DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Day-Dream.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
They both were husht, the voice, the chords,--
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words.
My spell-bound memory brought away;
Traces, remembered here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;--
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.
Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, tho' the charm still lingered on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
The song itself was faded, gone;--
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Tho' what they were we now forget.
In vain with hints from other strains
I wooed this truant air to come--
As birds are taught on eastern plains
To lure their wilder kindred home.
In vain:--the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea,
Not muter slept beneath the wave
Than this within my memory.
At length, one morning, as I lay
In that half-waking mood when dreams
Unwillingly at last gave way
To the full truth of daylight's beams,
A face--the very face, methought,
From which had breathed, as from a shrine
Of song and soul, the notes I sought--
Came with its music close to mine;
And sung the long-lost measure o'er,--
Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before,--
All perfect, all again my own!
Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
They meet again, each widowed sound
Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.
Nor even in waking did the clew,
Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew
So well as now I knew this strain.
And oft when memory's wondrous spell
Is talked of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell
The vision of that morning hour.
Ambition
by Robert William Service

They brought the mighty chief to town;
They showed him strange, unwonted sights;
Yet as he wandered up and down,
He seemed to scorn their vain delights.
His face was grim, his eye lacked fire,
As one who mourns a glory dead;
And when they sought his heart's desire:
"Me like'um tooth same gold," he said.
A dental place they quickly found.
He neither moaned nor moved his head.
They pulled his teeth so white and sound;
They put in teeth of gold instead.
Oh, never saw I man so gay!
His very being seemed to swell:
"Ha! ha!" he cried, "Now Injun say
Me heap big chief, ME LOOK LIKE HELL."
Verses
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter.
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
The Trade
by Rudyard Kipling

They bear, in place of classic names,
Letters and numbers on their skin.
They play their grisly blindfold games
In little boxes made of tin.
Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,
Sometimes they learn where mines are laid,
Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
That is the custom of "The Trade."
Few prize-courts sit upon their claims.
They seldom tow their targets in.
They follow certain secret aims
Down under, Far from strife or din.
When they are ready to begin
No flag is flown, no fuss is made
More than the shearing of a pin.
That is the custom of "The Trade."
The Scout's quadruple funnel flames
A mark from Sweden to the Swin,
The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims
Her comings out and goings in:
But only whiffs of paraffin
Or creamy rings that fizz and fade
Show where the one-eyed Death has been
That is the custom of "The Trade."
Their feats, their fortunes and their fames
Are hidden from their nearest kin;
No eager public backs or blames,
No journal prints the yarn they spin
(The Censor would not let it in! )
When they return from run or raid.
Unheard they work, unseen they win.
That is the custom of "The Trade."
Pink Dominoes
by Rudyard Kipling

They are fools who kiss and tell",
Wisely has the poet sung.
Man may hold all sorts of posts
If he'll only hold his tongue.
Jenny and Me were engaged, you see,
On the eve of the Fancy Ball;
So a kiss or two was nothing to you
Or any one else at all.
Menny would go in a domino,
Pretty and pink but warm;
While I attended, clad in a splendid
Austrian uniform.
Now we had arranged, through notes exchanged
Early that afternoon,
At Number Four to waltz no more,
But to sit in the dusk and spoon.
I wish you to see that Jenny and Me
Had barely exchanged our troth;
So a kiss or two was strictly due
By, from, and between us both.
When Three was over, an eager lover,
I fled to the gloom outside;
And a Domino came out also
Whom I took for my future bride.
That is to say, in a casual way,
I slipped my arm around her;
With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you),
And ready to kiss I found her.
She turned her head and the name she said
Was certainly not my own;
But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek
She fled and left me alone.
Then Jenny came, and I saw with shame
She'd doffed her domino;
And I had embraced an alien waist,
But I did not tell her so.
Next morn I knew that there were two
Dominoes pink, and one
Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian Vouse,
Our big Political gun.
Sir J. was old, and her hair was gold,
And her eye was a blue cerulean;
And the name she said when she turned her head
Was not in the least like "Julian."
The Bell Buoy
by Rudyard Kipling

