DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Not Always Glad When We Smile
by James Whitcomb Riley

We are not always glad when we smile:
Though we wear a fair face and are gay,
And the world we deceive
May not ever believe
We could laugh in a happier way. -
Yet, down in the deeps of the soul,
Ofttimes, with our faces aglow,
There's an ache and a moan
That we know of alone,
And as only the hopeless may know.
We are not always glad when we smile, -
For the heart, in a tempest of pain,
May live in the guise
Of a smile in the eyes
As a rainbow may live in the rain;
And the stormiest night of our woe
May hang out a radiant star
Whose light in the sky
Of despair is a lie
As black as the thunder-clouds are.
We are not always glad when we smile! -
But the conscience is quick to record,
All the sorrow and sin
We are hiding within
Is plain in the sight of the Lord:
And ever, O ever, till pride
And evasion shall cease to defile
The sacred recess
Of the soul, we confess
We are not always glad when we smile.
Flowers, dear flowers, farewell!
by Louisa May Alcott

"We are sending you, dear flowers,
Forth alone to die,
Where your gentle sisters may not weep
O'er the cold graves where you lie;
But you go to bring them fadeless life
In the bright homes where they dwell,
And you softly smile that 't is so,
As we sadly sing farewell.
O plead with gentle words for us,
And whisper tenderly
Of generous love to that cold heart,
And it will answer ye;
And though you fade in a dreary home,
Yet loving hearts will tell
Of the joy and peace that you have given:
Flowers, dear flowers, farewell!"
The Straw Parlor
by Eugene Field

Way up at the top of a big stack of straw
Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw!
And there could you lie when aweary of play
And gossip or laze in the coziest way;
No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood
No worldly distraction presumed to intrude.
As a refuge from onerous mundane ado
I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you?
A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast
On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest;
And she flew in and out all the happy day long,
And twittered the soothingest lullaby song.
Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird
Performed for her babies the music they heard;
I reckon she twittered her r'pertoire through
For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you?
And down from a rafter a spider had hung
Some swings upon which he incessantly swung.
He cut up such didoes--such antics he played
Way up in the air, and was never afraid!
He never made use of his horrid old sting,
But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing!
I deeply regret to observe that so few
Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you?
And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite
Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night;
And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse
In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house!
When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak
"Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek!
She thought--silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo,
But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you?
So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird
Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard
And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings
Achieved most astounding gyrations and things!
No wonder the little folk liked what they saw
And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw!
With the mercury up to 102
In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you?
But once there invaded that Eden of straw
The evilest Feline that ever you saw!
She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude
And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good;
And then, reaching down to the nethermost house,
She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse!
And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew--
I rather admire her discretion, don't you?
Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained,
And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained!
Barn, strawstack and spider--they all blew away,
And nobody knows where they're at to this day!
And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear
It was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere!
I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo"
When I think of this tragical ending, don't you?
Sons Of Belial
by Lola Ridge

I
We are old,
Old as song.
Before Rome was
Or Cyrene.
Mad nights knew us
And old men's wives.
We knew who spilled the sacred oil
For young-gold harlots of the town....
We knew where the peacocks went
And the white doe for sacrifice.
II
We were the Sons of Belial.
One black night
Centuries ago
We beat at a door
In Gilead....
We took the Levite's concubine
We plucked her hands from off the door....
We choked the cry into her throat
And stuck the stars among her hair....
We glimpsed the madly swaying stars
Between the rhythms of her hair
And all our mute and separate strings
Swelled in a raging symphony....
Our blood sang paeans
All that night
Till dawn fell like a wounded swan
Upon the fields of Gilead.
III
We are old....
Old as song....
We are dumb song.
(Epics tingled
In our blood
When we haled Hypatia
Over the stones
In Alexandria.)
Could we loose
The wild rhythms clinched in us....
March in bands of troubadours....
We would be of gentle mood.
When Christ healed us
Who were dumb - 
When he freed our shut-in song - 
We strewed green palms
At his pale feet...
We sang hosannas
In Jerusalem.
And all our fumbling voices blent
In a brief white harmony.
(But a mightier song
Was in us pent
When we nailed Christ
To a four-armed tree.)
IV
We are young.
When we rise up with singing roots,
(Warm rains washing
Gutters of Berlin
Where we stamped Rosa... Luxemburg
On a night in spring.)
Rhythms skurry in our blood.
Little nimble rats of song
In our feet run crazily
And all is dust... we trample... on.
Mad nights when we make ritual
(Feet running before the sleuth-light...
And the smell of burnt flesh
By a flame-ringed hut
In Missouri,
Sweet as on Rome's pyre....)
We make ropes do rigadoons
With copper feet that jig on air....
We are the Mob....
Old as song.
Tyre knew us
And Israel.
The Young Vets.
by A. H. Laidlaw

