DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Prologue to Doctor Faustus
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Light, as when dawn takes wing and smites the sea,
Smote England when his day bade Marlowe be.
No fire so keen had thrilled the clouds of time
Since Dante's breath made Italy sublime.
Earth, bright with flowers whose dew shone soft as tears,
Through Chaucer cast her charm on eyes and ears:
The lustrous laughter of the love-lit earth
Rang, leapt, and lightened in his might of mirth.
Deep moonlight, hallowing all the breathless air,
Made earth and heaven for Spenser faint and fair.
But song might bid not heaven and earth be one
Till Marlowe's voice gave warning of the sun.
Thought quailed and fluttered as a wounded bird
Till passion fledged the wing of Marlowe's word.
Faith born of fear bade hope and doubt be dumb
Till Marlowe's pride bade light or darkness come.
Then first our speech was thunder: then our song
Shot lightning through the clouds that wrought us wrong.
Blind fear, whose faith feeds hell with fire, became
A moth self-shrivelled in its own blind flame.
We heard, in tune with even our seas that roll,
The speech of storm, the thunders of the soul.
Men's passions, clothed with all the woes they wrought,
Shone through the fire of man's transfiguring thought.
The thirst of knowledge, quenchless at her springs,
Ambition, fire that clasps the thrones of kings,
Love, light that makes of life one lustrous hour,
And song, the soul's chief crown and throne of power,
The hungering heart of greed and ravenous hate,
Made music high as heaven and deep as fate.
Strange pity, scarce half scornful of her tear,
In Berkeley's vaults bowed down on Edward's bier.
But higher in forceful flight of song than all
The soul of man, its own imperious thrall,
Rose, when his royal spirit of fierce desire
Made life and death for man one flame of fire.
Incarnate man, fast bound as earth and sea,
Spake, when his pride would fain set Faustus free.
Eternal beauty, strong as day and night,
Shone, when his word bade Helen back to sight.
Fear, when he bowed the soul before her spell,
Thundered and lightened through the vaults of hell.
The music known of all men's tongues that sing,
When Marlowe sang, bade love make heaven of spring;
The music none but English tongues may make,
Our own sole song, spake first when Marlowe spake;
And on his grave, though there no stone may stand,
The flower it shows was laid by Shakespeare's hand.
Light Is More Important Than The Lantern
by Nizar Qabbani

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
They are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.
To Them That Mourn
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Lift up your heads: in life, in death,
God knoweth his head was high.
Quit we the coward's broken breath
Who watched a strong man die.
If we must say, 'No more his peer
Cometh; the flag is furled.'
Stand not too near him, lest he hear
That slander on the world.
The good green earth he loved and trod
Is still, with many a scar,
Writ in the chronicles of God,
A giant-bearing star.
He fell: but Britain's banner swings
Above his sunken crown.
Black death shall have his toll of kings
Before that cross goes down.
Once more shall move with mighty things
His house of ancient tale,
Where kings whose hands were kissed of kings
Went in: and came out pale.
O young ones of a darker day,
In art's wan colours clad,
Whose very love and hate are grey--
Whose very sin is sad.
Pass on: one agony long-drawn
Was merrier than your mirth,
When hand-in-hand came death and dawn,
And spring was on the earth.
Marriage Morning
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,
All my wooing is done.
Oh, the woods and the meadows,
Woods where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind,
Meadows in which we met!
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning start.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart,
Into my heart and my blood!
Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers,
Over the meadow and stiles,
Over the world to the end of it
Flash for a million miles.
The Harper
by James Whitcomb Riley

Like a drift of faded blossoms
Caught in a slanting rain,
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp
In a tremulous refrain:
Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!
Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet!
And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip,
As he played there in the street.
Patter, and drip, and tinkle!
And there was the little bed
In the corner of the garret,
And the rafters overhead!
And there was the little window -
Tinkle, and drip, and drip!
The rain above, and a mother's love,
And God's companionship!
Souls and Rain-Drops.
by Sidney Lanier

Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,
Then vanish, and die utterly.
One would not know that rain-drops fell
If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.
So souls come down and wrinkle life
And vanish in the flesh-sea strife.
One might not know that souls had place
Were't not for the wrinkles in life's face.
Hesiod.
by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

