DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Laughing Song
by William Blake

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
when the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, ha he!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!"
Triolet.
by George MacDonald

When the heart is a cup
In the body low lying,
And wine, drop by drop
Falls into that cup
From somewhere high up,
It is good to be dying
With the heart for a cup
In the body low lying.
Her Star.
by Charles Sangster

When the heavens throb and vibrate
All along their silver veins,
To the mellow storm of music
Sweeping o'er the starry trains,
Heard by few, as erst by shepherds
On the far Chaldean plains:
Not the blazing, torch-like planets,
Not the Pleiads wild and free,
Not Arcturus, Mars, Uranus,
Bring the brightest dreams to me;
But I gaze in rapt devotion
On the central star of three.
Central star of three that tingle
In the balmy southern sky;
One above, and one below it,
Dreamily they pale and die,
As two lesser minds might dwindle,
When some great soul, passing by,
Stops, and reads their cherished secrets,
With a calm and godlike air,
Luring all their radiance from them
Leaving a dim twilight there,
Something vague, and half unreal,
Like the Alpha of despair.
Gazing thus, and holding converse
With the silence of my heart,
I would speak with famed Orion,
I would question it apart,
Wrest her love's strange secret from it,
If there's strength in human art.
And there come to me sweet whispers,
Half in answer, half in thought: - 
"Be but strong, impassioned mortal!
Love will come to thee unsought;
Love is the divine Irene, - 
It is given, and not bought.
[Transcriber's note: In the original book,
the e's in the "Irene" in the above verse
were e-macrons, Unicode U+0113.]
Strong of heart.    Be wise, be steadfast,
Learn, endeavour, and endure;
Blest with strength and light, in wisdom
Make the higher purpose sure;
Never can her heart receive thee
Till thine own is rendered pure.
I but shone in truth above her;
Psyche-like, she yearned to me,
And her soul, an Aphrodite,
Rose above the ether sea.
Love.    Love should and will inherit
The divine Euphrosyne."
When at night, the gleaming heavens
Throb through all their starry veins,
Oft I ponder on Orion,
And I hear celestial strains
Passing through my soul, and flooding
All its green immortal plains.
Then I pray for strength Promethean,
Pray for power to endure;
Then I say, O soul, be steadfast!
Make the lofty purpose sure;
And that love may be all-worthy,
God of heaven, make me pure!
At Sea
by John Charles McNeill

When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion,
Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod,
We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean,
A great gray hush, like the shadow of God.
The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder
A circle of sea from the darkened land,--
A circle of tremulous waste and wonder,
O'er which one groped with a childish hand.
The true stars came to their stations in heaven,
The false stars shivered deep down in the sea,
And the white crests went like monsters, driven
By winds that never would let them be,
And there, where the elements mingled and muttered,
We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart,
Full of the vastness that never was uttered
By symbol of words or by echo of art.
The Eye That Never Sleeps
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

When the heavy, midnight shadows
Gather o'er a slumbering world,
And the banner folds of darkness
Are in gloomy pomp unfurled, - 
Think, lone watcher, pale and tearful,
In thy sad, unpitied lot,
By the death couch waking, weeping,
There is One who slumbers not! - 
One who, though no mourning brother
Share thy vigils lone and drear,
Loving, pitying, as no other
Loves or pities, watches near!
When the waves, o'erwrought by tempest,
Lift their strong arms to the skies,
And amid the inky darkness
Shrieks of winds and waters rise, - 
Mariner, 'mid doubt and danger,
Wildly tossed upon the deep,
Think, o'er all in power presiding
There is One who does not sleep - 
One who holds the risen tempest
In obedience to His will,
Who, to still its wildest fury,
Need but whisper - "Peace, be still"
When, weighed down by heavy anguish,
Waking, sad, at midnight lone,
Sorrowing mourner, thou dost languish
For affection's missing tone, - 
When thy heart o'er buried treasures
In its uncheered misery weeps,
Think, that gently watching o'er thee,
Is an eye that never sleeps!
And, above the mournful shadows,
Lift thy heart so lone and riven,
Up to Him who 'mid thy sorrows
Wooes thee still to hope and Heaven
When The Great Ark
by Rudyard Kipling

