DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sympathy.
by Thomas Frederick Young

'Mid forces all, that work unseen,
And cheer or warm the human breast,
Thou, Sympathy, hath ever been,
In active power, amid the rest:
When raging hate, or heedless love,
Aspir'd to rule and reign alone,
Thou still did keep thy place above,
And rul'd serenely, from thy throne.
Thou ever dost assert thy right,
And walkest on thy gentle way,
To rule with mild, persuasive might,
But with a strong, unconscious sway,
What pow'r thou hast o'er human hearts
We daily feel, we daily see;
For men and women act their parts,
Encourag'd and upheld by thee.
For, in an unseen current runs,
From heart to heart, from soul to soul,
Thy force, like heat from genial suns,
To permeate and warm the whole.
Not always, tho', to warm and cheer.
At times thy influence is chill,
And checks the noble rage of thought,
As ice can check a flowing rill.
One cutting word of ours can wilt,
Or blast the young heart's fairest flow'r,
And tumble down air castles built,
By this unseen affection's pow'r.
That man is brave, who acts his part,
'Mid comrades faithful, known and brave,
But braver far is he, whose heart
Upholds itself upon the wave.
For men have shrunk with coward fright,
At terrors which they ne'er might feel,
Had Sympathy's strange, magic might
Inspir'd their hearts to face the steel.
The Power Of Woman.
by Friedrich Schiller

Mighty art thou, because of the peaceful charms of thy presence;
That which the silent does not, never the boastful can do.
Vigor in man I expect, the law in its honors maintaining,
But, through the graces alone, woman e'er rules or should rule.
Many, indeed, have ruled through the might of the spirit and action,
But then thou noblest of crowns, they were deficient in thee.
No real queen exists but the womanly beauty of woman;
Where it appears, it must rule; ruling because it appears!
Wytham Woods.
by Walter R. Cassels

'Mid the waving Woods of Wytham,
Now so far, so far from me,
Where the grand old beeches be,
And the deer-herds feeding by them:
'Mid the mossy Woods of Wytham,
Oft I roam in memory;
Down the grand wide-arching alleys,
Marged by plumy ferns and flowers,
Whence all through the noontide hours
Many a fearless leveret sallies;
For amid those grassy alleys
Never hound nor huntsman scours.
Still I see, through leafy casements,
Wytham Hall so quaint and old,
Remnant of the age of gold,
Gabled o'er from roof to basement
In most fanciful enlacement,
Looking far o'er wood and wold;
With the mere outspread before it;
Whitest swans upon its tide,
That in mystic beauty glide;
And the wild fowl flapping o'er it,
To the reeds that broadly shore it,
Spear-like, on the sunny side.
Through the waving Woods of Wytham,
Now so far, so far from me,
Where I roam in memory;
'Mid the leaves, or flashing by them,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
On my sunless heart gleams she.
Falling like the dreams of summer,
Making holy all the place,
Visions of that sweet pale face,
Sweeter than all dreams of summer,
Dearer than all dreams of summer,
Still in bower and glade I trace!
Still her eyes come deeply glowing
Through the leafy lattices;
And the rustle of the trees,
'Neath the west wind softly blowing,
Only emulates the flowing
Of her love-toned melodies.
Oh! those waving Woods of Wytham--
Ceased she thus to hover near
Radiant from her happy sphere,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
Never would I wander nigh them--
Madly weeping should I fly them,
Till their memory e'en grew sere.
But ah! no, in endless slimmer,
Roams my heart through Wytham Woods,
Meeting in their solitudes
Evermore that angel comer,
Sweeter than the light of summer
Making golden Wytham Woods,
Now so far, so far from me
In the world of Memory.
The Blood Of Christ.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Mentre m' attrista.
Mid weariness and woe I find some cheer
In thinking of the past, when I recall
My weakness and my sins, and reckon all
The vain expense of days that disappear:
This cheers by making, ere I die, more clear
The frailty of what men delight miscall;
But saddens me to think how rarely fall
God's grace and mercies in life's latest year.
For though Thy promises our faith compel,
Yet, Lord, what man shall venture to maintain
That pity will condone our long neglect?
Still from Thy blood poured forth we know full well
How without measure was Thy martyr's pain,
How measureless the gifts we dare expect.
Autumn
by Walter Savage Landor

Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
Mighty Eagle. Supposed To Be Addressed To William Godwin.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Mighty eagle! thou that soarest
O'er the misty mountain forest,
And amid the light of morning
Like a cloud of glory hiest,
And when night descends defiest
The embattled tempests' warning!
Midsummer Night, Not Dark, Not Light.
by Jean Ingelow