Licht gl'hte des Helicon Klippe
In Mittagspurpur und Blau.
Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountain
In the purple of mid-day and blue,
As by Aganippe's clear fountain
A shepherd boy slept in the dew.
In seeking the lambs of his master,
From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood,
But now all the strength of the pastor
By the heat of the sun was subdued.
Then from sun-lighted fields of old story,
Came Nine who were heavenly fair;
Their limbs were of beauty a glory,
And a glory of gold was their hair.
They moved as in musical numbers,
To the grove, Aganippe across,
And laid by the youth in his slumbers,
Their gifts in the emerald moss.
The first a bronze style like a feather,
The second an inkstand of brass,
The third a neat album in leather,
The fourth a Bohemian glass,
The fifth gave red wax and a taper,
The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath,
The seventh cigars wrapped in paper,
The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.
The ninth bent her knee in the heather,
And kissed him full tender and true,
Then vanished on high in the 'ther
As angels invariably do.
Up sprung the young dreamer and panted
And sang in a measure sublime,
And swung, like a creature enchanted,
A twig of wild laurel in time.
Then up came his friends 'mong the peasants
And praised his good fortune that day,
And led him with all his fine presents
To Askra in festive array:
And there all the wisest or rudest,
Considered the matter in doubt,
Until the Nomarchos as shrewdest
To B'otia this sentence gave out.
'To him heaven opens a portal,
No more at the flocks let him look.
He is destined to be an immortal,
Write poems - and publish a book.'
They found him a rod neat and slender,
In long garments they gave him to God;
Then he wrote them the Farmer's Cal'nder,
And Theogony too - Hesiod.
Translated From The German Of Joseph Victor Scheffel By Charles G. Leland.
Hopes And Fears.
by Lizzie Lawson

Like clouds that flit across the sky,
So follow hopes and fears.
What in these clouds see you and me
Dear Sweetheart, smiles or tears?
This little airy fleecy wing,
That flits across the blue,
What message Sweetheart does it bring
Of hope or fear to you?
Pray God it brings you sunny hours
And haply some few tears
To bless like showers your summer flowers
In the long coming years.
Save The Boys.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Like Dives in the deeps of Hell
I cannot break this fearful spell,
Nor quench the fires I've madly nursed,
Nor cool this dreadful raging thirst.
Take back your pledge - ye come too late!
Ye cannot save me from my fate,
Nor bring me back departed joys;
But ye can try to save the boys.
Ye bid me break my fiery chain,
Arise and be a man again,
When every street with snares is spread,
And nets of sin where'er I tread.
No; I must reap as I did sow.
The seeds of sin bring crops of woe;
But with my latest breath I'll crave
That ye will try the boys to save.
These bloodshot eyes were once so bright;
This sin-crushed heart was glad and light;
But by the wine-cup's ruddy glow
I traced a path to shame and woe.
A captive to my galling chain,
I've tried to rise, but tried in vain -
The cup allures and then destroys.
Oh! from its thraldom save the boys.
Take from your streets those traps of hell
Into whose gilded snares I fell.
Oh! freemen, from these foul decoys
Arise, and vote to save the boys.
Oh, ye who license men to trade
In draughts that charm and then degrade,
Before ye hear the cry, Too late,
Oh, save the boys from my sad fate.
The Sonnets LX - Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
by William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
The May-Queen.
by George Pope Morris

Like flights of singing-birds went by
The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
When, in my native bowers,
Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!
Like airy sprites the lasses came,
Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
The crystal from the fountain,
The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.
Around the May-pole on the green,
A fairy ring they tripped away;
All merriment and pleasure,
To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.
Though years have passed, and Time has strown
My raven locks with flakes of gray,
Fond Memory brings the hours
Of buds and blossom-showers
When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May.
Discontent
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Like a thorn in the flesh, like a fly in the mesh,
Like a boat that is chained to shore,
The wild unrest of the heart in my breast
Tortures me more and more.
I wot not why, it should wail and cry
Like a child that is lost at night,
For it knew no grief, but has found relief,
And it is not touched with blight.
It has had of pleasure full many a measure;
It has thrilled with love's red wine;
It has hope and health, and youth's rare wealth -
Oh rich is this heart of mine.
Yet it is not glad -it is wild and mad
Like a billow before it breaks;
And its ceaseless pain is worse than vain,
Since it knows not why it aches.
It longs to be, like the waves of the sea
That rise in their might and beat
And dash and lunge, and hurry and plunge,
And die at the grey rocks' feet.
It wearies of life and it sickens of strife
And yet it tires of rest.
Oh!    I know not why it should ache and cry -
'Tis a troublesome heart at best.
Though not understood, I think it a good
And God-like discontent.
It springs from the soul that longs for its goal -
For the source from which it was sent.
Then surge, O breast, with thy wild unrest -
Cry, heart, like a child at night,
Till the mystic shore of the Evermore
Shall dawn on thy eager sight.
Keep Innocency
by Walter De La Mare