When the Great Ark, in Vigo Bay,
Rode stately through the half-manned fleet,
From every ship about her way
She heard the mariners entreat
Before we take the seas again
Let down your boats and send us men!
"We have no lack of victual here
With work God knows! enough for all,
To hand and reef and watch and steer,
Because our present strength is small.
While your three decks are crowded so
Your crews can scarcely stand or go.
"In war, your numbers do but raise
Confusion and divided will;
In storm, the mindless deep obeys
Not multitudes but single skills.
In calm, your numbers, closely pressed,
Must breed a mutiny or pest.
"We even on unchallenged seas,
Dare not adventure where we would,
But forfeit brave advantages
For lack of men to make 'em good;
Whereby, to England's double cost,
Honour and profit both are lost!"
When the eye of day is shut,
by Alfred Edward Housman

When the eye of day is shut,
And the stars deny their beams,
And about the forest hut
Blows the roaring wood of dreams,
From deep clay, from desert rock,
From the sunk sands of the main,
Come not at my door to knock,
Hearts that loved me not again.
Sleep, be still, turn to your rest
In the lands where you are laid;
In far lodgings east and west
Lie down on the beds you made.
In gross marl, in blowing dust,
In the drowned ooze of the sea,
Where you would not, lie you must,
Lie you must, and not with me.
In A Garden
by Elizabeth Jennings

When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden
And even more so since the gardener went,
Quietly godlike, but of course, he had
Not made me promise anything and I
Had no one tempting me to make the bad
Choice. Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.
Even the beech tree from next door which shares
Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares
In the wrong way. I need not have stood long
Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet
I did. Sickness for Eden was so strong.
Hymn Of The Moravian Nuns Of Bethlehem, At The Consecration Of Pulaski's Banner.
by William Henry Giles Kingston

When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
"Take thy banner!    May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflicts shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it! - till our homes are free!
Guard it! - God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
"Take thy banner!    But, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! - By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him! - he our love hath shared!
Spare him! - as thou wouldst be spared!
"Take thy banner! and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee."
The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud!
I Was There
by Joseph Horatio Chant

When the French soldier from the field returned,
Begrimed with smoke and blood, he felt content,
As from Napoleon he this fact had learned,
That thro' his marshall, medals would be sent,
The name of battlefield each one would bear,
And, also, in large letters, "I was there."
In others' triumphs we may well rejoice,
If in their triumphs good to us redounds;
But in the glory we can have no choice,
And our rejoicings are but empty sounds.
If you would in the victor's glory share,
Be then prepared to add this, "I was there!"
The victor's joy belongs to him alone;
He stood his ground 'midst storms of shot and shell;
Thro' his brave stand the foe has been o'erthrown,
And he alone the victor's tale can tell.
He now lies down to die 'neath glory's glare,
For he can say to others, "I was there!"
Not in some neutral nook must we remain;
The battle rages, we must share the strife;
The world, once lost, we must for Christ regain,
And each lay hold upon eternal life.
Who share His conflicts will His glory share;
Then looking down to earth say, "I was there!"
Those who before the throne are robed in white,
Passed thro' the conflict and the foe o'ercame;
Boldly they stood as champions for the right,
And thus have won thro' grace enduring fame,
And when the roll is called, each will declare,
"Here am I, Lord, I fought for Thee down there!"
Pansies.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

When the earliest south winds softly blow
Over the brown earth, and the waning snow
In the last days of the discrowned March,--
Before the silver tassels of the larch,
Or any tiniest bud or blade is seen;
Or in the woods the faintest kindling green,
And all the earth is veiled in azure mist,
Waiting the far-off kisses of the sun,--
They lift their bright heads shyly one by one.
And offer each, in cups of amethyst,
Drops of the honey wine of fairy land,--
A brimming beaker poised in either hand
Fit for the revels of King Oberon,
With all his royal gold and purple on:
Children of pensive thought and airy fancies,
Sweeter than any poet's sweetest stanzas,
Though to the sound of eloquent music told,
Or by the lips of beauty breathed or sung:
They thrill us with their backward-looking glances,
They bring us to the land that ne'er grows old,--
They mind us of the days when life was young
Nor time had stolen the fire from youth's romances,
Dear English pansies!
While still the hyacinth sleeps on securely,
And every lily leaf is folded purely,
Nor any purple crocus hath arisen;
Nor any tulip raised its slender stem,
And burst the earth-walls of its winter prison,
And donned its gold and jewelled diadem;
Nor by the brookside in the mossy hollow,
That calls to every truant foot to follow,
The cowslip yet hath hung its golden ball,--
In the wild and treacherous March weather,
The pansy and the sunshine come together,
The sweetest flower of all!
The sweetest flower that blows;
Sweeter than any rose,
Or that shy blossom opening in the night,
Its waxen vase of aromatic light--
A sleepy incense to the winking stars;
Nor yet in summer heats,
That crisp the city streets,--
Where the spiked mullein grows beside the bars
In country places, and the ox-eyed daisy
Blooms in the meadow grass, and brooks are lazy,
And scarcely murmur in the twinkling heat;
When sound of babbling water is so sweet,
Blue asters, and the purple orchis tall,
Bend o'er the wimpling wave together;--
The pansy blooms through all the summer weather,
The sweetest flower of all!
The sweetest flower that blows!
When all the rest are scattered and departed,
The symbol of the brave and faithful-hearted,
Her bright corolla glows.
When leaves hang pendant on their withered stalks,
Through all the half-deserted garden walks;
And through long autumn nights,
The merry dancers scale the northern heights,
And tiny crystal points of frost-white fire
Make brightly scintillant each blade and spire,
Still under shade of shelt'ring wall,
Or under winter's shroud of snows,
Undimmed, the faithful pansy blows,
The sweetest flower of all!
From Idyl XXII.  (Pictures From Theocritus - From Idyl I.)
by William Lisle Bowles

