew;
We called them fish, and with our hooks
To shore full many drew.
With these I made a wreath for Nell.
She was so good and pure,
They seemed to suit her brow so well,
Yet could not long endure
The heated brow and dewless air--
The river suits them best;
But graced awhile her golden hair,
As dove would silken nest.
Frail like the lilies, too, was Nell.
The fever's scorching blast
Swept by, and my fair flowerette fell,
And to the dust was cast.
But now she blooms in glory land,
Close by the tree of Life;
Better to bloom at God's right hand
Than in this world of strife.
I hope some day to meet her there,
And as in days of yore
We plucked the lilies, pure and fair,
Up there we'll gather more.
Cave Of Staffa
by William Wordsworth

We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd,
Not One of us has felt the far-famed sight;
How 'could' we feel it? each the other's blight,
Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud.
O for those motions only that invite
The Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave
By the breeze entered, and wave after wave
Softly embosoming the timid light!
And by 'one' Votary who at will might stand
Gazing and take into his mind and heart,
With undistracted reverence, the effect
Of those proportions where the almighty hand
That made the worlds, the sovereign Architect,
Has deigned to work as if with human Art!
The Rain.
by Madison Julius Cawein

We stood where the fields were tawny,
Where the redolent woodland was warm,
And the summer above us, now lawny,
Was alive with the pulse winds of storm.
And we watched weak wheat waves lighten,
And wince and hiss at each gust,
And the turbulent maples whiten,
And the lane grow gray with dust.
White flakes from the blossoming cherry,
Pink snows of the peaches were blown,
And star-fair blooms of the berry
And the dogwood's flowers were strewn.
And the luminous hillocks grew sullied,
And shadowed and thrilled with alarm,
When the body of the blackness was gullied
With the rapid, keen flame of the storm.
And the birds to dry coverts had hurried,
And the musical rillet ran slow,
And the buccaneer bee was worried,
And the red lilies swung to and fro.
Till the elf-cuirassiers of the showers
Came, bright with slant lances of rain,
And charged the bare heads of the flowers,
And trampled the grass of the plain.
And the armies of the leaves were shattered,
Their standards drenched, heavy and lank;
And the iron weed's purple was spattered,
And the lily lay broke on the bank.
But high in the storm was the swallow,
And the rain-strong voice of the fall
In the bough-grottoed dingle sang hollow
To the sky-blue flags on its wall.
But the storm and its clouds passed over,
And left but one cloud in the West,
Wet wafts that were fragrant with clover,
And the sun low sunken to rest;
Soft spices of rain-studded poppies,
Of honey unfilched of a bee,
And balm of the mead and the coppice,
And musk of the rain-breathing tree.
Then the cloud in the West was riven,
And bubbled and bursten with gold,
Blown out through deep gorges of heaven,
And spilled on the wood and the wold.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXVII.
by Thomas Moore

We read the flying courser's name
Upon his side, in marks of flame;
And, by their turbaned brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropt his burning spark!
Thy Will Be Done
by John Greenleaf Whittier

We see not, know not; all our way
Is night, with Thee alone is day
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the storm our prayers we lift,
Thy will be done!
The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
But who are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead, in times like these,
The weakness of our love of ease?
Thy will be done!
We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,
Whose will be done!
Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace Thy picture's wise design,
And thank Thee that our age supplies
Its dark relief of sacrifice.
Thy will be done!
And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press;
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
Thy will be done!
If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by Thee, our present pain,
Be Liberty's eternal gain,
Thy will be done!
Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies!
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,
Thy will be done!
The Fire Of Drift-Wood
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Devereux Farm, Near Marblehead
We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port,
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;
And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again;
The first slight swerving of the heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.
The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech.
Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed!    O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
We Shall Surely Die
by William Ernest Henley

