DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Poet And The Advocate
by James Williams

Glory and gain thus mixed distract the thought,
We owe to honour all, to fortune nought;
The poet, like the soldier, scorns for pay
Peruvian gold, but seeks the wreath of bay.
How is the advocate the poet's peer?
The poet's glory is complete and clear;
He far outlives the advocate's renown,
Patru is e'en by Scarron's name weighed down.
The bar of Greece and Rome you point me out,
A bar that trained great men, I do not doubt,
For then chicane with language void of sense
Had not deformed the law and eloquence.
Purge the tribune of all this monstrous growth,
I mount it, and my soul will sink, though loth,
Will yield to fortune and will speak in prose.
But since reform in this so slowly grows,
Leave me my tastes, for I aspire to be
By verse ennobled to posterity,
To hold first place in arts above the law,
More grave and noble than it ever saw.
Fraud in this age of ours unpunished can
Tread down the equity so dear to man.
Can you for spirits just and generous find
A fairer cause to plead before mankind?
Mother or stepmother let Fortune be,
The theatre and not the bar for me;
For client virtue, truth for counsel's wage;
For judge the present and the coming age.
Piron, La M'tromanie, Act iii. Sc. 7.
"Glee! The Great Storm Is Over!"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Glee! The great storm is over!
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.
Ring, for the scant salvation!
Toll, for the bonnie souls, --
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals!
How they will tell the shipwreck
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, "But the forty?
Did they come back no more?"
Then a silence suffuses the story,
And a softness the teller's eye;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.
A Psalm Or Hymn To The Graces.
by Robert Herrick

Glory be to the Graces!
That do in public places
Drive thence whate'er encumbers
The list'ning to my numbers.
Honour be to the Graces!
Who do with sweet embraces,
Show they are well contented
With what I have invented.
Worship be to the Graces!
Who do from sour faces,
And lungs that would infect me,
For evermore protect me.
Go Back To Antique Ages, If Thine Eyes
by William Wordsworth

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes
The genuine mien and character would trace
Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place,
Prompting the world's audacious vanities!
Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise;
The pyramid extend its monstrous base,
For some Aspirant of our short-lived race,
Anxious an aery name to immortalize.
There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute
Gave specious colouring to aim and act,
See the first mighty Hunter leave the brute
To chase mankind, with men in armies packed
For his field-pastime high and absolute,
While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked!
To The Driving Cloud
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas;
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken!
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints.
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints?
How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies!
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains!
Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge
Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements,
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!
Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash!
There as a monarch thou reignest.    In autumn the leaves of the maple
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches.
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses!
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn,
Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet!
Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts?
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth,
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder,
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man?
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes,
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth,
Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's
Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race;
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches!
Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind,
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams!
Glory.
by Robert Herrick

Glory no other thing is, Tully says,
Than a man's frequent fame spoke out with praise.
Remembrance Of Collins
by William Wordsworth

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such as did once the Poet bless,
Who murmuring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.
Now let us, as we float along,
For 'him' suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest Powers attended.
Lines -- 1875
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore,
And ask of them why do they sigh?
The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er,
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before,
And they're sighing to-day, and they'll sigh evermore.
Ask them what ails them:    they will not reply;
But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why!
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep,
When the night stars are gleaming on high,
And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep,
On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep.
They're moaning forever wherever they sweep.
Ask them what ails them:    they never reply;
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The waves will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go list to the breeze at the waning of day,
When it passes and murmurs "Good-bye."
The dear little breeze -- how it wishes to stay
Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play;
How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way.
Ask it what ails it:    it will not reply;
Its voice is a sad one, it never told why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The breeze will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair,
When the shout of the storm rends the sky;
They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air
And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair,
And they groan like the ghosts in the "land of despair".
Ask them what ails them:    they never reply;
Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side,
Or list where the rivers rush by;
The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide,
And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide,
Are moaning forever wherever they glide;
Ask them what ails them:    they will not reply.
On -- sad voiced -- they flow, but they never tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I.
Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea,
And the voices that sound in the sky;
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key,
And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody.
Ask them what ails them:    they will not reply.
They sigh -- sigh forever -- but never tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
Their lips will not answer you; neither shall I.
Daybreak
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away. Song of Solomon 4:6.
Gleaming softly, silvery-faint,
Heralded by chanticleer,
Merging from night's shadowy taint,
New day of the passing year!
Born to bless or born to blight,
Born for you and born for me,
Leaving, ere it take its flight,
Impress on eternity!
'Tis a gift from God's own hand.
On its pure unsullied page
Let us write at his command
What will bless our pilgrimage.
True repentance giveth joy
To the angels in the sky.
What could be more blest employ
Than to cheer the choirs on high?
Deeds of patience, deeds of love,
Banishing all hate and guile 
These will steer toward heaven above,
These will make the angels smile.
May this child of time unite
Earth and heaven in blest accord,
Heathen nations see the light
From the cross of Christ our Lord.
Coming is the glad daybreak,
The prophetic jubilee;
Sin will then all hearts forsake,
Then will all the shadows flee.
The Troubadour
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Glowing with love, on fire for fame
A Troubadour that hated sorrow
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my true-love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour."
And while he marched with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burden still he sung:
"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight
I come, a gallant Troubadour."
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hewed his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay:
"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave:-
"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
From Sunset To Star Rise.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not:
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,
A silly sheep benighted from the fold,
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,
I live alone, I look to die alone:
Yet sometimes when a wind sighs through the sedge,
Ghosts of my buried years and friends come back,
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown
On sometime summer's unreturning track.
Gliding O'er All
by Walt Whitman