Midsummer night, not dark, not light,
Dusk all the scented air,
I'll e'en go forth to one I love,
And learn how he doth fare.
O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me,
The ring was a world too fine,
I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,
Or ever thou mad'st it mine.
Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through,
Where lone he sits apart,
Would I might steal his grief away
To hide in mine own heart.
Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair,
The sorrow that bows thy head,
Then - I would gather it, to thee unaware,
And break my heart in thy stead.
That charm'd flower, far from thy bower,
I'd bear the long hours through,
Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast
The sorrows twain should rue.
O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me.
The ring was a world too fine;
And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea,
Ere the morn that made it mine.
An Invitation, By Dr. Delany, In The Name Of Dr. Swift
by Jonathan Swift

Mighty Thomas, a solemn senatus[1] I call,
To consult for Sapphira;[2] so come one and all;
Quit books, and quit business, your cure and your care,
For a long winding walk, and a short bill of fare.
I've mutton for you, sir; and as for the ladies,
As friend Virgil has it, I've aliud mercedis;
For Letty,[3] one filbert, whereon to regale;
And a peach for pale Constance,[4] to make a full meal;
And for your cruel part, who take pleasure in blood,
I have that of the grape, which is ten times as good:
Flow wit to her honour, flow wine to her health:
High raised be her worth above titles or wealth.[5]
To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Vidi fra mille donne una gi' tale.
BEAUTY SHOWED ITSELF IN, AND DISAPPEARED WITH, LAURA.
'Mid many fair one such by me was seen
That amorous fears my heart did instant seize,
Beholding her--nor false the images--
Equal to angels in her heavenly mien.
Nothing in her was mortal or terrene,
As one whom nothing short of heaven can please;
My soul well train'd for her to burn and freeze
Sought in her wake to mount the blue serene.
But ah! too high for earthly wings to rise
Her pitch, and soon she wholly pass'd from sight:
The very thought still makes me cold and numb;
O beautiful and high and lustrous eyes,
Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright,
Found entrance in so fair a form to come.
MACGREGOR.
Prefatory Poem To My Brother's Sonnets
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Midnight June 30 1879
I.
Midnight'in no midsummer tune
The breakers lash the shores:
The cuckoo of a joyless June
Is calling out of doors:
And thou hast vanish'd from thine own
To that which looks like rest,
True brother, only to be known
By those who love thee best.
II.
Midnight'and joyless June gone by,
And from the deluged park
The cuckoo of a worse July
Is calling thro' the dark:
But thou art silent underground,
And o'er thee streams the rain,
True poet, surely to be found
When Truth is found again.
III.
And now, in these unsummer'd skies
The summer bird is still,
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries
From out a phantom hill;
And thro' this midnight breaks the sun
Of sixty years away,
The light of days when life begun,
The days that seem to-day,
When all my griefs were shared with thee,
As all my hopes were thine'
As all thou wert was one with me,
May all thou art be mine!
Born Of Water
by George MacDonald

Methought I stood among the stars alone,
Watching a grey parched orb which onward flew
Half blinded by the dusty winds that blew,
Empty as Death and barren as a stone,
The pleasant sound of water all unknown!
When, as I looked in wonderment, there grew,
High in the air above, a drop of dew,
Which, gathering slowly through long cycles, shone
Like a great tear; and then at last it fell
Clasping the orb, which drank it greedily,
With a delicious noise and upward swell
Of sweet cool joy that tossed me like a sea;
And then the thick life sprang as from a grave,
With trees, flowers, boats upon the bounding wave!
Methought I Saw The Footsteps Of A Throne
by William Wordsworth

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
Rhymes And Rhythms - X
by William Ernest Henley

