DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Up The Line.
by William McKendree Carleton

Through blinding storm and clouds of night,
We swiftly pushed our restless flight;
With thundering hoof and warning neigh,
We urged our steed upon his way
Up the line.
Afar the lofty head-light gleamed;
Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed;
And glistening bright, and rising high,
Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky,
Up the line.
Adown the long, complaining track,
Our wheels a message hurried back;
And quivering through the rails ahead,
Went news of our resistless tread,
Up the line.
The trees gave back our din and shout,
And flung their shadow arms about;
And shivering in their coats of gray,
They heard us roaring far away,
Up the line.
The wailing storm came on apace,
And dashed its tears into our fade;
But steadily still we pierced it through,
And cut the sweeping wind in two,
Up the line.
A rattling rush across the ridge,
A thunder-peal beneath the bridge;
And valley and hill and sober plain
Re-echoed our triumphant strain,
Up the line.
And when the Eastern streaks of gray
Bespoke the dawn of coming day,
We halted our steed, his journey o'er,
And urged his giant form no more,
Up the line.
Second Song: The Girl from Baltistan
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Throb, throb, throb,
Far away in the blue transparent Night,
On the outer horizon of a dreaming consciousness,
She hears the sound of her lover's nearing boat
Afar, afloat
On the river's loneliness, where the Stars are the only light;
Hear the sound of the straining wood
Like a broken sob
Of a heart's distress,
Loving misunderstood.
She lies, with her loose hair spent in soft disorder,
On a silken sheet with a purple woven border,
Every cell of her brain is latent fire,
Every fibre tense with restrained desire.
And the straining oars sound clearer, clearer,
The boat is approaching nearer, nearer;
"How to wait through the moments' space
Till I see the light of my lover's face?"
Throb, throb, throb,
The sound dies down the stream
Till it only clings at the senses' edge
Like a half-remembered dream.
Doubtless, he in the silence lies,
His fair face turned to the tender skies,
Starlight touching his sleeping eyes.
While his boat caught in the thickset sedge
And the waters round it gurgle and sob,
Or floats set free on the river's tide,
Oars laid aside.
She is awake and knows no rest,
Passion dies and is dispossessed
Of his brief, despotic power.
But the Brain, once kindled, would still be afire
Were the whole world pasture to its desire,
And all of love, in a single hour, - 
A single wine cup, filled to the brim,
Given to slake its thirst.
Some there are who are thus-wise cursed
Times that follow fulfilled desire
Are of all their hours the worst.
They find no Respite and reach no Rest,
Though passion fail and desire grow dim,
No assuagement comes from the thing possessed
For possession feeds the fire.
"Oh, for the life of the bright hued things
Whose marriage and death are one,
A floating fusion on golden wings.
Alit with passion and sun!
"But we who re-marry a thousand times,
As the spirit or senses will,
In a thousand ways, in a thousand climes,
We remain unsatisfied still."
As her lover left her, alone, awake she lies,
With a sleepless brain and weary, half-closed eyes.
She turns her face where the purple silk is spread,
Still sweet with delicate perfume his presence shed.
Her arms remembered his vanished beauty still,
And, reminiscent of clustered curls, her fingers thrill.
While the wonderful, Starlit Night wears slowly on
Till the light of another day, serene and wan,
Pierces the eastern skies.
A Song Of Greek Prose
by Robert Fuller Murray

Thrice happy are those
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.
But I, late at night,
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.
For when it is done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.
It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.
So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!
On A Plant Of Virgin's Bower. Designed To Cover A Garden-Seat.
by William Cowper

Thrive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower,
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou camest from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Some future day the illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crown'd with virgin's bower?
The Peasants' Revolt. {35}
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Thro' the mists of years,
Thro' the lies of men,
Your bloody sweat and tears,
Your desperate hopes and fears
Reach us once again.
Brothers, who long ago,
For life's bitter sake
Toiled and suffered so,
Robbery, insult, blow,
Rope and sword and stake:
Toiled and suffered, till
It burst, the brightening hope,
"Might and right" and "will and skill,"
That scorned, and does, and will,
Sword and stake and rope!
Wat and Jack and John,
Tyler, Straw, and Ball,
Souls that faltered not,
Hearts like white iron hot,
Still we hear your call!
Yes, your "bell is rung,"
Yes, for "now is time!"
Come hither, every one,
Brave ghosts whose day's not done,
Avengers of old rime, - 
Come and lead the way,
Hushed, implacable,
Suffering no delay,
Forgetting not that day
Dreadful, hateful, fell,
When the liar king,
The liar gentlemen,
Wrought that foulest thing,
Robbing, murdering
Men who'd trusted them! {36}
Come and lead the way,
Hushed, implacable.
What shall stop us, say,
On that day, our day? - 
Not unloosened hell!
A Song of Comfort
by John Alexander McCrae