We all know the face of the chap who can tell
How he led the victorious van,
Through whose terrible yell all the enemy fell
Or fled from this murderous man.
We all know the pate of the chap who was late,
Too late for a wound or a scar,
A year or two late for a soldierly fate,
And twenty too late for the war.
We all know the voice of Goliah the Great,
Who never smelt powder, you know,
Who came to the field of battle too late
To give little David a show.
We all know the tale of the chap who delights
To tell all the girls he can find
Of the terrible sights, of the feuds and the fights,
That he fought in the depths of his mind.
On a Century Map, we all know the chap
Who can trace his proud place without fear,
Who claims the drum-tap found him first in the gap,
Though he skulked forty miles in the rear.
In Praise Of Dorset
by William Barnes

We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely,
Be'nt asheamed to own our pleace;
An' we've zome women not uncomely;
Nor asheamed to show their feace;
We've a mead or two wo'th mowen,
We've a ox or two wo'th showen,
In the village,
At the tillage.
Come along an' you shall vind
That Do'set men don't sheame their kind.
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!
If you in Do'set be a roamen,
An' ha' business on a farm,
Then woont ye zee your eale a foamen!
Or your cider down to warm?
Woont yo have brown bread a-put ye,
An' some vinney cheese a-cut ye?
Butter?'Rolls o't!
Cream?'why bowls o't!
Woont ye have, in short, your vill,
A-gi'ed wi' a right good will? Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!
An woon't yo have vor ev'ry shillen,
Shillen's wo'th at any shop.
Though Do'set chaps be up to zellen
An' can meake a tidy swop?
Use 'em well, they'll use you better;
In good turns they woont be debtor,
An' so comely,
An' so hwomely,
Be the maidens, if your son
Took woone o'm, then you'd cry 'Well done!'
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!
To The Waiter
by Oliver Herford

We drink your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served.
The Wood-Cutter
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

We came behind him by the wall,
My brethren drew their brands,
And they had strength to strike him down--
And I to bind his hands.
Only once, to a lantern gleam,
He turned his face from the wall,
And it was as the accusing angel's face
On the day when the stars shall fall.
I grasped the axe with shaking hands,
I stared at the grass I trod;
For I feared to see the whole bare heavens
Filled with the face of God.
I struck: the serpentine slow blood
In four arms soaked the moss--
Before me, by the living Christ,
The blood ran in a cross.
Therefore I toil in forests here
And pile the wood in stacks,
And take no fee from the shivering folk
Till I have cleansed the axe.
But for a curse God cleared my sight,
And where each tree doth grow
I see a life with awful eyes,
And I must lay it low.
Prayer
by George MacDonald

We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,
And ye shall have your prayer;
We turn our thoughts as to a task,
With will constrained and rare.
And yet we have; these scanty prayers
Yield gold without alloy:
O God, but he that trusts and dares
Must have a boundless joy!
An Invocation
by Walter Savage Landor