Like an old battle, youth is wild
With bugle and spear, and counter cry,
Fanfare and drummery, yet a child
Dreaming of that sweet chivalry,
The piercing terror cannot see.
He, with a mild and serious eye
Along the azure of the years,
Sees the sweet pomp sweep hurtling by;
But he sees not death's blood and tears,
Sees not the plunging of the spears.
And all the strident horror of
Horse and rider, in red defeat,
Is only music fine enough
To lull him into slumber sweet
In fields where ewe and lambkin bleat.
O, if with such simplicity
Himself take arms and suffer war;
With beams his targe shall gilded be,
Though in the thickening gloom be far
The steadfast light of any star!
Though hoarse War's eagle on him perch,
Quickened with guilty lightnings - there
It shall in vain for terror search,
Where a child's eyes beneath bloody hair
Gaze purely through the dingy air.
And when the wheeling rout is spent,
Though in the heaps of slain he lie;
Or lonely in his last content;
Quenchless shall burn in secrecy
The flame Death knows his victors by.
Shadows Before
by Henry Lawson

"Like clouds o'er the South are the nations who reign
On fair islands that we would command;
But clouds that are darker and denser than these
Have sailed from an Isle in the Northern Seas
And rest on our Southern Land.
Low in dust is our Goddess of Liberty hurled
At our feet, and the time is at hand,
When we, the proud sons of the southern world,
Beneath a proud banner of freedom unfurled
And true to each other shall stand.
If e'er in the ranks of the Right we advance;
Though our enemies come like a flood,
We'll meet them like lions, aroused from our trance,
And show that a streak of the Olden Romance
Still runs in our commonplace blood.
Like Mighty Footlights Burned The Red
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Like mighty footlights burned the red
At bases of the trees, --
The far theatricals of day
Exhibiting to these.
'T was universe that did applaud
While, chiefest of the crowd,
Enabled by his royal dress,
Myself distinguished God.
Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)
by Thomas Moore

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light--
Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.
Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.
So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord--
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!
The Morning Hour.
by Susanna Moodie

Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise,
With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes;
Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls,
I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls;
Brighter diamonds never were seen
Encircling the neck of an Indian queen!
I traverse the east on my glittering wing,
And my smiles awake every living thing;
And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray,
Follows the night on her weeping way.
I raise the veil from the saffron bed,
Where the young sun pillows his golden head;
He lifts from the ocean his burning eye,
And his glory lights up the earth and sky.
Ah, I am like that dewy prime,
Ere youth hath shaken hands with time;
Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low,
And discovered the hidden rocks of woe:
When like the rosy beams of morn,
Joy and gladness and love were born,
Hope divine, of heavenly birth,
And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth!
Steps We Climb.
by Marietta Holley

I.
Like idle clouds our lives move on,
By change and chance as idly blown;
Our hopes like netted sparrows fly,
And vainly beat their wings and die.
Fate conquers all with stony will,
Oh, heart, be still - be still!
II.
No! change and chance are slaves that wait
On Him who guides the clouds, not fate,
But the High King rules seas and sun,
He conquers, He, the Mighty One.
So powerless, 'neath that changeless will,
Oh, heart, be still - be still!
III.
As a young bird fallen from its nest
Beats wildly the kind hand against
That lifts it up, so tremblingly
Our hearts lie in God's hand, as He
Uplifts them by His loving will,
Oh, heart, be still - be still!
IV.
Uplifts them to a perfect peace,
A rest beyond all earthly ease,
'Neath the white shadow of the throne - 
Low nest forever overshone
By tenderest love, our Lord's dear will;
Oh, heart, be still - be still!
Sonnets: Idea I
by Michael Drayton

Like an adventurous sea-farer am I,
Who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been,
And called to tell of his discovery,
How far he sailed, what countries he had seen,
Proceeding from the port whence he put forth,
Shows by his compass how his course he steered,
When east, when west, when south, and when by north,
As how the pole to every place was reared,
What capes he doubled, of what continent,
The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past,
Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent,
And on what rocks in peril to be cast:
Thus in my love, time calls me to relate
My tedious travels and oft-varying fate.
Autumn-Time.
by Hattie Howard