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may --
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
Eugene Field.
Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
The soft wind sang to the dead below:
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
And the task that was joyous be weary at last."
To the winter sky when the nights were long
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
"Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
And the path grow rough when the night came down."
In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:
"Ye think with regret that the world was bright,
That your path was short and your task was light;
The path, though short, was perhaps the best
And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."
To An Early Butterly.
by John Clare

Thrice welcome here again, thou flutt'ring thing,
That gaily seek'st about the opening flower,
And opest and shutt'st thy gaudy-spangled wing
Upon its bosom in the sunny hour;
Fond grateful thoughts from thy appearance spring:
To see thee, Fly, warm me once more to sing
His universal care who hapt thee down,
And did thy winter-dwelling please to give.
That Being's smiles on me dampt winter's frown,
And snatch'd me from the storm, and bade me live.
And now again the welcome season's come,
'Tis thine and mine, in nature's grateful pride,
To thank that God who snatch'd us from the tomb,
And stood our prop, when all gave way beside.
Our Fathers Also
by Rudyard Kipling

"Below the Mill Dam" - Traffics and Discoveries
Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing 'neath our hand.
Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.
By they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire,
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked,
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
All lore our Lady Venus bares,
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
All Profit, all Device, all Truth,
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.
The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Warn them of seas that slip our yoke,
Of slow-conspiring stars,
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
By they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire,
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire!
Treasures. (Little Poems In Prose.)
by Emma Lazarus

1. Through cycles of darkness the diamond sleeps in its coal-black prison.
2. Purely incrusted in its scaly casket, the breath-tarnished pearl slumbers in mud and ooze.
3. Buried in the bowels of earth, rugged and obscure, lies the ingot of gold.
4. Long hast thou been buried, O Israel, in the bowels of earth; long hast thou slumbered beneath the overwhelming waves; long hast thou slept in the rayless house of darkness.
5. Rejoice and sing, for only thus couldst thou rightly guard the golden knowledge, Truth, the delicate pearl and the adamantine jewel of the Law.
Thrice Toss Those Oaken Ashes In The Air
by Thomas Campion

Thrice toss those oaken ashes in the air;
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;
Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,
And murmur soft: "She will, or she will not."
Go burn those poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,
That all thy fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you fairies, dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.
In vain are all the charms I can devise;
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Modern Cupid.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Son tremil' anni.
Through full three thousand years the world reveres
Blind Love that bears the quiver and hath wings:
Now too he's deaf, and to the sufferings
Of folk in anguish turns impiteous ears.
Of gold he's greedy, and dark raiment wears;
A child no more, that naked sports and sings,
But a sly greybeard; no gold shaft he flings,
Now that fire-arms have cursed these latter years.
Charcoal and sulphur, thunder, lead, and smoke,
That leave the flesh with plagues of hell diseased,
And drive the craving spirit deaf and blind,
These are his weapons. But my bell hath broke
Her silence. Yield, thou deaf, blind, tainted beast,
To the wise fervour of a blameless mind!
Sonnet XXXVII. Autumn.
by Anna Seward

Thro' changing Months a well-attemper'd Mind
Welcomes their gentle or terrific pace. - 
When o'er retreating Autumn's golden grace
Tempestuous Winter spreads in every wind
Naked asperity, our musings find
Grandeur increasing, as the Glooms efface
Variety and glow. - Each solemn trace
Exalts the thoughts, from sensual joys refin'd.
Then blended in our rapt ideas rise
The vanish'd charms, that summer-suns reveal,
With all of desolation, that now lies
Dreary before us; - teach the Soul to feel
Awe in the Present, pleasure in the Past,
And to see vernal Morns in Hope's perspective cast.
October 27th, 1782.
Incantation. From The New Tragedy Of "The Brunswickers."
by Thomas Moore