We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and cold,
And we know not why?
O, the By-and-By,
And the tale that's told!
We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and sigh,
Grudge and withhold,
Resent and scold? . . .
Not you and I?
We shall surely die!
We Two
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We two make home of any place we go;
We two find joy in any kind of weather;
Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,
If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow,
What matters it if we two are together?
We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.
We two make banquets of the plainest fare;
In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;
We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care,
And win to smiles the set lips of despair.
For us life always moves with lilting measure;
We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.
We two find youth renewed with every dawn;
Each day holds something of an unknown glory.
We waste no thought on grief or pleasure gone;
Tricked out like hope, time leads us on and on,
And thrums upon his harp new song or story.
We two, we two, we find the paths of glory.
We two make heaven here on this little earth;
We do not need to wait for realms eternal.
We know the use of tears, know sorrow's worth,
And pain for us is always love's rebirth.
Our paths lead closely by the paths supernal;
We two, we two, we live in love eternal.
Spilt Milk
by William Butler Yeats

We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.
To E. L. Zox. {89} (Melbourne.)
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

We thank you for a noble work well done.
There is a kindness - ('tis the truer one;
The better part the simpler heart doth know),
The care to give the day a brighter sun
To these, the nameless crowd that drags on slow
The common toil, the common weary woe
The world cares nought for. But your work secures
Thro' union strength and self-respect that grow.
There is a courage that unflawed endures
The sneer, the slander of earth's epicures.
And here are grateful women's hearts to show
This kindness and this courage, both are yours!
Justinian at Windermere
by James Williams

We took a hundredweight of books
To Windermere between us,
Our dons had blessed our studious looks,
Had they by chance but seen us.
Maine, Blackstone, Sandars, all were there,
And Hallam's Middle Ages,
And Austin with his style so rare,
And Poste's enticing pages.
We started well: the little inn
Was deadly dull and quiet,
As dull as Mrs. Wood's East Lynne,
Or as the verse of Wyatt.
Without distraction thus we read
From nine until eleven,
Then rowed and sailed until we fed
On potted char at seven.
Two hours of work! We could devote
Next day to recreation,
Much illness springs, so doctors note,
From lack of relaxation.
Let him read law on summer days,
Who has a soul that grovels;
Better one tale of Thackeray's
Than all Justinian's novels.
At noon we went upon the lake,
We could not stand the slowness
Of our lone inn, so dined on steak
(They called it steak) at Bowness.
We wrestled with the steak, when lo!
Rose Jack in such a hurry,
He saw a girl he used to know
In Suffolk or in Surrey.
What matter which? to think that she
Should lure him from his duty!
For Jack, I knew, would always be
A very slave to beauty.
And so it proved, alas! for Jack
Grew taciturn and thinner,
Was out all day alone, and back
Too often late for dinner.
What could I do? His walks and rows
All led to one conclusion;
I could not read; our work, heaven knows,
Was nothing but confusion.
Like Jack I went about alone,
Saw Wordsworth's writing-table,
And made the higher by a stone
The "man" upon Great Gable.
At last there came a sudden pause
To all his wanderings solus,
He learned what writers on the laws
Of Rome had meant by dolus.
The Suffolk (was it Surrey?) flirt
Without a pang threw over
Poor Jack and all his works like dirt,
And caught a richer lover.
We read one morning more to say
We had not been quite idle,
And then to end the arduous day
Enjoyed a swim in Rydal.
Next day the hundredweight of books
Was packed once more in cases,
We left the lakes and hills and brooks
And southward turned our faces.
Three months, and then the Oxford Schools;
Our unbelieving college
Saw better than ourselves what fools
Pretend sometimes to knowledge.
Curst questions! Jack did only one,
He gave as his opinion
That of the Roman jurists none
Had lived before Justinian.
I answered two, but all I did
Was lacking in discretion,
I reckoned guardianship amid
The vitia of possession.
My second shot was wider still,
I held that commodata
Could not attest a pr'tor's will
Because of culpa lata.
We waited fruitlessly that night,
There came no blue testamur,[A]
Nor was Jack's heavy heart made light
By that sweet word Amamur.
Rome: On The Palatine
by Thomas Hardy

(April, 1887)
We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile,
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show,
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico,
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.
And each ranked ruin tended to beguile
The outer sense, and shape itself as though
It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow
Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle.
When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head,
Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss:
It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house,
Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led,
And blended pulsing life with lives long done,
Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.
In The Garden
by Thomas Hardy