When the famed Argo now secure had passed
The crushing rocks,[1] and that terrific strait
That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship
Reached wild Bebrycia's shores; bearing like gods
Her god-descended chiefs. They, from her sides,
With scaling steps descend, and on the shore,
Savage, and sad, and beat by ocean winds,
Strewed their rough beds, and on the casual fire
The vessels place. The brothers, by themselves,
CASTOR and red-haired POLLUX, wander far
Into the forest solitudes. A wood
Immense and dark, shagging the mountain side,
Before them rose; a cold and sparkling fount
Welled with perpetual lapse, beneath its feet,
Of purest water clear; scattering below,
Streams as of silver and of crystal rose,
Bright from the bottom: Pines, of stateliest height,
Poplar, and plane, and cypress, branching wide,
Were near, thick bordered by the scented flowers
That lured the honeyed bee, when spring declines,
Thick swarming o'er the meadows. There all day
A huge man sat, of savage, wild aspect;
His breast stood roundly forward, his broad back
Seemed as of iron, such as might befit
A vast Colossus sculptured. Full to view
The muscles of his brawny shoulders stood,
Like the round mountain-stones the torrent wave
Has polished; from his neck and back hung down
A lion's skin, held by its claws. Him first
The red-haired youth addressed: Hail, stranger, hail,
And say, what tribes unknown inhabit here!
Take to the seas thy Hail: I ask it not,
Who never saw before, or thee, or thine.
Courage! thou seest not men that are unjust
Or cruel.
Courage shall I learn from thee!
Thy heart is savage; thou art passion's slave.
Such as I am thou seest; but land of thine
I tread not.
Come, these hospitable gifts
Accept, and part in peace.
No: not from thee.
My gifts are yet in store.
Say, may we drink
Of this clear fount?
Ask, when wan thirst has parched
Thy lips.
What present shall I give to thee?
None. Stand before me as a man; lift high
Thy brandished arms, and try, weak pugilist,
Thy strength.
But say, with whom shall I contend?
Thou seest him here; nor in his art unskilled.
Then what shall be the prize of him who wins?
Or thou shalt be my slave, or I be thine.
The crested birds so fight.
Whether like birds
Or lions, for no other prize fight we!
He said: and sounded loud his hollow conch;
The gaunt Bebrycian brethren, at the sound,
With long lank hair, come flocking to the shade
Of that vast plain.
Then Castor hied, and called
The hero chiefs from the Magnesian[2] ship.
Prothalamion
by Francis Brett Young

When the evening came my love said to me:
Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool;
The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,
Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.
Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heat
Of day had waned; and round that shaded plot
Of secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:
Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.
Between that old garden and seas of lazy foam
Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise
With spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,
So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies:
Veiled with a soft air, drench'd in the roses' musk
Or the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove:
No stars burned in their deeps, but through the dusk
I saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.
No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon
Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:
Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,
The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.
For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now
Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,
Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough -
Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?
Was ever a moment meeter made for love?
Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;
And all your yielding sweetness beautiful -
Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!
Gulls
by Virna Sheard

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim - 
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the water's distant rim!
Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,
A courage that cannot fail,
They face the breakers - they face the night - 
The mad storm-horses are silvery white,
They ride through the bitter gale!
They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,
Who breasted the ocean-main - 
Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,
Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,
And never came home again.
Or stranger and wilder fancy - it seems
As I hear their wind-torn cry,
No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams,
But the wraiths of hopes - the ghosts of dreams
That the old sea-gods saw die.
When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim - 
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the far horizon's rim.
The Boundaries Of Humanity.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

