DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Three Kings Of Cologne
by Eugene Field

From out Cologne there came three kings
To worship Jesus Christ, their King.
To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,
And many a beauteous golden thing;
They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,
And in that manger set them down.
Then spake the first king, and he said:
"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!
I bring this crown to Bethlehem town
For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;
So give a heavenly crown to me
When I shall come at last to Thee!"
The second, then. "I bring Thee here
This royal robe, O Child!" he cried;
"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one
There is not in the world beside;
So in the day of doom requite
Me with a heavenly robe of white!"
The third king gave his gift, and quoth:
"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,
And with these twain would I most fain
Anoint the body of my King;
So may their incense sometime rise
To plead for me in yonder skies!"
Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,
That gave their gifts, and went their way;
And now kneel I in prayer hard by
The cradle of the Child to-day;
Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring
As offering unto Christ, my King.
Yet have I brought a gift the Child
May not despise, however small;
For here I lay my heart to-day,
And it is full of love to all.
Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,
My only tribute, Christ, my King!
The Patteran
by Henry Lawson

From over the leagues of ice and snow, and the miles of scorching sand;
From back of the days of long ago, and the lonely sea and land,
To the end of the world and our Gipsy race, to the death of our dark-eyed line,
I have set the lines on my children's palms as my fathers did on mine,
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children's palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given them health and strength, pure blood, clear skins for a glorious youth;
I have set in their souls contempt for sham, and a deathless regard for truth;
I have bequeathed the spirit to fight, I have given the will to rise,
And the slumbering fires of Hate and Love in their dreaming, dreaming eyes.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children's palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given the love for their native land, wherever that land may be
(My children came from the East, my friends, and round by the Northern Sea),
And a son of a son of mine enemy, to the end of his treacherous line,
Shall be stricken to earth, if he dare but speak, by a son of a son of mine.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children's palms as my fathers did on mine.
From Our Happy Home
by Louisa May Alcott

From our happy home
Through the world we roam
One week in all the year,
Making winter spring
With the joy we bring,
For Christmas-tide is here.
Now the eastern star
Shines from afar
To light the poorest home;
Hearts warmer grow,
Gifts freely flow,
For Christmas-tide has come.
Now gay trees rise
Before young eyes,
Abloom with tempting cheer;
Blithe voices sing,
And blithe bells ring,
For Christmas-tide is here.
Oh, happy chime,
Oh, blessed time,
That draws us all so near!
"Welcome, dear day,"
All creatures say,
For Christmas-tide is here.
Lines Written At The Cohos, Or Falls Of The Mohawk Kiver.[1]
by Thomas Moore

Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo
Dell' acqua. DANTE.
From rise of morn till set of sun
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run;
And as I markt the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass:
And as I viewed the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,
Rushing, alike untried and wild,
Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled,
Flying by every green recess
That wooed him to its calm caress,
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,
As if to leave one look behind,--
Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed,
How like to thee, thou restless tide,
May be the lot, the life of him
Who roams along thy water's brim;
Through what alternate wastes of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go;
How many a sheltered, calm retreat
May woo the while my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest;
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls,
I feel the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the spent current cease to run.
One only prayer I dare to make,
As onward thus my course I take;--
Oh, be my falls as bright as thine!
May heaven's relenting rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!
Sonnet CLXXV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe.
HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.
From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,
Exploring ocean in its every nook,
From the Red Sea to the cold Caspian shore,
In earth, in heaven one only Phoenix dwells.
What fortunate, or what disastrous bird
Omen'd my fate? which Parca winds my yarn,
That I alone find Pity deaf as asp,
And wretched live who happy hoped to be?
Let me not speak of her, but him her guide,
Who all her heart with love and sweetness fills--
Gifts which, from him o'erflowing, follow her,
Who, that my sweets may sour and cruel be,
Dissembleth, careth not, or will not see
That silver'd, ere my time, these temples are.
MACGREGOR.
To A Young Gentleman In Love. A Tale
by Matthew Prior

