DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Old Spring-House.
by George W. Doneghy

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof--
('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)--
It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears;
And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!
Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill,
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play,
And wade in the branch that flowed on its way
Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet,
And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet!
And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill
Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill!
And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes,
With glances as tender and soft as the skies,
And a little brown head that was covered with curls,
And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls,
Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe
When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe!
Distilled by the heart into memory's wine,
'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine,
And lighten the burdens which after years bear,
And banish with dreaming the demon of Care!
O in fond recollection I linger there still,
By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill!
Though vanished forever the faces that smiled,
And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child--
Yet often when musing they float back to me,
And I see them and hear it as clear as can be!
And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill,
By the old spring house at the foot of the hill!
Two.
by Madison Julius Cawein

With her soft face half turned to me,
Like an arrested moonbeam, she
Stood in the cirque of that deep tree.
I took her by the hands; she raised
Her face to mine; and, half amazed,
Remembered; and we stood and gazed.
How good to kiss her throat and hair,
And say no word! - Her throat was bare;
As some moon-fungus white and fair.
Had God not giv'n us life for this?
The world-old, amorous happiness
Of arms that clasp, and lips that kiss!
The eloquence of limbs and arms!
The rhetoric of breasts, whose charms
Say to the sluggish blood what warms!
Had God or Fiend assigned this hour
That bloomed, - where love had all of power, - 
The senses' aphrodisiac flower?
The dawn was far away. Nude night
Hung savage stars of sultry white
Around her bosom's Ethiop light.
Night! night, who gave us each to each,
Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,
With life's best gift within our reach.
And here it was - between the goals
Of flesh and spirit, sex controls - 
Took place the marriage of our souls.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXXI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

With how sad steps, O Moone, thou climbst the skies!
How silently, and with how wanne a face!
What, may it be that euen in heau'nly place
That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?
Sure, if that long-with-loue-acquainted eyes
Can iudge of loue, thou feel'st a louers case,
I reade it in thy lookes: thy languist grace,
To me that feele the like, thy state discries.
Then, eu'n of fellowship, O Moone, tell me,
Is constant loue deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they aboue loue to be lou'd, and yet
Those louers scorn whom that loue doth possesse?
Do they call vertue there vngratefulnesse?
To A Friend.
by Thomas Frederick Young

With kindly thoughts full oft we've met,
And bow'd at Friendship's sacred shrine;
Oh, may we ne'er those thoughts forget,
But may they still our hearts entwine.
May both retain those feelings long,
Which prompt the words of friendly tongue,
May I not fail to think of thee,
Nor you to think of T. F. Young.
The Torrent And The River.
by Jean de La Fontaine

With mighty rush and roar,
Adown a mountain steep
A torrent tumbled, - swelling o'er
Its rugged banks, - and bore
Vast ruin in its sweep.
The traveller were surely rash
To brave its whirling, foaming dash,
But one, by robbers sorely press'd,
Its terrors haply put to test.
They were but threats of foam and sound,
The loudest where the least profound.
With courage from his safe success,
His foes continuing to press,
He met a river in his course:
On stole its waters, calm and deep,
So silently they seem'd asleep,
All sweetly cradled, as I ween,
In sloping banks, and gravel clean, - 
They threaten'd neither man nor horse.
Both ventured; but the noble steed,
That saved from robbers by his speed,
From that deep water could not save;
Both went to drink the Stygian wave;
Both went to cross, (but not to swim,)
Where reigns a monarch stern and grim,
Far other streams than ours.
Still men are men of dangerous powers;
Elsewhere, 'tis only ignorance that cowers.
Upon Sibilla.
by Robert Herrick

With paste of almonds, Syb her hands doth scour;
Then gives it to the children to devour.
In cream she bathes her thighs, more soft than silk;
Then to the poor she freely gives the milk.
In November
by Archibald Lampman

