DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Dead Child.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Life to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.
Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God stopped th' enchanting melody.
Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once--we know not why--
God put the wondrous volume by.
Killed
by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet
He would look over the parapet;
And something smacked him in the head,
And he lay down as dead as dead.
He sluttered down, all proud and grim,
And we set to and buried him;
All night he lay and took his rest
With lumps of Flanders on his breast.
All day he lay in Flanders ground
And rested, rested, good and sound;
But when the dog-star glittered clear
He calls, "By Jove, it's dark down here!"
"Sergeant, ain't I for rounds?" sings he,
"And where's the bally Company?"
And he was answered, with respect,
"Here, sir -- all present and correct!"
And -- sure as I'm a man -- at night
He comes along the trench, as white
And cheerful as the bless'd saints,
To see if there was "no complaints."
They cannot quieten that boy's ghost,
He'll have no truck with no "Last Post,"
They mark him "Killed," but you may swear
He's with us, be it foul or fair.
He goes before us like young fire,
A soldier of his soul's desire;
Through the hell-reek that smothers us,
He fathers us and mothers us.
When we have pushed the German swine
Across the pretty river Rhine,
Maybe he'll bide where he was spent
And lie down happy and content.
To His Dying Brother, Master William Herrick
by Robert Herrick

Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight,
But stay the time till we have bade good-night.
Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy way
As soon dispatch'd is by the night as day.
Let us not then so rudely henceforth go
Till we have wept, kiss'd, sigh'd, shook hands, or so.
There's pain in parting, and a kind of hell
When once true lovers take their last farewell.
What? shall we two our endless leaves take here
Without a sad look, or a solemn tear?
He knows not love that hath not this truth proved,
Love is most loth to leave the thing beloved.
Pay we our vows and go; yet when we part,
Then, even then, I will bequeath my heart
Into thy loving hands; for I'll keep none
To warm my breast, when thou, my pulse, art gone,
No, here I'll last, and walk, a harmless shade,
About this urn, wherein thy dust is laid,
To guard it so, as nothing here shall be
Heavy, to hurt those sacred seeds of thee.
Life.
by John Clare

Life, thou art misery, or as such to me;
One name serves both, or I no difference see;
Tho' some there live would call thee heaven below,
But that's a nickname I've not learn'd to know:
A wretch with poverty and pains replete,
Where even useless stones beneath his feet
Cannot be gather'd up to say "they're mine,"
Sees little heaven in a life like thine.
Hope lends a sorry shelter from thy storms,
And largely promises, but small performs.
O irksome life! were but this hour my last!
This weary breath fain sighs for its decay;
O that my soul death's dreary vale had past,
And met the sunshine of a better day!
A Poet's Epitaph
by Madison Julius Cawein

Life was unkind to him;
All things went wrong:
Fortune assigned to him
Merely a song.
Ever a mystery
Here to his heart;
In his life's history
Love played no part.
Carve on the granite,
There at the end,
Where all may scan it,
Death was his friend.
Giving him all he missed
Here upon Earth
Love and the call he missed
All that was worth.
A Dirge.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Life has fled; she is dead,
Sleeping in the flow'ry vale
Where the fleeting shades are shed
Ghost-like o'er her features pale.
Lay her 'neath the violets wild,
Lay her like a dreaming child
'Neath the waving grass
Where the shadows pass.
II.
Gone she has to happy rest
With white flowers for her pillow;
Moons look sadly on her breast
Thro' an ever-weeping willow.
Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow,
Waxen as white roses blow
Like herself so fair,
Free from world and care.
III.
Twine this wreath of lilies wan
'Round her sculptured brow so white;
Let her rest here, white as dawn,
Like a lily quenched in night.
Wreath this rosebud wild and pale,
Wreath it 'mid her fingers frail;
On her dreamless breast
Let it dreaming rest.
IV.
Gently, gently lay her down,
Gently lay her form to sleep;
Gently let her soul be blown
Far away, while low we weep.
Hush! the earth no more can harm her
Now that choirs of angels charm her!
Dreams of life are brief;
Naught amendeth grief.
V.
Speed away! speed away!
Angels called her here to sleep;
Let us leave her here to stay:
Speed away! and, speeding, weep.
Where the roses blow and die,
'Neath them she a rose doth lie
Wilted in the grass
Where the shadows pass.
An "Immurata" Sister.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Life flows down to death; we cannot bind
That current that it should not flee:
Life flows down to death, as rivers find
The inevitable sea.
Men work and think, but women feel;
And so (for I'm a woman, I)
And so I should be glad to die
And cease from impotence of zeal,
And cease from hope, and cease from dread,
And cease from yearnings without gain,
And cease from all this world of pain,
And be at peace among the dead.
Hearts that die, by death renew their youth,
Lightened of this life that doubts and dies;
Silent and contented, while the Truth
Unveiled makes them wise.
Why should I seek and never find
That something which I have not had?
Fair and unutterably sad
The world hath sought time out of mind;
The world hath sought and I have sought, -
Ah, empty world and empty I!
For we have spent our strength for nought,
And soon it will be time to die.
Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire,
Kindling, flashing, hovering: -
Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher,
Thou whole burnt-offering!
Waiting
by George MacDonald