From publick Noise and factious Strife,
From all the busie Ills of Life,
Take me, My Celia, to Thy Breast;
And lull my wearied Soul to Rest:
For ever, in this humble Cell,
Let Thee and I, my Fair One, dwell;
None enter else, but Love and He
Shall bar the Door, and keep the Key.
To painted Roofs, and shining Spires
(Uneasie Seats of high Desires)
Let the unthinking Many croud,
That dare be Covetous and Proud:
In golden Bondage let Them wait,
And barter Happiness for State:
But Oh! My Celia, when Thy Swain
Desires to see a Court again;
May Heav'n around This destin'd Head
The choicest of it's Curses shed:
To sum up all the Rage of Fate,
In the Two Things I dread and hate;
May'st Thou be False, and I be Great.
Thus, on his Celia's panting Breast,
Fond Celadon his Soul exprest;
While with Delight the lovely Maid
Receiv'd the Vows, She thus repaid:
Hope of my Age, Joy of my Youth,
Blest Miracle of Love and Truth!
All that cou'd e'er be counted Mine,
My Love and Life long since are Thine:
A real Joy I never knew;
'Till I believ'd Thy Passion true:
A real Grief I ne'er can find;
'Till Thou prov'st Perjur'd or Unkind.
Contempt, and Poverty, and Care,
All we abhor, and all we fear,
Blest with Thy Presence, I can bear.
Thro' Waters, and thro' Flames I'll go,
Suff'rer and Solace of Thy Woe:
Trace Me some yet unheard-of Way,
That I Thy Ardour may repay;
And make My constant Passion known,
By more than Woman yet has done.
Had I a Wish that did not bear
The Stamp and Image of my Dear;
I'd pierce my Heart thro' ev'ry Vein,
And Die to let it out again.
No: Venus shall my Witness be,
(If Venus ever lov'd like Me)
That for one Hour I wou'd not quit
My Shepherd's Arms, and this Retreat,
To be the Persian Monarch's Bride,
Part'ner of all his Pow'r and Pride;
Or Rule in Regal State above,
Mother of Gods, and Wife of Jove.
O happy these of Human Race!
But soon, alas! our Pleasures pass.
He thank'd her on his bended Knee;
Then drank a Quart of Milk and Tea;
And leaving her ador'd Embrace,
Hasten'd to Court, to beg a Place.
While She, his Absence to bemoan,
The very Moment He was gone,
Call'd Thyrsis from beneath the Bed;
Where all this time He had been hid.
Moral
While Men have these Ambitious Fancies;
And wanton Wenches read Romances;
Our Sex will What? Out with it. Lye;
And Their's in equal Strains reply.
The Moral of the Tale I sing
(A Posy for a Wedding Ring)
In this short Verse will be confin'd:
Love is a Jest; and Vows are Wind.
The Earth Breath
by George William Russell

From the cool and dark-lipped furrow breathes a dim delight
Through the woodland's purple plumage to the diamond night.
Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grass
Where the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass.
And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wondering,
Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;
For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of God
Over fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.
Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies.
And unto the mighty mother, gay, eternal, rise
All the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.
One of all thy generations, mother, hails to thee.
Hail, and hail, and hail for ever, though I turn again
From thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.
I, thy child who went forth radiant in the golden prime,
Find thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time:
Find in thee the old enchantment there behind the veil
Where the gods, my brothers, linger. Hail, for ever hail!
The Golden Key.
by George MacDonald

From off the earth the vapours curled,
Went up to meet their joy;
The boy awoke, and all the world
Was waiting for the boy!
The sky, the water, the wide earth
Was full of windy play--
Shining and fair, alive with mirth,
All for his holiday!
The hill said "Climb me;" and the wood
"Come to my bosom, child;
Mine is a merry gamboling brood,
Come, and with them go wild."
The shadows with the sunlight played,
The birds were singing loud;
The hill stood up with pines arrayed--
He ran to join the crowd.
But long ere noon, dark grew the skies,
Pale grew the shrinking sun:
"How soon," he said, "for clouds to rise
When day was but begun!"
The wind grew rough; a wilful power
It swept o'er tree and town;
The boy exulted for an hour,
Then weary sat him down.
And as he sat the rain began,
And rained till all was still:
He looked, and saw a rainbow span
The vale from hill to hill.
He dried his tears. "Ah, now," he said,
"The storm was good, I see!
Yon pine-dressed hill, upon its head
I'll find the golden key!"
He thrid the copse, he climbed the fence,
At last the top did scale;
But, lo, the rainbow, vanished thence,
Was shining in the vale!
"Still, here it stood! yes, here," he said,
"Its very foot was set!
I saw this fir-tree through the red,
This through the violet!"
He searched and searched, while down the skies
Went slow the slanting sun.
At length he lifted hopeless eyes,
And day was nearly done!
Beyond the vale, above the heath,
High flamed the crimson west;
His mother's cottage lay beneath
The sky-bird's rosy breast.
"Oh, joy," he cried, "not all the way
Farther from home we go!
The rain will come another day
And bring another bow!"
Long ere he reached his mother's cot,
Still tiring more and more,
The red was all one cold gray blot,
And night lay round the door.
But when his mother stroked his head
The night was grim in vain;
And when she kissed him in his bed
The rainbow rose again.
Soon, things that are and things that seem
Did mingle merrily;
He dreamed, nor was it all a dream,
His mother had the key.
Your Shadow
by John Frederick Freeman