Midsummer midnight skies,
Midsummer midnight influences and airs,
The shining sensitive silver of the sea
Touched with the strange-hued blazonings of dawn:
And all so solemnly still I seem to hear
The breathing of Life and Death,
The secular Accomplices,
Renewing the visible miracle of the world.
The wistful stars
Shine like good memories.    The young morning wind
Blows full of unforgotten hours
As over a region of roses.    Life and Death
Sound on, sound on. . . . And the night magical,
Troubled yet comforting, thrills
As if the Enchanted Castle at the heart
Of the wood's dark wonderment
Swung wide his valves and filled the dim sea-banks
With exquisite visitants:
Words fiery-hearted yet, dreams and desires
With living looks intolerable, regrets
Whose voice comes as the voice of an only child
Heard from the grave: shapes of a Might-Have-Been,
Beautiful, miserable, distraught,
The Law no man may baffle denied and slew.
The spell-bound ships stand as at gaze
To let the marvel by.    The grey road glooms . . .
Glimmers . . . goes out . . . and there, O there where it fades,
What grace, what glamour, what wild will,
Transfigure the shadows?    Whose,
Heart of my heart, Soul of my soul, but yours?
Ghosts, ghosts, the sapphirine air
Teems with them even to the gleaming ends
Of the wild day-spring!    Ghosts,
Everywhere, everywhere, till I and you
At last, dear love, at last!
Are in the dreaming, even as Life and Death,
Twin-ministers of the unoriginal Will.
Love's Mirage
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Midway upon the route, he paused athirst
And suddenly across the wastes of heat,
He saw cool waters gleaming, and a sweet
Green oasis upon his vision burst.
A tender dream, long in his bosom nursed,
Spread love's illusive verdure for his feet;
The barren sands changed into golden wheat;
The way grew glad that late had seemed accursed.
She shone, the woman wonder, on his soul;
The garden spot, for which men toil and wait;
The house of rest, that is each heart's demand;
But when, at last, he reached the gleaming goal,
He found, oh, cruel irony of fate,
But desert sun upon the desert sand.
Fragment: 'Methought I Was A Billow In The Crowd'.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Methought I was a billow in the crowd
Of common men, that stream without a shore,
That ocean which at once is deaf and loud;
That I, a man, stood amid many more
By a wayside..., which the aspect bore
Of some imperial metropolis,
Where mighty shapes - pyramid, dome, and tower -
Gleamed like a pile of crags -
Sonnet VII. To The Evening Rainbow.
by Robert Southey

Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile
Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile,
That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that Piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace
Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
To Charlotte.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

'Midst the noise of merriment and glee,
'Midst full many a sorrow, many a care,
Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,
How, at evening's hour so fair,
Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,
When thou, in some happy place
Where more fair is Nature s face,
Many a lightly-hidden trace
Of a spirit loved didst teach us.
Well 'tis that thy worth I rightly knew, 
That I, in the hour when first we met,
While the first impression fill'd me yet,
Call'd thee then a girl both good and true.
Rear'd in silence, calmly, knowing nought,
On the world we suddenly are thrown;
Hundred thousand billows round us sport;
All things charm us many please alone,
Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing,
To and fro our restless natures sway;
First we feel, and then we find each feeling
By the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us find
Many a hope and many a smart.
Charlotte, who can know our mind?
Charlotte, who can know our heart?
Ah! 'twould fain be understood, 'twould fain o'erflow
In some creature's fellow-feelings blest,
And, with trust, in twofold measure know
All the grief and joy in Nature's breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast,
But in vain, for all seems closed for ever.
Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass'd
Free from storm, but resting never:
To thy sorrow thou'rt to-day repell'd
By what yesterday obey'd thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy held
Which so oft betray'd thee?
Which, 'mid all thy pleasures and thy pains,
Lived in selfish, unconcern'd repose?
See, the soul its secret cells regains,
And the heart makes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee;
"She's worthy of all love!" I cried,
And pray'd that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee,
Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied.
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 IV. To The Sons Of Burns - After Visiting The Grave Of Their Father
by William Wordsworth

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!
Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.
Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed
The social hour, of tenfold care
There will be need;
For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.
Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;
There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;
Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows
Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;
His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;
Nor deem that "light which leads astray,
Is light from Heaven."
Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
And such revere;
But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!
The Orchard.
by William Morris

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,
The world without is waste and worn,
But here within our orchard-close,
The guerdon of its labour shows.
O valiant Earth, O happy year
That mocks the threat of winter near,
And hangs aloft from tree to tree
The banners of the Spring to be.
Another To Neptune.
by Robert Herrick

Mighty Neptune, may it please
Thee, the rector of the seas,
That my barque may safely run
Through thy watery region;
And a tunny-fish shall be
Offered up with thanks to thee.
Overshadowed.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."
Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,
In the hot hush of noon,
I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.
Surely He will come soon.
Surely the Healer will not pass me by,
But listen to my cry.
Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,
Heavy the load I bear;
But He will come ere evening. Soon or late
I shall behold Him there;
Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;
"What wilt thou that I do?"
"If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."
Thus shall I answer swift.
And He will touch me, as He walks serene;
And I shall rise and lift
This couch, so long my prison-house of pain,
And be made whole again.
He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.
The multitudes press on
After some leader. Surely He is come!
He nears me; He is gone!
Only His shadow reached me, as He went;
Yet here I rest content.
In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,
A heavenly patience lay;
Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;
My pains all fled away,--
The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;
I am indeed "made whole."
It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine
Was turned to other men.
Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,
Thou wilt come once again;
And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,
What must Thy presence be?
Mi Darling Muse.
by John Hartley