They christened my brother of old, 
And a saintly name he bears, 
They gave him his place to hold
At the head of the belfry-stairs,
Where the minister-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
In the flush of the hot June prime,
O'er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
To the bidding of checked Desire;
Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
When the smoking scud is blown, 
When the greasy wind-rack lowers, 
Apart and at peace and alone,
He counts the changeless hours.
He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he!
There was never a priest to pray
There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
And moored me over the shoal. 
I rock, I reel, and I roll, 
My four great hammers ply, 
Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
The landward marks have failed,
The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
The spent deep feigns her rest:
But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell, I cry!
Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
At the careless end of night
I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
And I call to the drowsy crew; 
And the mud boils foul and blue 
As the blind bow backs away. 
Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they! 
The beach-pools cake and skim, 
The bursting spray-heads freeze, 
I gather on crown and rim 
The grey, grained ice of the seas, 
Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, 
The plunging colliers lie. 
Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?
(Shoal ! 'Ware shoal !) Not I! 
Through the blur of the whirling snow, 
Or the black of the inky sleet, 
The lanterns gather and grow, 
And I look for the homeward fleet. 
Rattle of block and sheet, 
"Ready about-stand by!"
Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
I dip and I surge and I swing
In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
On the horns of death I ride.
A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
Fretted and bound I bide
Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
Faults
by Sara Teasdale

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.
Rutherford McDowell
by Edgar Lee Masters

They brought me ambrotypes
Of the old pioneers to enlarge.
And sometimes one sat for me - 
Some one who was in being
When giant hands from the womb of the world
Tore the republic.
What was it in their eyes? - 
For I could never fathom
That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,
And the serene sorrow of their eyes.
It was like a pool of water,
Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,
Where the leaves fall,
As you hear the crow of a cock
From a far - off farm house, seen near the hills
Where the third generation lives, and the strong men
And the strong women are gone and forgotten.
And these grand - children and great grand-children
Of the pioneers!
Truly did my camera record their faces, too,
With so much of the old strength gone,
And the old faith gone,
And the old mastery of life gone,
And the old courage gone,
Which labors and loves and suffers and sings
Under the sun!
Girls
by Alfred Lichtenstein

They cannot stand their rooms in the evening.
They creep out into deep starry streets.
How gentle is the world in the streetlights' wind!
How strangely buzzing life melts away...
They go by gardens and houses,
As though very far off there might be a light,
And they look upon every horny man
As a sweet gentleman savior
Pioneers
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride,
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush, the brave old pioneers.
'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out;
'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made,
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.
But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied at last the promised land from off the range's crest.
O ye that sleep in lonely graves by distant ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years,
The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.
Song Of Innisfail.
by Thomas Moore

They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
Our destined home or grave?"[1]
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light thro' the wave was seen.
"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!"
Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.
Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.
Australia Today 1916
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

They came from the lower levels
Deep down in the Brilliant mine;
From the wastes where the whirlwind revels,
Whirling the leaves of pine.
On the western plains, where the Darling flows,
And the dust storms wheel and shift,
The teamster loosened his yokes and bows,
And turned his team adrift.
On the western stations, far and wide,
There's many an empty pen,
For the "ringers" have cast the machines aside
And answered the call for men.
On the lucerne flats where the stream runs slow,
And the Hunter finds the sea,
The women are driving the mowers now,
With the children at their knee.
For the men have gone, as a man must go,
At the call of the rolling drums;
For the men have sworn that the Turks shall know
When the old battalion comes.
Column of companies by the right,
Steady in strong array,
With the sun on the bayonets gleaming bright,
The battalion marched away.
They battled, the old battalion,
Through the toil of the training camps,
Sweated and strove at lectures,
By the light of the stinking lamps.
Marching, shooting, and drilling;
Steady and slow and stern;
Awkward and strange, but willing
All of their job to learn.
Learning to use the rifle;
Learning to use the spade;
Deeming fatigue a trifle
During each long parade.
Till at last they welded
Into a concrete whole,
And there grew in the old battalion
A kind of battalion's soul.
Brotherhood never was like it;
Friendship is not the word;
But deep in that body of marching men
The soul of a nation stirred.
And like one man with a single thought
Cheery and confident;
Ready for all that the future brought,
The old battalion went.
Column of companies by the right,
Steady in strong array,
With the sun on the bayonets gleaming bright,
The battalion marched away.
How shall we tell of the landing
By the hills where the foe were spread,
And the track of the old battalion
Was marked by the Turkish dead?
With the dash that discipline teaches,
Though the hail of the shrapnel flew,
And the forts were raking the beaches,
And the toll of the dead men grew.
They fixed their grip on the gaunt hillside
With a pluck that has won them fame;
And the home-folks know that the dead men died
For the pride of Australia's name.
Column of companies by the right,
To the beat of the rolling drums;
With honours gained in a stirring fight
The old battalion comes!
The Announcement
by Thomas Hardy