(M. H.)
We waited for the sun
To break its cloudy prison
(For day was not yet done,
And night still unbegun)
Leaning by the dial.
After many a trial -
We all silent there -
It burst as new-arisen,
Throwing a shade to where
Time travelled at that minute.
Little saw we in it,
But this much I know,
Of lookers on that shade,
Her towards whom it made
Soonest had to go.
1915.
The Immortal Strain
by Edward Dyson

'Late Midshipman John Travers (Chester), aged 16 years. He was mortally wounded early in the action, yet he remained alone in a most exposed post awaiting orders, with his gun's crew dead all round him.'
We told old stories one by one,
Brave tales of men who toyed with death,
Of wondrous deeds of valor done
In days of bold Elizabeth.
'Alas! our British stock,' said we,
'Is not now what it used to be.'
We read of Drake's great sailors, or
Of fighting men that Nelson led,
Who steered the walls of oak to war.
'These were our finest souls,' we said.
'Their fame is on the ocean writ,
Nor time, nor storm may cancel it.
'The mariners of England then
Were lords of battle and of breeze.
The were, indeed the wondrous men
Who won for us the shoreless seas,
Who took old Neptune's ruling brand
And set it in Britannia's hand.
'But now,' we sighed, 'the blood is pale,
We're little people of the street,
And dare not front the shrilling gale.
The sons of England are effete,
Of shorter limb and smaller mould,
Mere pigmies by the men of old.'
Then came the vibrant bugle note.
None cowered at the high alarm,
The steady fleets were still afloat,
And England saw her soldiers arm,
And readily, with sober grace.
The close-set ranks swung into place.
On sea and shore they fought again,
And storied heroes came to life,
Once more were added to the slain.
Once more found glory in the strife;
Again her yeoman sons arose;
A wall 'tween Britain and her foes.
The eager lads, with laughing lips
And souls elate, where oceans roar,
Or planes the eagle's flight eclipse,
Give all for her, and come no more;
Or where death thunders down the sky
Beside their silent guns they lie;
This boy who, while the iron rains
With seething riot whip the flood,
Fights on, till in his heart remains
No single drop of English blood,
Avers the British strain sublime,
Outliving Death, outlasting Time!
A Silent Te Deum
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

We thank Thee, Lord,
For all Thy Golden Silences,--
For every Sabbath from the world's turmoil;
For every respite from the stress of life;--
Silence of moorlands rolling to the skies,
Heath-purpled, bracken-clad, aflame with gorse;
Silence of grey tors crouching in the mist;
Silence of deep woods' mystic cloistered calm;
Silence of wide seas basking in the sun;
Silence of white peaks soaring to the blue;
Silence of dawnings, when, their matins sung,
The little birds do fall asleep again;
For the deep silence of high golden noons;
Silence of gloamings and the setting sun;
Silence of moonlit nights and patterned glades;
Silence of stars, magnificently still,
Yet ever chanting their Creator's skill;
For that high silence of Thine Open House,
Dim-branching roof and lofty-pillared aisle,
Where burdened hearts find rest in Thee awhile;
Silence of friendship, telling more than words;
Silence of hearts, close-knitting heart to heart
Silence of joys too wonderful for words;
Silence of sorrows, when Thou drawest near;
Silence of soul, wherein we come to Thee,
And find ourselves in Thine Immensity;
For that great silence where Thou dwell'st alone--
--Father, Spirit, Son, in One,
Keeping watch above Thine Own,--
Deep unto deep, within us sound sweet chords
Of praise beyond the reach of human words;
In our souls' silence, feeling only Thee,--
We thank Thee, thank Thee,
Thank Thee, Lord!
Sonnets I
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
Well, such you are,--but well enough we know
How thick about us root, how rankly grow
Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,
That flourish through neglect, and soon must send
Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow
Our steady senses; how such matters go
We are aware, and how such matters end.
Yet shall be told no meagre passion here;
With lovers such as we forevermore
Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere
Receives the Table's ruin through her door,
Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,
Lets fall the colored book upon the floor.