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her,
To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better;
An' if aw find aw connot get her
To lend her aid,
Into foorced measure then aw set her,
The stupid jade!
An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly,
Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly,
Place all the blame, - yo'll place it reightly,
Upon her back;
To win her smile aw follow neetly,
Along her track.
Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly,
An let me taste o' melancholy;
But just to spite her awl be jolly,
An say mi say;
Awl fire away another volley
Tho' shoo says "Nay."
We've had some happy times together,
For monny years we've stretched our tether,
An as aw dunnot care a feather
For fowk 'at grummel,
We'll have another try. Aye! whether
We stand or tummel.
Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble,
Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble,
But th' harvest someday may be double,
At least we'll trust it;
An them 'at say it's but a bubble,
We'll leeav to brust it.
Watch-Night
by Mary Hannay Foott

Midnight, musical and splendid,
And the Old Year's life is ended,
And the New, 'born in the purple,' babe yet crowned, among us dwells;
While Creation's welcome swells,
Starlight all the heavens pervading,
And the whole world serenading
Him, at birth, with all its bells!
Round the cradle of the tender
Flows the music, shines the splendor;
It is early yet for counsel, but bethink how Hermes gave,
(While the Myths were bright and brave),
Thwarted Phoebus no small battle,
Seeking back his lifted cattle,
Hour-old Hermes, in his cave!
New Year, if thy youth should blind us
Thy swift feet, perchance, may find us
Sleeping in the dark, unguarded, as the sun-god's herds were found!
Lest, unready, on his round
We be hurried, World, take warning
That already it is morning
And a giant is unbound!
Idle-handed yet, but willing,
Let us ponder ere the filling
Of his empty eager fingers with our heedless hot behest.
Be our failures frank-confessed,
'Mid the gush of gladsome greeting
Requiem in our hearts repeating
For the years that died unblest.
How they came to us, so precious!
How abode with us, so gracious!
Blindly doing all our bidding; stronger, swifter than we thought.
Like the sprites by magic brought;
Shaping dream to action for us;
Till we stood, beset with sorrows,
Wondering what ourselves had wrought!
Ere the tightening of the tether
Bind THIS YEAR and us together,
Let us pause awhile and ponder, 'Whither tend we side by side,
He who gallops, we who guide?
Once we start, like lost LENORE,
Sung in B?rger's ballad-story,
Fast as ODIN'S Hunt, we ride!
The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XXIV - The Resting Place
by William Wordsworth

Mid-noon is past; upon the sultry mead
No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws:
If we advance unstrengthened by repose,
Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed!
This Nook with woodbine hung and straggling weed
Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose,
Half grot, half arbour, proffers to enclose
Body and mind, from molestation freed,
In narrow compass, narrow as itself:
Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf,
Be loth that we should breathe awhile exempt
From new incitements friendly to our task,
Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt
Loose Idless to forego her wily mask.
Sonnets. XIX
by John Milton

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin'd
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
Arms And The Man. - The Old Dominion.
by James Barron Hope

Midway between the orange and the snows
As some fair planet rounds up from the sea,
Eldest of all, the Central Power arose
In vague immensity.
She stretched from Seas in sun to Lakes in Shade,
O'erstepped swift Rio Escondido's stream - 
Her bounds expressed, as by the Tudor made,
An Alexander's dream.
And liberal Stuart granted broad and free
Bound'ries which still the annalist may boast - 
Limits which ran "throughout from sea to sea,"
And far along the coast!
A mighty shaft through Raleigh's fingers slipped,
Smith shot it, and - a Continent awoke!
For that great arrow with an acorn tipped,
Planted an English Oak!
Sailing Beyond Seas.
by Jean Ingelow

(Old Style.)
Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurled;
I said, "I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world."
I stepped aboard, - we sailed so fast, - 
The sun shot up from the bourne;
But a dove that perched upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.
My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I looked in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourned on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
O last love! O first love!
My love with the true heart,
To think I have come to this your home,
And yet - we are apart!
My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet.
Methought he said, "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet!
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place, - no part, - 
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourne,
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast,
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
The Dream.
by Robert Herrick

Methought last night Love in an anger came
And brought a rod, so whipt me with the same;
Myrtle the twigs were, merely to imply
Love strikes, but 'tis with gentle cruelty.
Patient I was: Love pitiful grew then
And strok'd the stripes, and I was whole again.
Thus, like a bee, Love gentle still doth bring
Honey to salve where he before did sting.