Like music heard in mellow chime,
The charm of her transforming time
Upon my senses steals
As softly as from sunny walls,
In day's decline, their shadow falls
Across the sleeping fields.
A fair, illumined book
Is nature's page whereon I look
While "autumn turns the leaves;"
And many a thought of her designs
Between those rare, resplendent lines
My fancy interweaves.
I dream of aborigines,
Who must have copied from the trees
The fashions of the day:
Those gorgeous topknots for the head,
Of yellow tufts and feathers red,
With beads and sinews gay.
I wonder if the saints behold
Such pageantry of colors bold
Beyond the radiant sky;
And if the tints of Paradise
Are heightened by the strange device
Of making all things die.
Yea, even so; for Nature glows
Because of her expiring throes,
As if around her tomb
Unmeet it were, - the look severe
That designates a common bier
Enwreathed in deepest gloom.
And so I meditate if aught
Can be so fair where death is not;
If Heaven's loveliness
Is born of struggle and decay;
And, but for funeral array,
Would it be beautiless?
Oh solemn, sad, sweet mystery
That Earth's unrivaled brilliancy
Is but her splendid pall!
That Heaven were not what it is
But for that crown of tragedies,
The sacrifice for all.
So not a charm would Zion lose
Were it bereft of sparkling hues
In gilded lanes and leas;
It would be bright though not a flower
Unclosed in its celestial bower,
And void of jeweled trees.
Yet, lily-like, one bloom I see,
Its name is his who died for me;
Whose matchless beauty shows
Perfection on its bleeding stem,
The blossom-bud of Bethlehem,
The Resurrection Rose.
Summer Days.
by Marietta Holley

Like emerald lakes the meadows lie,
And daisies dot the main;
The sunbeams from the deep blue sky
Drop down in golden rain,
And gild the lily's silver bell,
And coax buds apart,
But I miss the sunshine of my youth,
The summer of my heart.
The wild birds sing the same glad song
They sang in days of yore;
The laughing rivulet glides along,
Low whispering to the shore,
And its mystic water turns to gold
The sunbeam's quivering dart,
But I miss the sunshine of my youth,
The summer of my heart.
The south wind murmurs tenderly
To the complaining leaves;
The Flower Queen gorgeous tapestry
Of rose and purple weaves.
Yes, Nature's smile, the wary while,
Wears all its olden truth,
But I miss the sunshine of my heart,
The summer of my youth.
Improvisations: Light And Snow: 14
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind
And flung down cruelly
With roots bared to the sun and stars
And limp leaves brought to earth
Torn from its house
So do I seem to myself
When you have left me.
American Poets.
by James McIntyre

Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,
Melodious songs he oft did pour
And high was his Excelsior.
He shows in his Psalm of Life
The folly of our selfish strife,
With Hiawatha we bewail
His suffering in great Indian tale.
Indian nation was forlorn
Till great spirit planted corn;
His story of Evangeline
It is a tale of love divine.
Like Barley Bending
by Sara Teasdale

Like barley bending
In low fields by the sea,
Singing in hard wind
Ceaselessly;
Like barley bending
And rising again,
So would I, unbroken,
Rise from pain;
So would I softly,
Day long, night long,
Change my sorrow
Into song.
Sonnet XII
by Alan Seeger

Like as a dryad, from her native bole
Coming at dusk, when the dim stars emerge,
To a slow river at whose silent verge
Tall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll,
Come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoal
Of the freaked flag and meadow buttercup,
Bend till thine image from the pool beam up
Arched with blue heaven like an aureole.
See how adorable in fancy then
Lives the fair face it mirrors even so,
O thou whose beauty moving among men
Is like the wind's way on the woods below,
Filling all nature where its pathway lies
With arms that supplicate and trembling sighs.
Our Casuarina Tree.
by Toru Dutt

Like a huge Python, winding round and round
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars
Up to its very summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
No other tree could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrown
At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and most in winter,--on its crest
A grey baboon sits statue-like alone
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?
It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!
Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay tranc'd in a dreamless swoon:
And every time the music rose,--before
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay
Unto thy honour, Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose,
Dearer than life to me, alas! were they!
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done
With deathless trees--like those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches lingered pale
"Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.
Work.
by Jean Ingelow

Like coral insects multitudinous
The minutes are whereof our life is made.
They build it up as in the deep's blue shade
It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus
For both there is an end. The populous
Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid
Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid
Before our feet that shall come after us.
We may not stay to watch if it will speed,
The bard if on some luter's string his song
Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star
Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed,
Else have we none more than the sea-born throng
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.