From Swindon out to White Horse Hill
I walked, in morning rain,
And saw your shadow lying there.
As clear and plain
As lies the White Horse on the Hill
I saw your shadow lying there.
Over the wide green downs and bleak,
Unthinking, free I walked,
And saw your shadow fluttering by.
Almost it talked,
Answering what I dared not speak
While thoughts of you ran fluttering by....
So on to Baydon sauntered, teased
With that pure native air.
Sometimes the sweetness of wild thyme
The strings of care
Did pluck; sometimes my soul was eased
With more than sweetness of wild thyme.
Sometimes within a pool I caught
Your face, upturned to mine.
And where sits Chilton by the waters
Your look did shine
Wildly in the mill foam that sought
To hide you in those angry waters.
And yet, O Sweet, you never knew
Those downs, the thymy air
That with your spirit haunted is--
Yes, everywhere!
Ah, but my heart is full of you,
And with your shadow haunted is.
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XII. Yarrow Unvisited
by William Wordsworth

From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow folk, 'frae' Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
"What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow,
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow!
"If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!"
A Glimpse Of China. In A Chair.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

(Foo-chow.)
From the bright and blinding sunshine,
From the whirling locust's song,
Into the dark and narrow fissures
Of the streets I am borne along.
Here and there dusky-beaming
A sun-shaft broadens and drops
On the brown bare crowd slow-passing
The crowd of the open shops.
We move on over the bridges
With their straight-hewn blocks of stone.
And their quaint grey animal figures,
And the booths the hucksters own.
Behind a linen awning
Sits an ancient wight half-dead,
And a little dear of a girl is
Examining - his head.
On a bended bamboo shouldered,
Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out coolies half-naked
Utter their grunting groan.
Children, almond-eyed beauties,
Impossibly mangy curs,
Take part in the motley stream of
Insouciant passengers.
This is the dream, the vision
That comes to me and greets - 
The vision of Retribution
In the labyrinthine streets!
The Chambermaid's Second Song
by William Butler Yeats

From pleasure of the bed,
Dull as a worm,
His rod and its butting head
Limp as a worm,
His spirit that has fled
Blind as a worm.
The Swagman And His Mate
by Henry Lawson

From north to south throughout the year
The shearing seasons run,
The Queensland stations start to shear
When Maoriland has done;
But labour's cheap and runs are wide,
And some the track must tread
From New Year's Day till Christmastide
And never get a shed!
North, west, and south, south, west and north,
They lead and follow Fate,
The stoutest hearts that venture forth,
The swagman and his mate.
A restless, homeless class they are
Who tramp in Borderland.
They take their rest 'neath moon and star,
Their bed the desert sand,
On sunset tracks they ride and tramp,
Till speech has almost died,
And still they drift from camp to camp
In silence side by side.
They think and dream, as all men do;
Perchance their dreams are great,
Each other's thoughts are sacred to
The swagman and his mate.
With scrubs beneath the stifling skies
Unstirred by heaven's breath;
Beyond the Darling Timber lies
The land of living death!
A land that wrong-born poets brave
Till dulled minds cease to grope,
A land where all things perish, save
The memories of Hope.
When daylight's fingers point out back
(And seem to hesitate)
The far faint dust cloud marks their track'
The swagman and his mate.
And one who followed through the scrub
And out across the plain,
And only in a bitter mood
Would seek those tracks again,
Can only write what he has seen,
Can only give his hand,
And greet those mates in words that mean
'I know', 'I understand.'
I hope they'll find the squatter 'white',
The cook and shearers 'straight',
When they have reached the shed to-night,
The swagman and his mate.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XIV - Continued
by William Wordsworth