With loitering step and quiet eye,
Beneath the low November sky,
I wandered in the woods, and found
A clearing, where the broken ground
Was scattered with black stumps and briers,
And the old wreck of forest fires.
It was a bleak and sandy spot,
And, all about, the vacant plot
Was peopled and inhabited
By scores of mulleins long since dead.
A silent and forsaken brood
In that mute opening of the wood,
So shrivelled and so thin they were,
So gray, so haggard, and austere,
Not plants at all they seemed to me,
But rather some spare company
Of hermit folk, who long ago,
Wandering in bodies to and fro,
Had chanced upon this lonely way,
And rested thus, till death one day
Surprised them at their compline prayer,
And left them standing lifeless there.
There was no sound about the wood
Save the wind's secret stir. I stood
Among the mullein-stalks as still
As if myself had grown to be
One of their sombre company,
A body without wish or will.
And as I stood, quite suddenly,
Down from a furrow in the sky
The sun shone out a little space
Across that silent sober place,
Over the sand heaps and brown sod,
The mulleins and dead goldenrod,
And passed beyond the thickets gray,
And lit the fallen leaves that lay,
Level and deep within the wood,
A rustling yellow multitude.
And all around me the thin light,
So sere, so melancholy bright,
Fell like the half-reflected gleam
Or shadow of some former dream;
A moment's golden revery
Poured out on every plant and tree
A semblance of weird joy, or less,
A sort of spectral happiness;
And I, too, standing idly there,
With muffled hands in the chill air,
Felt the warm glow about my feet,
And shuddering betwixt cold and heat,
Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak,
While something in my blood awoke,
A nameless and unnatural cheer,
A pleasure secret and austere.
Sonnet XLVII. On Mr. Sargent's Dramatic Poem, The Mine[1].
by Anna Seward

With lyre Orphean, see a Bard explore
The central caverns of the mornless Night,
Where never Muse perform'd harmonious rite
Till now! - and lo! upon the sparry floor,
Advance, to welcome him, each Sister Power,
Petra, stern Queen, Fossilia, cold and bright,
And call their Gnomes, to marshal in his sight
The gelid incrust, and the veined ore,
And flashing gem. - Then, while his songs pourtray
The mystic virtues gold and gems acquire,
With every charm that mineral scenes display,
Th' imperial Sisters praise the daring Lyre,
And grateful hail its new and powerful lay,
That seats them high amid the Muses' Choir.
1: Petra, and Fossilia, are Personifications of the first and last division of the Fossil Kingdom. The Author of this beautiful Poem supposes the Gnomes to be Spirits of the Mine, performing the behests of Petra and Fossilia, as the Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, &c. appear as Handmaids of the Nymph of Botany in that exquisite sport of Imagination, THE BOTANIC GARDEN.
With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb'st The Sky
by William Wordsworth

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!"
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
Should sally forth, to keep thee company,
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
Winter.
by H. P. Nichols

With my breath so keen and chilling,
I have stripped the branches bare;
And my snow-flakes white are filling,
Feather-like, the frosty air.
Coming o'er the lofty mountains,
There I left a robe of white;
I have locked the sparkling fountains,
I have chained the river bright.
O'er the quiet valley winging,
There I left my traces, too;
Hark! the merry sleigh-bells ringing,
With their music call on you.
I have come! The school-boy shouting,
Joyfully brings out his sled;
He has seen me, nothing doubting,
As across the fields he sped.
I have come; but shall I find you
Better than the former year?
If you've cast your faults behind you,
I shall gladly greet you here.
Verses Left By Mr. Pope
by Alexander Pope

With no poetic ardour fir'd
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov'd, or here expir'd,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof ' the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
Five Criticisms - III.
by Alfred Noyes