We are what suns and winds and waters make us;
The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills
Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles.
But where the land is dim from tyranny,
There tiny pleasures occupy the place
Of glories and of duties; as the feet
Of fabled faeries when the sun goes down
Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day.
Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One above,
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form
That burst into existence from the froth
Of ever-varying ocean: what is best
Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most deform'd.
The heart is hardest in the softest climes,
The passions flourish, the affections die.
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths,
That fillest all the space between the seas,
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts
To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole,
What lifts thee up? what shakes thee? 't is the breath
Of God. Awake, ye nations! spring to life!
Let the last work of his right hand appear
Fresh with his image, Man.
Karma
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I
We cannot choose our sorrows.    One there was
Who, reverent of soul, and strong with trust,
Cried, 'God, though Thou shouldst bow me to the dust,
Yet will I praise thy everlasting laws.
Beggared, my faith would never halt or pause,
But sing Thy glory, feasting on a crust.
Only one boon, one precious boon I must
Demand of Thee, O opulent great Cause.
Let Love stay with me, constant to the end,
Though fame pass by and poverty pursue.'
With freighted hold her life ship onward sailed;
The world gave wealth, and pleasure, and a friend,
Unmarred by envy, and whose heart was true.
But ere the sun reached midday, Love had failed.
II
Then from the depths, in bitterness she cried,
'Hell is on earth, and heaven is but a dream;
And human life a troubled aimless stream;
And God is nowhere.    Would God so deride
A loving creature's faith?'    A voice replied,
'The stream flows onward to the Source Supreme,
Where things that ARE replace the things that SEEM,
And where the deeds of all past lives abide.
Once at thy door Love languished and was spurned.
Who sorrow plants, must garner sorrow's sheaf.
No prayers can change the seedling in the sod.
By thine own heart Love's anguish must be learned.
Pass on, and know, as one made wise by grief,
That in thyself dwells heaven and hell and God.'
A General Summary
by Rudyard Kipling

We are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
India's Prehistoric clay;
He that drew the longest bow
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-tday.
"Dowb," the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
On the lake or in the cave:
Stole the steadiest canoe,
Ate the quarry others slew,
Died and took the finest grave.
When they scratched the reindeer-bone,
Some one made the sketch his own,
Filched it from the artist then,
Even in those early days,
Won a simple Viceroy's praise
Through the toil of other men.
Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage
Favouritism governed kissage,
Even as it does in this age.
Who shall doubt "the secret hid
Under Cheops' pyramid"
Was that the contractor did
Cheops out of several millions?
Or that Joseph's sudden rise
To Comptroller of Supplies
Was a fraud of monstrous size
On King Pharaoh's swart Civilians?
Thus, the artless songs I sing
Do not deal with anything
New or never said before.
As it was in the beginning
Is to-day official sinning,
And shall be for evermore!
Morality
by Matthew Arnold

We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides;
The spirit bloweth and is still,
In mystery our soul abides.
But tasks in hours of insight will'd
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.
With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.
Not till the hours of light return,
All we have built do we discern.
Then, when the clouds are off the soul,
When thou dost bask in Nature's eye,
Ask, how she view'd thy self-control,
Thy struggling, task'd morality 
Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air,
Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair.
And she, whose censure thou dost dread,
Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek,
See, on her face a glow is spread,
A strong emotion on her cheek!
"Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine,
Whence was it, for it is not mine?
"There is no effort on my brow 
I do not strive, I do not weep;
I rush with the swift spheres and glow
In joy, and when I will, I sleep.
Yet that severe, that earnest air,
I saw, I felt it once but where?
"I knew not yet the gauge of time,
Nor wore the manacles of space;
I felt it in some other clime,
I saw it in some other place.
'Twas when the heavenly house I trod,
And lay upon the breast of God."
The Rhyme Of The Restless Ones
by Robert William Service