SCENE.--Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.--
Enter three Brunswickers.
1st Bruns.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,
2d Bruns.--Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,
3d Bruns.--Bexley snores:--'tis time, 'tis time,
1st Bruns.--Round about the caldron go;
In the poisonous nonsense throw.
Bigot spite that long hath grown
Like a toad within a stone,
Sweltering in the heart of Scott,
Boil we in the Brunswick pot.
All.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2d Bruns.--Slaver from Newcastle's quill
In the noisome mess distil,
Brimming high our Brunswick broth
Both with venom and with froth.
Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill,
Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,
With that malty stuff which Chandos
Drivels as no other man does.
Catch (i. e. if catch you can)
One idea, spick and span,
From my Lord of Salisbury,--
One idea, tho' it be
Smaller than the "happy flea"
Which his sire in sonnet terse
Wedded to immortal verse.[1]
Tho' to rob the son is sin,
Put his one idea in;
And, to keep it company,
Let that conjuror Winchelsea
Drop but half another there,
If he hath so much to spare.
Dreams of murders and of arsons,
Hatched in heads of Irish parsons,
Bring from every hole and corner,
Where ferocious priests like Horner
Purely for religious good
Cry aloud for Papist's blood,
Blood for Wells, and such old women,
At their ease to wade and swim in.
All.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
3d Bruns.--Now the charm begin to brew;
Sisters, sisters, add thereto
Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches,
Mixt with leather from his breeches,
Rinsings of old Bexley's brains,
Thickened (if you'll take the pains)
With that pulp which rags create,
In their middle nympha state,
Ere, like insects frail and sunny,
Forth they wing abroad as money.
There--the Hell-broth we've enchanted--
Now but one thing more is wanted.
Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,
Castlereagh keeps corkt for use,
Which, to work the better spell, is
Colored deep with blood of ----,
Blood, of powers far more various,
Even than that of Januarius,
Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,
England's parsons bow before it,
All.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,
Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.
2d Bruns.--Cool it now with ----'s blood,
So the charm is firm and good.
[exeunt.
The Book-Worms.
by Robert Burns

Through and through the inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
Meeting In The Woods
by Madison Julius Cawein

Through ferns and moss the path wound to
A hollow where the touchmenots
Swung horns of honey filled with dew;
And where like foot-prints violets blue
And bluets made sweet sapphire blots,
'Twas there that she had passed he knew.
The grass, the very wilderness
On either side, breathed rapture of
Her passage: 'twas her hand or dress
That touched some tree a slight caress
That made the wood-birds sing above;
Her step that made the flowers up-press.
He hurried, till across his way,
Foam-footed, bounding through the wood,
A brook, like some wild girl at play,
Went laughing loud its roundelay;
And there upon its bank she stood,
A sunbeam clad in woodland gray.
And when she saw him, all her face
Grew to a wildrose by the stream;
And to his breast a moment's space
He gathered her; and all the place
Seemed conscious of some happy dream
Come true to add to Earth its grace.
Some joy, on which Heav'n was intent
For which God made the world the bliss,
The love, that raised her innocent
Pure face to his that, smiling, bent
And sealed confession with a kiss
Life needs no other testament.
Oh The Shamrock.
by Thomas Moore

Thro' Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valor wandered,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squandered.
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass[1]
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming.
As softly green
As emeralds seen
Thro' purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf.
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
Says Valor, "See,
"They spring for me,
"Those leafy gems of morning!"--
Says Love, "No, no,
"For me they grow,
"My fragrant path adorning."
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
And cries, "Oh! do not sever
"A type, that blends
"Three godlike friends,
"Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!"
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
So firmly fond
May last the bond,
They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall
One drop of gall
On Wit's celestial feather.
May Love, as twine
His flowers divine.
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em;
May Valor ne'er
His standard rear
Against the cause of Freedom!
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows
by Vachel Lindsay