(On Certain of the Bolsheviki "Idealists.")
With half the force and thought you waste in rage
Over your neighbor's house, or heart of stone,
You might have built your own new heritage,
O fools, have you no hands, then, of your own?
Where is your pride? Is this your answer still,
This the red flag that burns above our strife,
This the new cry that rings from Pisgah hill,
"Our neighbor's money, or our neighbor's life"?
Be prouder. Let us build that nobler state
With our own hands, with our own muscle and brain!
Your very victories die in hymns of hate;
And your own envies are your heaviest chain.
Is there no rebel proud enough to say
"We'll stand on our own feet, and win the day"?
Epigram On The Busts[1] In Richmond Hermitage. 1732
by Jonathan Swift

"Sic siti laetantur docti."
With honour thus by Carolina placed,
How are these venerable bustoes graced!
O queen, with more than regal title crown'd,
For love of arts and piety renown'd!
How do the friends of virtue joy to see
Her darling sons exalted thus by thee!
Nought to their fame can now be added more,
Revered by her whom all mankind adore.[2]
To The Golden Wife
by Richard Le Gallienne

With laughter always on the darkest day,
She danced before the very face of dread,
Starry companion of my mortal way,
Pre-destined merrily to be my mate,
With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate:
"For this it was that you and I were wed - 
What else?" she smiled and said.
Fair-weather wives are any man's to find,
The pretty sisters of the butterfly,
Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind;
The daughters of the rainbow all may win - 
Pity their lovers when the sun goes in!
Her smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky - 
Thrice blest and all unworthy I!
Lines Occasioned By The Death Of Lieutenant J ---- , Who Was Killed By A Pistol-Shot, Accidentally Discharged By His Friend, Captain B ---- .
by John Carr (Sir)

With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood
Beside his dying friend,
The hapless wretch who made the blood
Sad from his side descend!
"Give me thy hand; lov'd friend, adieu!"
The gen'rous suff'rer cried!
"I do forgive and bless thee too;"
And, having said it, died!
And Pity, who stood trembling near
Knew not for which to shed,
So claim'd by both, her saddest tear - 
The living or the dead!
New Worlds
by George Parsons Lathrop

With my beloved I lingered late one night.
At last the hour when I must leave her came:
But, as I turned, a fear I could not name
Possessed me that the long sweet evening might
Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight
Should perish. What if death, ere dawn, should claim
One of us? What, though living, not the same
Each should appear to each in morning-light?
Changed did I find her, truly, the next day:
Ne'er could I see her as of old again.
That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away,
And let her beauty pour through every vein
Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover
With each new morn a new world may discover.
A Dream Shape
by Madison Julius Cawein

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam
I gathered wild-flowers in a dream,
And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood
Was odour of the wildwood bud.
From dew, the starlight arrowed through,
I wrought a woman's eyes of blue;
The lids that on her eyeballs lay,
Were rose-pale petals of the May.
Out of a rosebud's veins I drew
The flagrant crimson beating through
The languid lips of her, whose kiss
Was as a poppy's drowsiness.
Out of the moonlight and the air
I wrought the glory of her hair,
That o'er her eyes' blue heaven lay
Like some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.
I took the music of the breeze
And water, whispering in the trees,
And shaped the soul that breathed below
A woman's blossom breasts of snow.
A shadow's shadow in the glass
Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass:
And thinking of it now, meseems
We only live within our dreams.
For in that time she was to me
More real than our reality;
More real than Earth, more real than I
The unreal things that pass and die.
Sonnet VIII.
by Robert Southey

With many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays,
Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze
Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain.
'Twas a long way and tedious! to the eye
Tho fair the extended vale, and fair to view
The falling leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.
Even so it fared with Life! in discontent
Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went,
Yet wept to think they would return no more!
But cease fond heart in such sad thoughts to roam,
For surely thou ere long shall reach thy home,
And pleasant is the way that lies before.
Andy's Return
by Henry Lawson

