DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To A Dead Friend
by Richard Le Gallienne

And is it true indeed, and must you go,
Set out alone across that moorland track,
No love avail, though we have loved you so,
No voice have any power to call you back?
And losing hands stretch after you in vain,
And all our eyes grow empty for your lack,
Nor hands, nor eyes, know aught of you again.
Dear friend, I shed no tear while yet you stayed,
Nor vexed your soul with unavailing word,
But you are gone, and now can all be said,
And tear and sigh too surely fall unheard.
So long I kept for you an undimmed eye,
Surely for grief this hour may well be spared,
Though could you know I still must keep it dry.
For what can tears avail you? the spring rain
That softly pelts the lattice, as with flowers,
Will of its tears a daisied counterpane
Weave for your rest, and all its sound of showers
Makes of its sobbing low a cradle song:
All tears avail but these salt tears of ours,
These tears alone 'tis idle to prolong.
Yet must we shed them, barren though they be,
Though bloom nor burden answer as they flow,
Though no sun shines that our sad eyes can see
To throw across their fall hope's radiant bow.
Poor selfish tears! we weep them not for him,
'Tis our own sorrow that we pity so,
'Tis our own loss that leaves our eyes so dim.
Thursday
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

And if I loved you Wednesday,
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday--
So much is true.
And why you come complaining
Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what
Is that to me?
Charles W. Eliot
by Oliver Herford

And now comes Dr. Eliot stating
That Hell won't bear investigating.
It looks like Charlie's out to bust
The Great Hell-Fire Insurance Trust.
The Celestial Pilot.  From Dante's Purgatorio, II.
by William Henry Giles Kingston

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning
Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red
Down in the west upon the ocean floor.
Appeared to me, - may I again behold it!
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.
Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared
I knew not what of white, and underneath,
Little by little, there came forth another.
My master yet had uttered not a word,
While the first brightness into wings unfolded;
But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,
He cried aloud; "Quick, quick, and bow the knee!
Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!
"See, how he scorns all human arguments,
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail
Than his own wings, between so distant shores!
"See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!"
And then, as nearer and more near us came
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,
So that the eye could not sustain his presence.
But down I cast it; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,
So that the water swallowed nought thereof.
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!
Beatitude seemed written in his face!
And more than a hundred spirits sat within.
"In exitu Israel out of Egypt!"
Thus sang they all together in one voice,
With whatso in that Psalm is after written.
Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,
And he departed swiftly as he came.
The Suspicion Upon His Over-Much Familiarity With A Gentlewoman.
by Robert Herrick

And must we part, because some say
Loud is our love, and loose our play,
And more than well becomes the day?
Alas for pity! and for us
Most innocent, and injured thus!
Had we kept close, or played within,
Suspicion now had been the sin,
And shame had followed long ere this,
T' have plagued what now unpunished is.
But we, as fearless of the sun,
As faultless, will not wish undone
What now is done, since where no sin
Unbolts the door, no shame comes in.
Then, comely and most fragrant maid,
Be you more wary than afraid
Of these reports, because you see
The fairest most suspected be.
The common forms have no one eye
Or ear of burning jealousy
To follow them: but chiefly where
Love makes the cheek and chin a sphere
To dance and play in, trust me, there
Suspicion questions every hair.
Come, you are fair, and should be seen
While you are in your sprightful green:
And what though you had been embraced
By me - were you for that unchaste?
No, no! no more than is yond' moon
Which, shining in her perfect noon,
In all that great and glorious light,
Continues cold as is the night.
Then, beauteous maid, you may retire;
And as for me, my chaste desire
Shall move towards you, although I see
Your face no more. So live you free
From fame's black lips, as you from me.
Yarrow Visited. September, 1814
by William Wordsworth

And is this Yarrow? This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why? a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice 
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there 
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives 
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine 
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
The Waning Moon.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass -
A Hymn Of Welcome After The Recess.
by Thomas Moore

"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."
And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er--
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!
Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!
The short eclipse of April-Day
Having (God grant it!) past away,
Collective Wisdom, shine again!
Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,--
With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,--
Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;
Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,
At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]
Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares--
Ye Senators of many Shares,
Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;
So fond of aught like Company,
That you would even have taken tea
(Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]
Come, matchless country-gentlemen;
Come, wise Sir Thomas--wisest then
When creeds and corn-lords are debated;
Come, rival even the Harlot Red,
And show how wholly into bread
A 'Squire is transubstantiated,
Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world,
That--surely as thy scratch is curled
As never scratch was curled before--
Cheap eating does more harm than good,
And working-people spoiled by food,
The less they eat, will work the more.
Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence
(Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence)
Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter;
Two pipes of port (old port, 'twas said
By honest Newport)[3] bought and paid
By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]
Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry
For peopling Canada from Kerry--
Not so much rendering Ireland quiet,
As grafting on the dull Canadians
That liveliest of earth's contagions,
The bull-pock of Hibernian riot!
Come all, in short, ye wondrous men
Of wit and wisdom, come again;
Tho' short your absence, all deplore it--
Oh, come and show, whate'er men say,
That you can after April-Day,
Be just as--sapient as before it.
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 - Iv. Yarrow Visited - September 1814
by William Wordsworth