We couldn't sit and study for the law;
The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand;
For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging
To excitements and excesses that are banned.
So we took to wine and drink and other things,
And the devil in us struggled to be free;
Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea.
Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam,
To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
And we took the chance they gave
Of a far and foreign grave,
And we bade goodbye for evermore to home.
And some of us are climbing on the peak,
And some of us are camping on the plain;
By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us,
By track and trail you'll meet us once again.
We are fated serfs to freedom - sky and sea;
We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
And we go into the dark as fighters go.
Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
Yet we're hard as cats to kill,
And our hearts are reckless still,
And we've danced with death a dozen times or so.
And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun; and when the race is run,
We often die with curses in our mouth.
We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean;
Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
But we'll never stay in town, and we'll never settle down,
And we'll never have an object or an aim.
No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
And life will always seem a careless game;
And they'd better far forget -
Those who say they love us yet -
Forget, blot out with bitterness our name.
Out Of Time, Out Of Tune.
by Robert Herrick

We blame, nay, we despise her pains
That wets her garden when it rains:
But when the drought has dried the knot,
Then let her use the wat'ring-pot.
We pray for showers, at our need,
To drench, but not to drown our seed.
We Cover Thee, Sweet Face.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

We cover thee, sweet face.
Not that we tire of thee,
But that thyself fatigue of us;
Remember, as thou flee,
We follow thee until
Thou notice us no more,
And then, reluctant, turn away
To con thee o'er and o'er,
And blame the scanty love
We were content to show,
Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold
If thou would'st take it now.
The Squire's Daughter
by James Williams

We crawled about the nursery
In tenderest years in tether,
At six we waded in the sea
And caught our colds together.
At ten we practised playing at
A kind of heathen cricket,
A croquet mallet was the bat,
The Squire's old hat the wicket.
At twelve, the cricket waxing slow,
With home-made bow and arrow
We took to shooting--once I know
I all but hit a sparrow.
She took birds' nests from easy trees,
I climbed the oaks and ashes,
'Twas deadly work for hands and knees,
Deplorable for sashes.
At hide and seek one summer day
We played in merry laughter,
'Twas then she hid her heart away,
I never found it after.
So time slipped by until my call,
For out of the professions
I chose the Bar as best of all,
And joined the Loamshire Sessions.
The reason for it was that there
Her father, short and pursy,
Doled out scant justice in the chair
And even scanter mercy.
As Holofernes lost his head
To Judith of Bethulia,
So I fell victim, but instead
Of Judith it was Julia.
My speech left juries in the dark,
Of Julia I was thinking,
And once I heard a coarse remark
About a fellow drinking.
I practised verse in leisure time
Both in and out of season,
It was indubitably rhyme,
Occasionally reason.
I lacked the cheek to tell my woes,
Had not concealment fed on
My damask cheek, but left my nose
With twice its share of red on?
Too horrible was this suspense,
At last, in desperation
I went to Loamshire on pretence
Of death of a relation.
The Squire was beaming; "Julia's gone
To London for a visit,
But with a wedding coming on
That's not surprising, is it?
"Old friends like you will think, no doubt,
That she is young to marry,
But ever since she first came out,
She's been engaged to Harry."
The Eyes Before The Ears.
by Robert Herrick

We credit most our sight; one eye doth please
Our trust far more than ten ear-witnesses.
Queen Victoria
by Joseph Horatio Chant