Gliding o'er all, through all,
Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul - not life alone,
Death, many deaths I'll sing.
Drouth In Autumn
by Madison Julius Cawein

Gnarled acorn-oaks against a west
Of copper, cavernous with fire;
A wind of frost that gives no rest
To such lean leaves as haunt the brier,
And hide the cricket's vibrant wire.
Sear, shivering shocks, and stubble blurred
With bramble-blots of dull maroon;
And creekless hills whereon no herd
Finds pasture, and whereo'er the loon
Flies, haggard as the rainless moon.
Pied Beauty
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things - 
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim:
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
And 'll tr'des, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Go Seek Her Out All Courteously
by James Joyce

Go seek her out all courteously,
And say I come,
Wind of spices whose song is ever
Epithalamium.
O, hurry over the dark lands
And run upon the sea
For seas and lands shall not divide us
My love and me.
Now, wind, of your good courtesy
I pray you go,
And come into her little garden
And sing at her window;
Singing: The bridal wind is blowing
For Love is at his noon;
And soon will your true love be with you,
Soon, O soon.
Stanzas Written In Anticipation Of Defeat.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong,
If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense;
Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong,
Be content with success and pretend not to sense.
If the words of the wise and the generous are vain,
If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath,
Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain
Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.
Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will--
But save us, at least, the old womanly lore
Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill,
Is at once the two instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE.
Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute--
And array their thick heads against reason and right,
Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3]
Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight;
Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court
Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves,
Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort,
Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves.
Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings,
Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim;
With all the base, time-serving toadies of Kings,
Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him;
And while on the one side each name of renown
That illumines and blesses our age is combined;
While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down,
And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;
Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other,
And, counting of noses the quantum desired,
Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother,
"Come forward, my jewels"--'tis all that's required.
And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter--
Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain;
But spare even your victims the torture of laughter,
And never, oh never, try reasoning again!
Love's Emblem
by John Clare

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Could I supply that envied place
With never-fading love.
Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows,
This pure, unsullied gem,
Love's emblem in a full-blown rose,
Just broken from the stem.
Accept it as a favourite flower
For thy soft breast to wear;
'Twill blossom there its transient hour,
A favourite of the fair.
Upon thy cheek its blossom glows,
As from a mirror clear,
Making thyself a living rose,
In blossom all the year.
It is a sweet and favourite flower
To grace a maiden's brow,
Emblem of love without its power--
A sweeter rose art thou.
The rose, like hues of insect wing,
May perish in an hour;
'T is but at best a fading thing,
But thou'rt a living flower.
The roses steeped in morning dews
Would every eye enthrall,
But woman, she alone subdues;
Her beauty conquers all.
Dedication To Leigh Hunt, Esq.
by John Keats

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away;
For if we wander out in early morn,
No wreathed incense do we see upborne
Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these,
And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time, when under pleasant trees
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
Gloomily The Clouds
by Anne Bronte

Gloomily the clouds are sailing
O'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it sweeping
Heathclad hill and woodland dale,
And at times the nights's sad weeping
Sounds above its dying wail.
Now the struggling moonbeams glimmer;
Now the shadows deeper fall,
Till the dim light, waxing dimmer,
Scarce reveals yon stately hall.
All beneath its roof are sleeping;
Such a silence reigns around
I can hear the cold rain steeping
Dripping roof and plashy ground.
No: not all are wrapped in slumber;
At yon chamber window stands
One whose years can scarce outnumber
The tears that dew his clasped hands.
From the open casement bending
He surveys the murky skies,
Dreary sighs his bosom rending;
Hot tears gushing from his eyes.
Now that Autumn's charms are dying,
Summer's glories long since gone,
Faded leaves on damp earth lying,
Hoary winter striding on,
'Tis no marvel skies are lowering,
Winds are moaning thus around,
And cold rain, with ceaseless pouring,
Swells the streams and swamps the ground;
But such wild, such bitter grieving
Fits not slender boys like thee;
Such deep sighs should not be heaving
Breasts so young as thine must be.
Life with thee is only springing;
Summer in thy pathway lies;
Every day is nearer bringing
June's bright flowers and glowing skies.
Ah, he sees no brighter morrow!
He is not too young to prove
All the pain and all the sorrow
That attend the steps of love.
The Tear Sent To Her From Staines.
by Robert Herrick