Lie, little cow, and chew thy cud,
The farmer soon will shift thy tether;
Chirp, linnet, on the frozen mud,
Sun and song will come together;
Wait, soul, for God, and thou shalt bud,
He waits thy waiting with his weather.
Ther's Much Expected.
by John Hartley

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.
But if we'd all anxiously tak
To makkin things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.
It's a sad state o' things when a man
Cannot put ony faith in his brother,
An fancies he'll chait if he can,
An rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.
An it's sad when yo see some at stand
High in social position an power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd,
An built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower.
It's sad to see luxury rife,
An fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin out life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.
Some in carriages rollin away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But ther chariots may bear em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.
Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An from them varry mich is expected.
An tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come - an surely it will - 
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.
An when called on, they, tremblin wi fear,
Say "The hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall o' ther ear - 
"Depart from me; I never knew you."
Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.
Life Is Bitter
by William Ernest Henley

Life is bitter. All the faces of the years,
Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears.
Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?
In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers,
Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . .
Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years;
Fame's a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears;
Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.
In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers,
While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . .
Let me sleep.
1872
Elegy On Miss Burnet, Of Monboddo.
by Robert Burns

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.
Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm, Eliza is no more!
Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a muse in honest grief bewail?
We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres;
But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.
The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So leck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.
Life Is A Privilege
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Life is a privilege.    Its youthful days
Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays.
To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire,
To feed with dreams the heart's perpetual fire,
To thrill with virtuous passions, and to glow
With great ambitions - in one hour to know
The depths and heights of feeling - God! in truth,
How beautiful, how beautiful is youth!
Life is a privilege.    Like some rare rose
The mysteries of the human mind unclose.
What marvels lie in earth, and air, and sea!
What stores of knowledge wait our opening key!
What sunny roads of happiness lead out
Beyond the realms of indolence and doubt!
And what large pleasures smile upon and bless
The busy avenues of usefulness!
Life is a privilege.    Though noontide fades
And shadows fall along the winding glades,
Though joy-blooms wither in the autumn air,
Yet the sweet scent of sympathy is there.
Pale sorrow leads us closer to our kind,
And in the serious hours of life we find
Depths in the souls of men which lend new worth
And majesty to this brief span of earth.
Life is a privilege.    If some sad fate
Sends us alone to seek the exit gate,
If men forsake us and as shadows fall,
Still does the supreme privilege of all
Come in that reaching upward of the soul
To find the welcoming Presence at the goal,
And in the Knowledge that our feet have trod
Paths that led from, and must wind back, to God.
Life Is The Body's Light
by Robert Herrick

Life is the body's light; which, once declining,
Those crimson clouds i' th' cheeks and lips leave shining:
Those counter-changed tabbies in the air,
The sun once set, all of one colour are:
So, when death comes, fresh tinctures lose their place,
And dismal darkness then doth smutch the face.
To K. de M. - Life In Her Creaking Shoes
by William Ernest Henley