When the primeval
All-holy Father
Sows with a tranquil hand
From clouds, as they roll,
Bliss-spreading lightnings
Over the earth,
Then do I kiss the last
Hem of his garment,
While by a childlike awe
Fiil'd is my breast.
For with immortals
Ne'er may a mortal
Measure himself.
If he soar upwards
And if he touch
With his forehead the stars,
Nowhere will rest then
His insecure feet,
And with him sport
Tempest and cloud.
Though with firm sinewy
Limbs he may stand
On the enduring
Well-grounded earth,
All he is ever
Able to do,
Is to resemble
The oak or the vine.
Wherein do gods
Differ from mortals?
In that the former
See endless billows
Heaving before them;
Us doth the billow
Lift up and swallow,
So that we perish.
Small is the ring
Enclosing our life,
And whole generations
Link themselves firmly
On to existence's
Chain never-ending.
Eternal Rest
by Enid Derham

When the impatient spirit leaves behind
The clogging hours and makes no dear delay
To drop this Nessus-shirt of night and day,
To cast the flesh that bound and could not bind
The heart untamable, the tireless mind,
In equal dissolution shall the clay
That once was seer or singer flee away,
It shall be fire and blown upon the wind.
Not us befits such change in radiance dressed,
Not us, O Earth, for whom thou biddest cease
Our grey endurance of the dark and cold.
These eyes have watched with grief, and now would rest;
Rest we desire, and on thy bosom's peace
The long slow change to unremembering mould.
An April Aria.
by George Parsons Lathrop

When the mornings dankly fall
With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
And the tree-boughs creak and strain
In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
And the frogs at evening croak
Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow, - 
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow, - 
I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
To touch and turn me sad.
In The Lane
by Madison Julius Cawein

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock,
And summer is near its close
It's Oh, for the gate and the locust lane.
And dusk and dew and home again!
When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,
And ghosts of the mists ascend,
And the evening-star is a lamp i' the skies,
And summer is near its end.
It's Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,
And the twilight peace and the tryst again!
When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,
That leans to the rippling Run,
And the wind is a wildwood melody
And summer is almost done
It's Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,
And the fragrant hush and her hands again!
When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,
And woods are cool and wan,
And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,
And summer' is nearly gone
It's Oh, for the rock and the woodland lane
And the silence and stars and her lips again!
When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs,
And musk-melons split with sweet,
And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house,
And summer has spent its heat
It's Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,
And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - VI
by Alfred Edward Housman

When the lad for longing sighs,
Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death's own door he lies,
Maiden, you can heal his ail.
Lovers' ills are all to buy:
The wan look, the hollow tone,
The hung head, the sunken eye,
You can have them for your own.
Buy them, buy them: eve and morn
Lovers' ills are all to sell.
Then you can lie down forlorn;
But the lover will be well.
The Lamplighter
by Walter De La Mare

When the light of day declineth,
And a swift angel through the sky
Kindleth God's tapers clear,
With ashen staff the lamplighter
Passeth along the darkling streets
To light our earthly lamps;
Lest, prowling in the darkness,
The thief should haunt with quiet tread,
Or men on evil errands set;
Or wayfarers be benighted;
Or neighbours bent from house to house
Should need a guiding torch.
He is like a needlewoman
Who deftly on a sable hem
Stitches in gleaming jewels;
Or, haply, he is like a hero,
Whose bright deeds on the long journey
Are beacons on our way.
And when in the East cometh morning,
And the broad splendour of the sun,
Then, with the tune of little birds
Ringing on high, the lamplighter
Passeth by each quiet house,
And putteth out the lamps.
The Lullaby
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When the long day leans to the twilight,
When the Evening star climbs to the moon,
With a heart that is silently breaking,
I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling,
My wee one, my baby, my own;
Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,
Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.
Alone with no arms to enfold her,
Alone with no pillowing breast,
Alone with no hand on her cradle,
To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight,
Is silenced my broken heart's cry;
And I sit where I sat with my darling,
And sing her the old lullaby.
Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,
The sorrow that makes the days long;
As I sit in the twilight there rocking,
And singing that lullaby song.
But I think my wee darling rests better
As the night shadows lengthen, and creep
Across her low bed, in the churchyard,
If her mother's voice sings her to sleep.
And so with a heart that is breaking
I sing the old 'Lullaby dear'
That hushed her so oft into slumber -
O baby -my own -do you hear?