They came, the brothers, and took two chairs
In their usual quiet way;
And for a time we did not think
They had much to say.
And they began and talked awhile
Of ordinary things,
Till spread that silence in the room
A pent thought brings.
And then they said: "The end has come.
Yes: it has come at last."
And we looked down, and knew that day
A spirit had passed.
A Modern Sappho
by Matthew Arnold

They are gone: all is still: Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?
Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade.
Far up gleams the house, and beneath flows the river.
Here lean, my head, on this cool balustrade.
Ere he come: ere the boat, by the shining-branch'd border
Of dark elms come round, dropping down the proud stream;
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself find some order,
Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam.
Is it hope makes me linger? the dim thought, that sorrow
Means parting? that only in absence lies pain?
It was well with me once if I saw him: to-morrow
May bring one of the old happy moments again.
Last night we stood earnestly talking together
She enter'd, that moment his eyes turn'd from me.
Fasten'd on her dark hair and her wreath of white heather
As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.
Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,
Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn:
They must love, while they must: But the hearts that love longer
Are rare: ah! most loves but flow once, and return.
I shall suffer; but they will outlive their affection:
I shall weep; but their love will be cooling: and he,
As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,
Will be brought, thou poor heart! how much nearer to thee!
For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking
The strong band which beauty around him hath furl'd,
Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,
Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.
Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,
Perceive but a voice as I come to his side:
But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing.
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.
Then'to wait. But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?
'Tis he! 'Tis the boat, shooting round by the trees
Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving!
Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.
Hast thou yet dealt him, O Life, thy full measure?
World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee?
Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O Pleasure?
Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.
In Memoriam.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

They are gone away,
No prayers could avail us to longer keep
The ships called out on the unknown deep,
We saw them sail off, some lingeringly,
Some suddenly summoned put out to sea;
They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in,
But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin;
As they turned to whisper one last good bye,
We sent after each one a bitter cry;
We knew on that track,
They would never come back,
By night or day.
Ah, we've closed dear eyes,
But God be thanked that they, one and all,
Had the heaven light touch them before the pall;
They saw the fair land that we could not see,
And one said, "Jesus is standing by me,"
And one, "The water of life I hear,"
And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"
One, "I have seen the city of countless charms,"
One, "'Neath me are the Everlasting Arms,"
So we know it is best,
They should be at rest,
In God's paradise.
Mary's Blessed Son,
Thou wilt not chide if thou see'st that low
Our harps are hanging on willow bough;
We would not murmur, we know it is well,
They are gone from the battle, the shot and shell,
And in our anguish we're not alone;
The Father knows all the grief we have known;
Oh God, who once heard the Christ's bitter cry,
Thou knowest what we feel when we see them die.
Our light, has been hid
By the coffin lid,
And dark our noon.
God hears our moan,
He knows how a stricken heart had said,
"Oh, number her not with the silent dead,
For if she stays watching the golden sea,
God help, for what will become of me?
The last rose out of my childhood's bower,
From my English garden, the last sweet flower;
Take me instead, for none call me mother."
The messenger said, "I take no other."
So she went the road
The others have trod,
And I am alone.
We shall meet again;
I fancy sometimes how they talk together,
Of the way they travelled, the stormy weather
That beat so hard on their pilgrim road,
Now changed for the city of their God;
I wonder if in their special home,
They keep choice rooms till their darlings come.
Saviour, who loves them, protect and guide me
Where they are waiting 'neath life's fadeless tree,
Father and mother,
And elder brother,
And sisters twain.
The Three Elements
by Madison Julius Cawein

They come as couriers of Heaven: their feet
Sonorous-sandalled with majestic awe;
In raiment of swift foam and wind and heat,
Blowing the trumpets of God's wrath and law.
They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.
by Alfred Castner King

They cannot see the wreaths we place
Upon the silent bier,
They cannot see the tear-stained face,
Nor feel the scalding tear,
And now can flowers or graven stone,
For wrongs done them in life atone?
Better the flower that smooths the thorns
On earthly pathway found,
Than that which uselessly adorns
The bier or silent mound.
And neither tear nor floral token
Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.
Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,
While yet their eyes discern;
Why waste their fragrance on the dead
Who no fond smile return?
The heaving breast with sorrow aches,
Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.
Fault
by Sara Teasdale