Love blows as the wind blows,
Love blows into the heart.
- Nile Boat-Song
Life in her creaking shoes
Goes, and more formal grows,
A round of calls and cues:
Love blows as the wind blows.
Blows! . . . in the quiet close
As in the roaring mart,
By ways no mortal knows
Love blows into the heart.
The stars some cadence use,
Forthright the river flows,
In order fall the dews,
Love blows as the wind blows:
Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows
The courses of his chart?
A spirit that comes and goes,
Love blows into the heart.
1878
Life And I
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Life and I are lovers, straying
Arm in arm along:
Often like two children Maying,
Full of mirth and song,
Life plucks all the blooming hours
Growing by the way;
Binds them on my brow like flowers,
Calls me Queen of May.
Then again, in rainy weather,
We sit vis-a-vis,
Planning work we'll do together
In the years to be.
Sometimes Life denies me blisses,
And I frown or pout;
But we make it up with kisses
Ere the day is out.
Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him,
Try his trust and faith,
Saying I shall one day leave him
For his rival, Death.
Then he always grows more zealous,
Tender, and more true;
Loves the more for being jealous,
As all lovers do.
Though I swear by stars above him,
And by worlds beyond,
That I love him - love him - love him;
Though my heart is fond;
Though he gives me, doth my lover,
Kisses with each breath - 
I shall one day throw him over,
And plight troth with Death.
Lines, Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Life is before ye - and while now ye stand
Eager to spring upon the promised land,
Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod
But few light steps, upon a flowery sod;
Round ye are youth's green bowers, and to your eyes
Th' horizon's line joins earth with the bright skies;
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on.
And if o'er the bright scene some shadows rise,
Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies;
The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear?
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?
Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power
Of youth is strong within ye at this hour,
And the great mortal conflict seems to ye
Not so much strife as certain victory - 
A glory ending in eternity.
Life is before ye - oh! if ye could look
Into the secrets of that sealed book,
Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith,
Ye should sink down, and falter, "Give us death!"
Could the dread Sphinx's lips but once disclose,
And utter but a whisper of the woes
Which must o'ertake ye, in your lifelong doom,
Well might ye cry, "Our cradle be our tomb!"
Could ye foresee your spirit's broken wings,
Earth's brightest triumphs what despised things,
Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame,
Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame,
Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all,
Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall,
Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light, - 
Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might
Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife,
And die, but in beholding what is life.
Life is before ye - from the fated road
Ye cannot turn: then take ye up your load.
Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may.
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,
Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed!
What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,
The glory wane, - oh! not of these is made
The awful life that to your trust is given.
Children of God! inheritors of heaven!
Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy,
Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy,
To suffer, which is nobler than to dare;
A sacred burthen is this life ye bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win;
God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way,
Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day!
Hebe.
by Walter R. Cassels

Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in!
What?--Pour in Strength!
Strength for the struggle through good and ill;
Through good--that the soul may be upright still,
Unspoil'd by riches, unswerving in will,
To walk by the light of unvarnish'd truth,
Up the flower-border'd path of youth;--
Through ill--that the soul may stoutly hold
Its faith, its freedom through hunger and cold,
Steadfast and pure as the true men of old.
Strength for the sunshine, strength for the gloom,
Strength for the conflict, strength for the tomb;
Let not the heart feel a craven fear--
Draw from the fountain deep and clear;
Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in!
Pour in Strength!
Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in!
What--Pour in Truth!
Drink! till the mists that enshroud the soul,
Like sleep's drowsy shadows backward roll,
And show the spirit its radiant goal,
That nought may blind it all its days,
Or tempt it down earth's crooked ways;
Drink! till the soul in the eastern skies
Behold the glorious star arise,
That guides its steps to the promised prize;
Drink! till the strong elixir fire
Each aim of the being with pure desire,
Nerve the courage to dare the world,
Though a thousand scoffers their arrows hurl'd;
Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in!
Pour in Truth!
Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in!
What?--Pour in Love!
To quench the thirst of the longing heart,
Heal all its sorrows with wondrous art,
And freshness and joy to its hopes impart;
To make the blossoms of life expand,
And shed their sweetness on every hand;
To melt the frost of each sullen mood,
Cement the bond of true brotherhood,
Subdue the evil of Time with good,
And join the links which death hath riven
Betwixt this fallen sphere and Heaven,
Raising the soul above the sky
On wings of Immortality.
Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in!
Pour in Love!
Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in!
What?--Pour in Hope!
The soul looks out through the coming years,
Blinded by doubts, and blinded by tears,
Sear'd with the iron of tyrant fears:--
Is there a break in Life's gloomy sky?
Can the heart reach it before it die?
The path is weary, the desert wide,
And Sorrow stalks by the pilgrim's side--
Oh for a draught of Hope's crystal tide
To cheer the parch'd and fainting one,
Until his toilsome race be run,
And the bright mirage fall from the sky,
Displaced by a sweet reality.
Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in!
Pour in Hope!
Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in!
What?--Pour in Faith!
What is Life's fabric, so nobly plann'd,
Its stately dome, and its ramparts grand,
If their foundation rest on the sand,
Ready to shift with Time's ebbing stream,
And melt away like a gorgeous dream?
God! let us trust Thee in very sooth,
Feel that the visions, the dreams of youth,
Its glorious hopes are all based on Truth;--
Thus shall the purpose of Life grow clear;
Love shall be freed from the bondage of fear;
And the soul calmly await the morrow
Untroubled by visions of coming sorrow.
Brim up Life's chalice--pour in! pour in!
Pour in Faith!
To Laura In Death. Sonnet IV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