With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andy's home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
He's looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets, 
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andy's home once more!
Old Uncle's bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Aunty's never tearful
Now Andy's round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.
With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarns, 'baal gammon!'
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andy's home again!
His toil is nearly over;
He'll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he'll be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
We'll happy be for ever
When he'll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.
The Last Parade
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old campaigners
Lined up for the last parade.
Weary they were and battered,
Shoeless, and knocked about;
From under their ragged forelocks
Their hungry eyes looked out.
And they watched as the old commander
Read out to the cheering men
The Nation's thanks, and the orders
To carry them home again.
And the last of the old campaigners,
Sinewy, lean, and spare,
He spoke for his hungry comrades:
"Have we not done our share?
"Starving and tired and thirsty
We limped on the blazing plain;
And after a long night's picket
You saddled us up again.
"We froze on the windswept kopjes
When the frost lay snowy-white,
Never a halt in the daytime,
Never a rest at night!
"We knew when the rifles rattled
From the hillside bare and brown,
And over our weary shoulders
We felt warm blood run down,
"As we turned for the stretching gallop,
Crushed to the earth with weight;
But we carried our riders through it,
Sometimes, perhaps, too late.
"Steel! We were steel to stand it,
We that have lasted through,
We that are old campaigners
Pitiful, poor, and few.
"Over the sea you brought us,
Over the leagues of foam:
Now we have served you fairly
Will you not take us home?
"Home to the Hunter River,
To the flats where the lucerne grows;
Home where the Murrumbidgee
Runs white with the melted snows.
"This is a small thing, surely!
Will not you give command
That the last of the old campaigners
Go back to their native land?"
*             *             *             *             *             *
They looked at the grim commander,
But never a sign he made.
"Dismiss!" and the old campaigners
Moved off from their last parade.
Riding An Avalanche.
by James McIntyre

With our Canadian snow shoes,
O'er snow you walk where'er you choose,
But on long shoes Norwegian
They are like narrow toboggan.
And all your movements you control
By the aid of a stout long pole,
With it you balance or propel
But we show now what once befell.
Two miners full of pluck and game,
Wished to locate a mining claim,
On a high steep mountain crest
In Colorado of the West.
Though snow was deep they would attempt
Their good mine for to pre-empt,
So up the mountain they do climb,
Covered o'er with snow and rime.
Norwegian shoes slide over the snow,
High and higher still they go,
One was two hundred yards ahead,
Till snow gives way where he doth tread.
Which quickly starts an avalanche,
He seizes on a stout tree branch,
But all in vain he rushes fast,
His snow shoes in the avalanche.
His friend on shoes Norwegian,
Like lightning down the hill he ran,
Or rather o'er the ice did glide
Down the long steep and glassy slide.
And after him the Avalanche,
Tearing up trees both root and branch,
The man on Avalanche doth yell
To his friend you are doing well.
With your shoes Norwegian,
Swifter than a toboggan,
Go on, go on, you'll win the race,
For we are slack'ning in our pace.
But, alas! poor runner feels
The Avalanche doth touch his heels,
Shall he be buried in the mass,
Or will the vast pile o'er him pass.
He stops quite sudden 'neath a rock,
It passed o'er him with mighty shock,
Though it did cause him great alarm,
Yet still he was all safe from harm.
The Avalanche yet downward slides,
And his friend on it he rides,
Until it safely him doth launch
On outer edge of his own ranch.
After three miles down the gulch,
They both might have been crushed to mulch,
The one he seemed to run a race,
While one on Avalanche did chase.
But it was not for bravado,
One rode, one run in Colorado,
For it was desperate the strife
Each had for to secure his life.
This tale of shoes Norwegian
Is not for the collegian,
But for such youths as do take pride
In reading of a wondrous slide.
Wine And Grief. (Translations From The Hebrew Poets Of Medaeval Spain.)
by Emma Lazarus