Glide, gentle streams, and bear
Along with you my tear
To that coy girl
Who smiles, yet slays
Me with delays,
And strings my tears as pearl.
See! see, she's yonder set,
Making a carcanet
Of maiden-flowers!
There, there present
This orient
And pendant pearl of ours.
Then say I've sent one more
Gem to enrich her store;
And that is all
Which I can send,
Or vainly spend,
For tears no more will fall.
Nor will I seek supply
Of them, the spring's once dry;
But I'll devise,
Among the rest,
A way that's best
How I may save mine eyes.
Yet say - should she condemn
Me to surrender them
Then say my part
Must be to weep
Out them, to keep
A poor, yet loving heart.
Say too, she would have this;
She shall: then my hope is,
That when I'm poor
And nothing have
To send or save,
I'm sure she'll ask no more.
Ash-Wednesday.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Glitt'ring balls and thoughtless revels
Fill up now each misspent night - 
'Tis the reign of pride and folly,
The Carnival is at its height.
Every thought for siren pleasure,
And its sinful, feverish mirth;
Who can find one moment's leisure
For aught else save things of earth?
But, see, sudden stillness falling
O'er those revels, late so loud,
And a hush comes quickly over
All the maddened giddy crowd,
For a voice from out our churches
Has proclaimed in words that burn:
"Only dust art thou, proud mortal,
And to dust shall thou return!"
And, behold, Religion scatters
Dust and ashes on each brow;
Thus replacing gem and flower
With that lowly symbol now:
On the forehead fair of beauty,
And on manhood's front of pride,
Rich and poor and spirit weary - 
All receive it, side by side.
And the hearts that throbbed so wildly
For vain pleasure's dreams alone,
For its gilded gauds and follies,
Now at length have calmer grown.
Oh! that voice with heavenly power
Through each restless breast hath thrilled,
And our churches, late so lonely,
Now with contrite hearts are filled.
Fair and lovely are our altars
With their starry tapers bright,
With dim clouds of fragrant incense,
Fair young choristers in white,
And the dying gleam of day-light,
With its blushing crimson glow,
Streaming through the lofty casement
On the kneeling crowd below.
Tis an hour of golden promise
For the hearts that secret burn
With contrite and anxious wishes
To the Father to return;
For a Saviour, full of mercy,
On His altar-throne is there,
Waiting but that they should ask Him,
For response to whispered prayer.
Glastonbury Abbey And Wells Cathedral.
by William Lisle Bowles

WRITTEN AFTER VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE ONE, AND HEARING THE CHURCH SERVICE IN THE OTHER.
Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale,
How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!
Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale,
Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose,
When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows,
Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]
How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close,
Came blended with the airs of eventide,
When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!
But all is silent now! silent the bell,
That, heard from yonder ivied turret high,
Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell;
Silent the vesper-chant, the litany
Responsive to the organ! - scattered lie
The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray,
Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh!
And even the mouldering shrine is rent away,
Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay.
Now look upon the sister fane of Wells!
It lifts its forehead in the summer air;
Sweet, o'er the champagne, sound its Sabbath bells,
Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer.
Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare,
Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state!
Oh! say, - shall time revere the fabric fair,
Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate,
Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate!
No! to subdue or elevate the soul,
Our best, our purest feelings to refine,
Still shall the solemn diapasons roll,
Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, shine
From the tall windows on the sculptured shrine,
Tinging the pavement! for He shall afford,
He who directs the storm, his aid divine,
Because its Sion has not left thy word,
Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XLVI - Ejaculation
by William Wordsworth

Glory to God! and to the Power who came
In filial duty, clothed with love divine,
That made his human tabernacle shine
Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame;
Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name
From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and even
In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven
Along the nether region's rugged frame!
Earth prompts, Heaven urges; let us seek the light,
Studious of that pure intercourse begun
When first our infant brows their lustre won;
So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright
From unimpeded commerce with the Sun,
At the approach of all-involving night.