La vita fugge, e non s' arresta un' ora.
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.
Life passes quick, nor will a moment stay,
And death with hasty journeys still draws near;
And all the present joins my soul to tear,
With every past and every future day:
And to look back or forward, so does prey
On this distracted breast, that sure I swear,
Did I not to myself some pity bear,
I were e'en now from all these thoughts away.
Much do I muse on what of pleasures past
This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' oppose
My passage, loud the winds around me roar.
I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast
And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those
Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Life ever flies with course that nought may stay,
Death follows after with gigantic stride;
Ills past and present on my spirit prey,
And future evils threat on every side:
Whether I backward look or forward fare,
A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest;
And were it not that pity bids me spare
My nobler part, I from these thoughts would rest.
If ever aught of sweet my heart has known,
Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost,
I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown;
E'en in the port I see the storm afar;
Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost,
And set for ever my fair polar star.
DACRE.
Barter
by Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.
Red Illusions Under Glass
by Paul Cameron Brown

Life as green illusion -
the cool fronds of the fern
are deep set in firmest soil
and the grassy narrows
brook a silent, liquid play.
Red illusions under glass -
quietly picking strawberries
where a woman hums to
the buzz of flies
with the afternoon sun disappearing overhead.
Each grasp of the berry
a red stain, the darting of seeds,
crimson tendrils do confuse the eye
with a polka dot starling raucous
in glee above.
Composed On A May Morning
by William Wordsworth

Life with you Lambs, like day, is just begun,
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide;
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun
Pale twilight's lingering glooms, and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied;
Or gambol, each with his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape wherever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green,
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen;
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true,
And so, His gifts and promises between,
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?
Sestina VI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte.
THE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELP.
Life's three first stages train'd my soul in part
To place its care on objects high and new,
And to disparage what men often prize,
But, left alone, and of her fatal course
As yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,
She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.
A tender flower there was, born in that wood
The day before, whose root was in a part
High and impervious e'en to spirit free;
For many snares were there of forms so new,
And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,
That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.
Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!
Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,
Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course;
The world I since have ransack'd part by part,
For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new,
Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.
But ah! I feel my body must be free
From that hard knot which is its richest prize,
Ere medicine old or incantations new
Can heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood,
Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part,
Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.
Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult course
Have I to run, where easy foot and sure
Were rather needed, healthy in each part;
Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize,
Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood,
And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.
Look on my state, amid temptations new,
Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course,
Have made me denizen of darkling wood;
If good, restore me, fetterless and free,
My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prize
If yet with thee I find her in blest part.
Lo! thus in part I put my questions new,
If mine be any prize, or run its course,
Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.
MACGREGOR.
Life
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,
Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time.
There is no path too steep for him to climb.
With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,
As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,
By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,
And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,
Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"
In vain we murmur; "Come," Life says, "Fair play!"
And seizes on us.    God! he goads us so!
He does not let us sit down all the day.
At each new step we feel the burden grow,
Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,
Watching for Death to meet us on the way.
The Three Ages Of Nature.
by Friedrich Schiller

Life she received from fable; the schools deprived her of being,
Life creative again she has from reason received.