With heavy groans did I approach my friends,
Heavy as though the mountains I would move.
The flagon they were murdering; they poured
Into the cup, wild-eyed, the grape's red blood.
No, they killed not, they breathed new life therein.
Then, too, in fiery rapture, burned my veins,
But soon the fumes had fled. In vain, in vain!
Ye cannot fill the breach of the rent heart.
Ye crave a sensuous joy; ye strive in vain
To cheat with flames of passion, my despair.
So when the sinking sun draws near to night,
The sky's bright cheeks fade 'neath those tresses black.
Ye laugh - but silently the soul weeps on;
Ye cannot stifle her sincere lament.
Solomon Ben Judah Gabirol (Died Between 1070-80.)
Caroline Branson
by Edgar Lee Masters

With our hearts like drifting suns, had we but walked,
As often before, the April fields till star - light
Silkened over with viewless gauze the darkness
Under the cliff, our trysting place in the wood,
Where the brook turns! Had we but passed from wooing
Like notes of music that run together, into winning,
In the inspired improvisation of love!
But to put back of us as a canticle ended
The rapt enchantment of the flesh,
In which our souls swooned, down, down,
Where time was not, nor space, nor ourselves - 
Annihilated in love!
To leave these behind for a room with lamps:
And to stand with our Secret mocking itself,
And hiding itself amid flowers and mandolins,
Stared at by all between salad and coffee.
And to see him tremble, and feel myself
Prescient, as one who signs a bond - 
Not flaming with gifts and pledges heaped
With rosy hands over his brow.
And then, O night! deliberate! unlovely!
With all of our wooing blotted out by the winning,
In a chosen room in an hour that was known to all!
Next day he sat so listless, almost cold
So strangely changed, wondering why I wept,
Till a kind of sick despair and voluptuous madness
Seized us to make the pact of death.
A stalk of the earth-sphere,
Frail as star-light;
Waiting to be drawn once again Into creation's stream.
But next time to be given birth
Gazed at by Raphael and St. Francis
Sometimes as they pass.
For I am their little brother,
To be known clearly face to face
Through a cycle of birth hereafter run.
You may know the seed and the soil;
You may feel the cold rain fall,
But only the earth - sphere, only heaven
Knows the secret of the seed
In the nuptial chamber under the soil.
Throw me into the stream again,
Give me another trial - 
Save me, Shelley!
With Moonlight Beaming.
by Thomas Moore

With moonlight beaming
Thus o'er the deep,
Who'd linger dreaming
In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day,--
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
The shining sea.
To halls of splendor
Let great ones hie;
Thro' light more tender
Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
And as we lend 'em
Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send 'em
More sweet again.
To Censorinus. IV-8 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus,
Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend;
Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians,
And not the worst of gifts to you I'd send
Were I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasure
As Scopas and Parrhasius could convey,
This one in stone, and that in liquid color,
Skilled here a man, - a god there to portray.
But mine no power like this, nor does your spirit
Or your affairs need luxuries so choice.
Songs we can give, and on the gift set value,
Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice.
Not marble carved with popular inscriptions
Whereby the spirit and the life return
After their death unto our upright leaders,
Nor Hannibal's swift flight, nor threatenings stern
Thrown back on him, nor flames from impious Carthage,
Ever more clearly pointed out the praise
Of him who, after Africa was conquered,
Acquired a name, than did the Calabrian lays.
And you would lose, if writings should be silent,
The price of all that you so well have done.
And Romulus, - his fame had envy silenced - 
Where had he been - great Mars and Ilia's son?
'acus, rescued from the Stygian waters,
The genius, the favor, and the tongue
Of mighty bards sent to the blessed islands,
He cannot die, whose praise the Muse has sung.
The Muse can deify. So tireless Hercules
In Jove's desired banquets has a share.
And the Tyndarid''s clear constellation
Of ships wrecked in the lowest depths takes care,
Liber, his brows adorned with living vine-leaf,
Brings to good issue every honest prayer.
Tempest. A Quatrain.
by Madison Julius Cawein

With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies,
On steeds of thunder, cloudy form on form,
Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes,
Behold the wild Valkyries of the storm.