II. Continued
From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled
To Wilds where both were utterly unknown;
But not to them had Providence foreshown
What benefits are missed, what evils bred,
In worship neither raised nor limited
Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore,
For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led
Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore,
Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love
By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.
Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace,
Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve.
Transcendent over time, unbound by place,
Concord and Charity in circles move.
To W. B. - From The Brake The Nightingale
by William Ernest Henley

From the brake the Nightingale
Sings exulting to the Rose;
Though he sees her waxing pale
In her passionate repose,
While she triumphs waxing frail,
Fading even while she glows;
Though he knows
How it goes -
Knows of last year's Nightingale
Dead with last year's Rose.
Wise the enamoured Nightingale,
Wise the well-beloved Rose!
Love and life shall still prevail,
Nor the silence at the close
Break the magic of the tale
In the telling, though it shows -
Who but knows
How it goes! -
Life a last year's Nightingale,
Love a last year's Rose.
James Russell Lowell
by John Greenleaf Whittier

From purest wells of English undefiled
None deeper drank than he, the New World's child,
Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke
The wit and wisdom of New England folk,
Shaming a monstrous wrong. The world-wide laugh
Provoked thereby might well have shaken half
The walls of Slavery down, ere yet the ball
And mine of battle overthrew them all.
From Paumanok Starting
by Walt Whitman

From Paumanock starting, I fly like a bird,
Around and around to soar, to sing the idea of all;
To the north betaking myself, to sing there arctic songs,
To Kanada, till I absorb Kanada in myself--to Michigan then,
To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are inimitable;)
Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs--to Missouri and Kansas and Arkansas, to sing theirs,
To Tennessee and Kentucky--to the Carolinas and Georgia, to sing theirs,
To Texas, and so along up toward California, to roam accepted everywhere;
To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum, if need be,)
The idea of all--of the western world, one and inseparable.
And then the song of each member of These States.
The Watcher
by George MacDonald

From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze
Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro
Upon the people's tumult, for below
The nations smite each other: no amaze
Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays
Their deep-set contemplation; steadily glow
Those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow
Liker unto the eyes of one that prays.
And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power
As of the might of worlds, and they are holden
Blessing above us in the sunrise golden;
And they will be uplifted till that hour
Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake
This conscious nightmare from us, and we wake.
Haunted
by Walter De La Mare

From out the wood I watched them shine, - 
The windows of the haunted house,
Now ruddy as enchanted wine,
Now dim as flittermouse.
There went a thin voice piping airs
Along the grey and crooked walks, - 
A garden of thistledown and tares,
Bright leaves, and giant stalks.
The twilight rain shone at its gates,
Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;
And black in silence to her mates
A voiceless raven flew.
Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,
Green paths led lightly to its door,
Keen from her lair the spider leaned,
And dusk to darkness wore.
Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,
The West shut down a heavy eye,
And like last tapers, few and wan,
The watch-stars kindled in the sky.
The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Price Of Freedom.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

D' Italia in Grecia.
From Rome to Greece, from Greece to Libya's sand,
Yearning for liberty, just Cato went;
Nor finding freedom to his heart's content,
Sought it in death, and died by his own hand.
Wise Hannibal, when neither sea nor land
Could save him from the Roman eagles, rent
His soul with poison from imprisonment;
And a snake's tooth cut Cleopatra's band.
In this way died one valiant Maccabee;
Brutus feigned madness; prudent Solon hid
His sense; and David, when he feared Gath's king.
Thus when the Mystic found that Jonah's sea
Was yawning to engulf him, what he did
He gave to God--a wise man's offering.
Heat.
by Archibald Lampman

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.
Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.
In intervals of dreams I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grass-hoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze;
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some bless'd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
Sonnet XLV.
by Anna Seward

[1]From Possibility's dim chaos sprung,
High o'er its gloom the A'rostatic Power
Arose! - Exulting Nations hail'd the hour,
Magnific boast of Science! - Loud they sung
Her victory o'er the element, that hung,
Pressing to earth the Beings, who now soar
Aerial heights; - but Wisdom bids explore
This vaunted skill; - if, tides of air among,
We know to steer our bark. - Here Science finds
Her buoyant hopes burst, like the bubble vain,
Type of this art; - guilty, if still she blinds
The sense of Fear; persists thy flame to fan,
Sky-vaulting Pride, that to the aweless winds
Throws, for an idle Show, the LIFE OF MAN!
1: This Sonnet was written when the Balloon enthusiasm was at its height.