On - 
Thro' the gleaming gray
I ran to the storm and clang - 
To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed - 
And scattered bells like autumn leaves.
How the red bells rang!
My breath within my breast
Was held like a diver's breath - 
The leaves were tangled locks of gray - 
The boughs of the tree were white and gray,
Shaped like scythes of Death.
The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway - 
Sway like scythes of Death.
But it was beautiful!
I knew that all was well.
A thousand bells from a thousand boughs
Each moment bloomed and fell.
On the hill of the wind-swept tree
There were no bells asleep;
They sang beneath my trailing wings
Like rivers sweet and steep.
Deep rock-clefts before my feet
Mighty chimes did keep
And little choirs did keep.
He Receives the Bells
Honeyed, small and fair,
Like flowers, in flowery lands - 
Like little maidens' hands - 
Two bells fell in my hair,
Two bells caressed my hair.
I pressed them to my purple lips
In the strangling Chaos-air.
He Starts on the Return Journey
On desperate wings and strong,
Two bells within my breast,
I breathed again, I breathed again - 
West of the Universe - 
West of the skies of the West.
Into the black toward home,
And never a star in sight,
By Faith that is blind I took my way
With my two bosomed blossoms gay
Till a speck in the East was the Milky way:
Till starlit was the night.
And the bells had quenched all memory - 
All hope - 
All borrowed sorrow:
I had no thirst for yesterday,
No thought for to-morrow.
Like hearts within my breast
The bells would throb to me
And drown the siren stars
That sang enticingly;
My heart became a bell - 
Three bells were in my breast,
Three hearts to comfort me.
We reached the daytime happily - 
We reached the earth with glee.
In an hour, in an hour it was done!
The wings in their morning flight
Were a thousand times ten thousand times
More swift than beams of light.
He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl
I panted in the grassy wood;
I kissed the Indian Maid
As she took my wings from me:
With all the grace I could
I gave two throbbing bells to her
From the foot of the Laughing Tree.
And one she pressed to her golden breast
And one, gave back to me.
From Lilies of the valley - 
See them fade.
From poppy-blooms all frayed,
From dandelions gray with care,
From pansy-faces, worn and torn,
From morning-glories - 
See them fade - 
From all things fragile, faint and fair
Are the Wings of the Morning made!
Meadowsweet
by William Allingham

Through grass, through amber'd cornfields, our slow Stream,
Fringed with its flags and reeds and rushes tall,
And Meadowsweet, the chosen of them all
By wandering children, yellow as the cream
Of those great cows,winds on as in a dream
By mill and footbridge, hamlet old and small
(Red roofs, gray tower), and sees the sunset gleam
On mullion'd windows of an ivied Hall.
There, once upon a time, the heavy King
Trod out its perfume from the Meadowsweet,
Strown like a woman's love beneath his feet,
In stately dance or jovial banqueting,
When all was new; and in its wayfaring
Our Streamlet curved, as now, through grass and wheat.
Sonnet: - VI.
by Charles Sangster

Through every sense a sweet balm permeates,
As music strikes new tones from every nerve.
The soul of Feeling enters at the gates
Of Intellect, and Fancy comes to serve
With fitting homage the propitious guest.
Nature, erewhile so lonely and oppressed,
Stands like a stately Presence, and looks down
As from a throne of power.    I have grown
Full twenty summers backwards, and my youth
Is surging in upon me till my hopes
Are as fresh-tinted as the checkered leaves
That the sun shines through.    All the future opes
Its endless corridors, where time unweaves
The threads of Error from the golden warp of Truth.
Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.
by Thomas Moore

Wednesday.
Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now--
Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!--incog. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.
Thursday.
At Levee to-day made another sad blunder--
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife--
"Fine weather," says he--to which I, who must prate,
Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late."
He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!
Mem.--to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion
To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3]
Saturday.
Last night a Concert--vastly gay--
Given by Lady Castlereagh.
My Lord loves music, and we know
Has "two strings always to his bow."[4]
In choosing songs, the Regent named
"Had I a heart for falsehood framed."
While gentle Hertford begged and prayed
For "Young I am and sore afraid."
The Irish Peasant To His Mistress.[1]
by Thomas Moore

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way,
Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned;
She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail--
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains--
Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue--
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too![2]
Beatrice
by Charles Baudelaire

Through fields of ash, burnt, without verdure,
where I was complaining one day to Nature,
and slowly sharpened the knife of my thought,
as I wandered aimlessly, against my heart,
I saw descend, at noon, on my brow,
a storm-filled and a sinister cloud,
holding a vicious demonic horde,
resembling cruel, and curious dwarfs.
They gazing at me, considering me, as cool
as passers-by admiring a fool,
I heard them laughing and whispering in synch,
exchanging many a nudge and a wink:
' Let's contemplate this caricature,
this Hamlet's shadow, echoing his posture,
his indecisive looks, and wild hair.
It's a shame to see that epicure there,
that pauper, that actor on holiday, that droll
fellow, because he can play a fine role,
trying to interest with his tears
the eagles, the grasshoppers, streams and flowers,
and even proclaiming his public tirades
to us who invented those ancient parades?'
I might (since my pride, high as the mountains,
overtops clouds and the cries of demons)
simply have turned my regal head,
if I'd not seen, to that obscene crowd wed,
a crime that failed to make the sun rock,
the queen of my heart, with her matchless look,
laughing with them at my dark distress,
and now and then yielding a filthy caress.