And is this, Yarrow? 'This' the Stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why? a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see, but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
Power Of Youth
by Matthew Arnold

And they remember
With piercing untold anguish
The proud boasting of their youth.
And they feel how Nature was fair.
And the mists of delusion,
And the scales of habit,
Fall away from their eyes
Dedication - To W. R. B.
by Stephen Vincent Benet

And so, to you, who always were
Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot
To me, I give these weedy rhymes
In memory of earlier times.
Now all those careless days are not.
Of all my heroes, you endure.
Words are such silly things! too rough,
Too smooth, they boil up or congeal,
And neither of us likes emotion --
But I can't measure my devotion!
And you know how I really feel --
And we're together.    There, enough,...!
Grand-p're
by Robert William Service

And so when he reached my bed
The General made a stand:
"My brave young fellow," he said,
"I would shake your hand."
So I lifted my arm, the right,
With never a hand at all;
Only a stump, a sight
Fit to appal.
"Well, well. Now that's too bad!
That's sorrowful luck," he said;
"But there! You give me, my lad,
The left instead."
So from under the blanket's rim
I raised and showed him the other,
A snag as ugly and grim
As its ugly brother.
He looked at each jagged wrist;
He looked, but he did not speak;
And then he bent down and kissed
Me on either cheek.
You wonder now I don't mind
I hadn't a hand to offer. . . .
They tell me (you know I'm blind)
'TWAS GRAND-PE'RE JOFFRE.
The Iron Age
by Madison Julius Cawein

And these are Christians! God! the horror of it!
How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how long
Wilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it,
Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!
Are these Thy teachings? Where is then that pity,
Which bade the weary, suffering come to Thee?
War takes its toll of life in field and City,
And Thou must see! O Christianity!
And then the children! Oh, Thou art another!
Not God! but Fiend, whom God has given release!
Will prayer avail naught? tears of father, mother?
To give at last the weary world surcease
From butchery? that back again hath brought her
Into that age barbarian that priced
Hate above Love; and, shod with steel and slaughter,
Stamped on the Cross and on the face of Christ.
The Spell
by Madison Julius Cawein

"We have the receipt of fern seed: we walk invisible."
Henry IV
And we have met but twice or thrice!
Three times enough to make me love!
I praised your hair once; then your glove;
Your eyes; your gown; you were like ice;
And yet this might suffice, my love,
And yet this might suffice.
St. John hath told me what to do:
To search and find the ferns that grow
The fern seed that the faeries know;
Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe,
And haunt the steps of you, my dear,
And haunt the steps of you.
You'll see the poppy pods dip here;
The blow-ball of the thistle slip,
And no wind breathing but my lip
Next to your anxious cheek and ear,
To tell you I am near, my love,
To tell you I am near.
On wood-ways I shall tread your gown
You'll know it is no brier! then
I'll whisper words of love again,
And smile to see your quick face frown:
And then I'll kiss it down, my dear,
And then I'll kiss it down.
And when at home you read or knit,
Who'll know it was my hands that blotted
The page? or all your needles knotted?
When in your rage you cry a bit:
And loud I laugh at it, my love,
And loud I laugh at it.
The secrets that you say in prayer
Right so I'll hear: and, when you sing,
The name you speak; and whispering
I'll bend and kiss your mouth and hair,
And tell you I am there, my dear,
And tell you I am there.
Would it were true what people say!
Would I could find that elfin seed!
Then should I win your love, indeed,
By being near you night and day
There is no other way, my love,
There is no other way.
Meantime the truth in this is said:
It is my soul that follows you;
It needs no fern seed in the shoe,
While in the heart love pulses red,
To win you and to wed, my dear,
To win you and to wed.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XXXIII - The Council Of Clermont
by William Wordsworth

"And shall," the Pontiff asks, "profaneness flow
"From Nazareth, source of Christian piety,
"From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony
"And glorified Ascension? Warriors, go,
"With prayers and blessings we your path will sow;
"Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye
"Have chased far off by righteous victory
"These sons of Amalek, or laid them low!"
"God willeth it," the whole assembly cry;
Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds!
The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply;
"God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds,
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh,
Through "Nature's hollow arch" that voice resounds.
Fragment: 'And That I Walk Thus Proudly Crowned'.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

And that I walk thus proudly crowned withal
Is that 'tis my distinction; if I fall,
I shall not weep out of the vital day,
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay.
Sonnets From The Portuguese XI
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And therefore if to love can be desert,
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale
As these you see, and trembling knees that fail
To bear the burden of a heavy heart,
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale
A melancholy music, why advert
To these things? O Belov'd, it is plain
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain
From that same love this vindicating grace
To live on still in love, and yet in vain,
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.
The Blind Harper.
by Madison Julius Cawein