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.
Translations. - Die Heimkehr. (From Heine.)
by George MacDonald

LX.
They have company this evening,
And the house is full of light;
Up there at the shining window
Moves a shadowy form in white.
Thou seest me not--in the darkness
I stand here below, apart;
Yet less, ah less thou seest
Into my gloomy heart!
My gloomy heart it loves thee,
Loves thee in every spot:
It breaks, it bleeds, it shudders--But
into it thou seest not!
LXII.
Diamonds hast thou, and pearls,
And all by which men lay store;
And of eyes thou hast the fairest--
Darling, what wouldst thou more?
Upon thine eyes so lovely
Have I a whole army-corps
Of undying songs composed--
Dearest, what wouldst thou more?
And with thine eyes so lovely
Thou hast tortured me very sore,
And hast ruined me altogether--
Darling, what wouldst thou more?
The Palace.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

They come, they come, with fife and drum,
And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:
Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;
To talk in rank would not be manners.
Onward they stride, as Britons can;
The ladies following in the Van.
Who, who be these that tramp in threes
Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through
The roaring Strand, and stand at ease
At last 'neath shadowy Waterloo?
Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they;
Taking their annual holiday.
To catch the destin'd train - to pay
Their willing fares, and plunge within it -
Is, as in old Romaunt they say,
With them the work of half-a-minute.
Then off they're whirl'd, with songs and shouting,
To cedared Sydenham for their outing.
I mark'd them light, with faces bright
As pansies or a new coin'd florin,
And up the sunless stair take flight,
Close-pack'd as rabbits in a warren.
Honour the Brave, who in that stress
Still trod not upon Beauty's dress!
Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;
In every kerchief lurk'd a lunch;
When they unfurl'd them, it was grand
To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch
The sounding celery-stick, or ram
The knife into the blushing ham.
Dash'd the bold fork through pies of pork;
O'er hard-boil'd eggs the saltspoon shook;
Leapt from its lair the playful cork:
Yet some there were, to whom the brook
Seem'd sweetest beverage, and for meat
They chose the red root of the beet.
Then many a song, some rather long,
Came quivering up from girlish throats;
And one young man he came out strong,
And gave "The Wolf" without his notes.
While they who knew not song or ballad
Still munch'd, approvingly, their salad.
But ah! what bard could sing how hard,
The artless banquet o'er, they ran
Down the soft slope with daisies starr'd
And kingcups! onward, maid with man,
They flew, to scale the breezy swing,
Or court frank kisses in the ring.
Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill
This heart! The lawns, the happy shade,
Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill,
Stir with slow spoon their lemonade;
And maidens flirt (no extra charge)
In comfort at the fountain's marge!
Others may praise the "grand displays"
Where "fiery arch," "cascade," and "comet,"
Set the whole garden in a "blaze"!
Far, at such times, may I be from it;
Though then the public may be "lost
In wonder" at a trifling cost.
Fann'd by the breeze, to puff at ease
My faithful pipe is all I crave:
And if folks rave about the "trees
Lit up by fireworks," let them rave.
Your monster fetes, I like not these;
Though they bring grist to the lessees.
The Reunion Of Sir T. F. Buxton And Elizabeth Fry.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

They have met, they have met! now their pinions unfurl
In that city whose pavement is gold,
Whose every gate is of one liquid pearl,
And her beauty and glory untold;
That city, which needeth no light from the sun,
Where the moon sheds her lustre no more,
But where, in the smile of the Crucified One,
Countless myriads bow down and adore.
One by one are the loved ones all gathering there,
In white robes they encircle the throne;
Oh! what bliss to unite where sin cannot blight,
And where parting and death are unknown.
They are come to Mount Zion, the city of God;
They are joined to the glorified throng;
One pathway of sorrow by all has been trod,
All sing one harmonious song.
Omnipotent Lord, just and true are Thy ways!
Thy works great and marvellous are!
Oh! who shall not fear Thee and echo Thy praise,
And Thy glory and honor declare.
The Eagle
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

They have him in a cage
And little children run
To offer him well-meant bits of bun,
And very common people say, "My word!
Ain't he a 'orrible bird!"
And the smart, "How absurd!
Poor, captive, draggled, downcast lord of the air!"
Steadfast in his despair,
He doth not rage;
But with unconquerable eye
And soul aflame to fly,
Considereth the sun.