A Prize Birthday Poem, 1885.
We do not sing of vast domain--
Empires as vast as ours are seen,
And o'er their millions despots reign;
We sing the virtues of our Queen.
We think of her when but a maid
The message came, "the King is dead!"
And at her feet a crown was laid;
In deep distress of mind, she said:
"In my behalf I ask your prayers."
Then falling on her knees to pray,
She told the Lord her fears and cares,
And sought from Him strength for her day.
He seemed to say, "Child, do not fear;
I will uphold thee with my hand,
And I will make thy pathway clear,
Thy throne establish in the land."
'Twas thus began Victoria's reign,
And God has made her throne secure;
Her enemies will plot in vain,
For it is destined to endure.
But while she sits on regal throne,
And acts full well a regal part,
She reigns not on the throne alone,
She reigns to-day in England's heart.
Her queenly heart with pity throbs
For every suffering subject's woes;
In lowly cot, 'midst groans and sobs,
She like a ray of sunshine goes.
As sweet perfume by outward gale
Is carried far o'er sea and land,
So queenly virtues never fail
To touch true hearts on every strand.
In every land, her name is blest;
She is beloved by old and young;
From pole to pole, from east to west,
The song, "God save the Queen," is sung.
Through sorrows deep her path has led,
And tender ties have sundered been;
Bright hopes were buried with her dead,
And love has kept their memory green.
By grief secluded from the world,
Her path through lonely years she trod,
And oft her life has been imperilled;
But she has leaned upon her God.
And as she wept a nation's tears
In heartfelt sympathy were shed;
Forgetting their own griefs and biers,
They wept beside the royal dead.
With grateful hearts her natal day
We loyal Britons hail again,
And join with millions as they pray
"God bless our Queen! Long may she reign!"
And when at last life's glories fade,
And robes of state are laid aside,
When nature's debt to dust is paid
And charms no more earth's pomp and pride,
May angel bands her spirit bear
Up to the palace of her King,
Where she a fadeless crown shall wear,
And the new song with rapture sing.
Natural Magic
by George William Russell

We are tired who follow after
Phantasy and truth that flies:
You with only look and laughter
Stain our hearts with richest dyes.
When you break upon our study
Vanish all our frosty cares;
As the diamond deep grows ruddy,
Filled with morning unawares.
With the stuff that dreams are made of
But an empty house we build:
Glooms we are ourselves afraid of,
By the ancient starlight chilled.
All unwise in thought or duty--
Still our wisdom envies you:
We who lack the living beauty
Half our secret knowledge rue.
Thought nor fear in you nor dreaming
Veil the light with mist about;
Joy, as through a crystal gleaming,
Flashes from the gay heart out.
Pain and penitence forsaking,
Hearts like cloisters dim and grey,
By your laughter lured, awaking
Join with you the dance of day.
Helluland
by Paul Cameron Brown

We built bottlecaps off
ship's sides
(soft, cedar bough),
Viking masts
shining thru imagined
Norse seas.
Sporting logs,
(sweet, cedar-wood shavings)
piercing beer hats/silver foil,
grey wraps & burlap,
Atlantic capes,
our twin peaks soared.
New Found Land
(a child's faery shrimp logistics
aide-de-camp simplistics)
marvelled tale
of warm, butter moon
with outpourings around
penknife's blade.
To tame Sutton Hoo,
(I am very close to myself tonight)
bronze copper, cruising wintery water,
Anse aux Meadows,
occasional dirt shack
skraelings,
jagged blade & arrow
backward into time
for Helluland,
yet marooned in the Land
God gave Cain.
Answered Extempore By Dr. Swift
by Jonathan Swift

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.
We Are With France
by Richard Le Gallienne

We are with France - not by the ties
Of treaties made with tongue in cheek,
The ancient diplomatic lies,
The paper promises that seek
To hide the long maturing guile,
Planning destruction with a smile.
We are with France by bonds no seal
Of the stamped wax and tape can make,
Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel
With sneering devil's laughter break;
Nor need we any plighted speech
For our deep concord, each with each.
As ancient comrades tried and true
No new exchange of vows demand,
Each knows of old what each will do,
Nor needs to talk to understand;
So France with us and we with France - 
Enough the gesture and the glance.
In a shared dream our loves began,
Together fought one fight and won,
The Dream Republican of Man,
And now as then our dream is one;
Still as of old our hearts unite
To dream and battle for the Right.
Nor memories alone are ours,
But purpose for the Future strong,
Across the seas two signal towers,
Keeping stern watch against the Wrong;
Seeking, with hearts of deep accord,
A better wisdom than the Sword.
We are with France, in brotherhood
Not of the spirit's task alone,
But kin in laughter of the blood:
Where Paris glitters in the sun,
A second home, like boys, we find,
And leave our grown-up cares behind.