And thus it came my feet were led
To wizard walls that hairy hung
Old as their rock the moss made dead;
And, like a ditch of fire flung
Around it, uncouth flowers red
Thrust spur and fang and tongue.
And here I harped. Did dead men list?
Or was it hollow hinges gnarred
Huge, iron scorn in donjon-twist?
And when I thought a face sword-scarred
Would curse me, lo! a woman kissed
At me hands ringed and starred.
And so I sang; for she had leaned
Rare beauty to me, dark and tall;
I sang of Love, whose Court is queened
Of Ali'nor the virginal,
Nor saw how rolled on me a fiend
Wolf-eyeballs from the wall.
Oh, how I sang! until she laughed
Red lips that made lute harmony;
I sang of knights who fought and quaffed
To Love's own paragon, Marie - 
Nor saw the suzerain whose shaft
Was bowed and bent on me.
And I had harped until she wept;
But when I sang of Ermengarde
Of Anjou, - where her Court is kept
By brave, by beauty, and by bard, - 
She turned a raven there and swept
Me, like a fury, 'ward.
A bleeding beak had pierced my sight;
A crimson claw each cheek had lined;
One glimpse: wild walls of threatening night
Heaped raven battlements behind
A moat of blazing serpents bright - 
And then I wandered blind.
And Pushkin's Exile Had
by Anna Akhmatova

And Pushkin's exile had begun right here,
And Lermontov's expulsion had been "canceled."
There is the easy grasses' scent on highland.
And only once it chanced to me to see it --
Near the lake, where shades of plane-trees hover,
In that doom hour before the evening thrusts,--
The dazzling light of the desirous eyes
Of Tamara's forever living lover.
The Dungeon
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Song
(Act V, scene i)
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our Love and Wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us,
Most innocent, perhaps, and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks,
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless Solitude, Groaning and Tears,
And savage Faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty
The River and the Hill
by Henry Kendall

And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep,
On the brink of that beautiful stream,
But it wandered along with a wearisome song
Like a lover that walks in a dream:
So the roses blew
When the winds went through,
In the moonlight so white and so still;
But the river it beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill
Of a hard and senseless hill!
I said, 'We have often showered our loves
Upon something as dry as the dust;
And the faith that is crost, and the hearts that are lost
Oh! how can we wittingly trust?
Like the stream which flows,
And wails as it goes,
Through the moonlight so white and so still,
To beat and to beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill
Of a hard and senseless hill?
'River, I stay where the sweet roses blow,
And drink of their pleasant perfumes!
Oh, why do you moan, in this wide world alone,
When so much affection here blooms?
The winds wax faint,
And the Moon like a Saint
Glides over the woodlands so white and so still!
But you beat and you beat
All night at the feet
Of that cold and flinty hill
Of that hard and senseless hill!'
On Reading "Gibbon's Rome."
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

And this man was "an infidel!" Ah, no!
The tale's incredible it was not so.
The untutored savage through the world may plod,
Reckless of Heaven and ignorant of his God;
But that a mind that's culled improvement's flowers
From all her brightest amaranthine bowers,
A mind whose keen and comprehensive glance
Comprised at once a world should worship chance,
Is strangely inconsistent seems to me
The very essence of absurdity;
Who, from the exhaustless granary of Heaven,
Receives the blessings so profusely given,
Looks with a curious eye on Nature's face,
Forever beaming with a new-born grace,
And dares with impious voice aloud proclaim
He knows no Heaven but this no God but Fame.
Lord, in refusing to acknowledge Thee,
Vain man denies his own reality;
But tho' the boon of life he may receive
From God, and still affect to disbelieve,
What are his views at death's resounding knell?
Just Heaven! Sure, man ne'er died an infidel.
Stretched on the agonizing couch of pain,
All human aid inefficacious, vain,
Where shall his tortured spirit rest? Ah, where?
The past, all gloom! the future, all despair!
'Tis then, O Lord, the skeptic turns to Thee,
Then the proud scoffer humbly bends the knee;
Feels in this darksome hour there's much to do 
Earth fading fast, Heaven's portals far from view.
Oh, what a hopeless wretch this man must be!
His very soul weeps tears of agony.
Dying he owns there is a God above,
A God of Justice, tho' a Prince of Love.
To A Sleeping Baby's Eyes
by Eugene Field

And thou, twin orbs of love and joy!
Unveil thy glories with the morn--
Dear eyes, another day is born--
Awake, O little sleeping boy!
Bright are the summer morning skies,
But in this quiet little room
There broods a chill, oppressive gloom--
All for the brightness of thine eyes.
Without those radiant orbs of thine
How dark this little world would be--
This sweet home-world that worships thee--
So let their wondrous glories shine
On those who love their warmth and joy--
Awake, O sleeping little boy.