DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sir Summer.
by W. M. MacKeracher

When conquering Summer stalks the street,
His eyes are eyes of fire,
The pavement burns beneath his feet,
Men droop before his ire;
But yonder, out upon the land,
His manners are not these:
He is a courtier mild and bland
Beneath the maple trees.
He throws his buckler on the grass,
Unclasps his sheath'd blade;
He doffs his helmet and cuirass,
And lounges in the shade;
His pennon, fastened to a bough,
Is fluttering in the breeze:
He is at home and happy now
Beneath the maple trees.
No furious rage disturbs his breast,
No fever heats his brain;
Right cheerily he takes his rest,
And views his glad domain;
His lady seated by his side,
His children on his knees,
His heart expands with joy and pride
Beneath the maple trees.
He hears the happy farmer folk
Who toss the fragrant hay;
Blessings upon him they invoke,
And beg of him to stay.
The music of the feathered choirs,
The murmur of the bees,
Are sounds of which he never tires
Beneath the maple trees.
He hums a sweet, melodious tune,
His hand a garland weaves,
He talks the while he feasts at noon,
His laughter shakes the leaves.
He tells of conquests in the south,
Of triumphs overseas,
Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth,
Beneath the maple trees.
He shouts and holds his jolly sides,
And strikes his lusty thigh,
To think of how Sir Winter hides
His face when he is nigh,
Or how with city exquisites
His swagger disagrees:
Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits
Beneath the maple trees.
I know where I can find his bower
Upon a wooded hill,
Where I can pluck his favorite flower,
And bathe within his rill;
And thither I will take my flight,
And loiter at my ease,
And pay my homage to the Knight
Beneath the maple trees.
Man Was Made To Mourn. - A Dirge.
by Robert Burns

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
Began the rev'rend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.
"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time had added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want, oh! ill-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.
"A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest:
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?
"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn."
Beauty And Beauty
by Rupert Brooke

When Beauty and Beauty meet
All naked, fair to fair,
The earth is crying-sweet,
And scattering-bright the air,
Eddying, dizzying, closing round,
With soft and drunken laughter;
Veiling all that may befall
After, after.
Where Beauty and Beauty met,
Earth's still a-tremble there,
And winds are scented yet,
And memory-soft the air,
Bosoming, folding glints of light,
And shreds of shadowy laughter;
Not the tears that fill the years
After, after.
To The Gnat.
by Samuel Rogers

When by the green-wood side, at summer eve,
Poetic visions charm my closing eye;
And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest Minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heav'n away,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!
--Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,
Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful laram flings!
--I wake in horror, and 'dare sleep no more!'
Christmas Fancies
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago.
And etched on vacant places,
Are half forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know -
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near,
We see, with strange emotion that is not free from fear,
That continent Elysian
Long vanished from our vision,
Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear,
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth,
The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth,
And draws from youth's recesses
Some memory it possesses,
And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth,
When gloomy gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis
Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss.
Not all the seers and sages
With wisdom of the ages
Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays,
As passing years are proving for all of Time's sad ways.
There lies a sting in pleasure,
And fame gives shallow measure,
And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days,
For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes,
And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes,
Let Love, the world's beginning,
End fear and hate and sinning;
Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshiped in all climes
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
A Nation Once Again.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

I.
When boyhood's fire was in my blood
I read of ancient freemen
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
THREE HUNDRED MEN AND THREE MEN.[1]
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
II.
And, from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A NATION ONCE AGAIN."
III.
It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly:
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;
And righteous men must make our land
A NATION ONCE AGAIN."
IV.
So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding--
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid--
Oh! can such hope be vain?--
When my dear country shall be made
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
Moly
by Madison Julius Cawein

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings
A head of sultry slumber and aroma;
And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings
Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a
White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast
Between the pansy fire of the west,
And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,
This heartache will have ceased.
The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep
Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,
And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap
The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it;
Let me behold how gladness gives the whole
The transformed countenance of my own soul
Between the sunset and the risen moon
Let sorrow vanish soon.
And these things then shall keep me company:
The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter
Who haunts the wind; the god of melody
Who sings within the stream, that reaches after
The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress:
These of themselves shall shape my happiness,
Whose visible presence I shall lean upon,
Feeling that care is gone.
Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;
The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;
How joy, begotten 'twixt a sigh and sigh,
Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup,
Remembering how within the hollow lute
Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute;
And in the heart, when all seems black despair,
Hope sits, awaiting there.
The Owl
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
The Cunnin' Little Thing
by Eugene Field

When baby wakes of mornings,
Then it's wake, ye people all!
For another day
Of song and play
Has come at our darling's call!
And, till she gets her dinner,
She makes the welkin ring,
And she won't keep still till she's had her fill -
The cunnin' little thing!
When baby goes a-walking,
Oh, how her paddies fly!
For that's the way
The babies say
To other folk "by-by";
The trees bend down to kiss her,
And the birds in rapture sing,
As there she stands and waves her hands -
The cunnin' little thing!
When baby goes a-rocking
In her bed at close of day,
At hide-and-seek
On her dainty cheek
The dreams and the dimples play;
Then it's sleep in the tender kisses
The guardian angels bring
From the Far Above to my sweetest love -
You cunnin' little thing!
When Cold In The Earth.
by Thomas Moore

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,
Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.
And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far
From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star
That arose on his darkness and guided him home.
From thee and thy innocent beauty first came
The revealings, that taught him true love to adore,
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame
From the idols he blindly had knelt to before.
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,
Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;
And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled
On his evening horizon, the light was from thee.
And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,
And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray,
He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,
And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away.
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,
At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,
He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.
Sonet 29 To The Sences
by Michael Drayton

When conquering loue did first my hart assaile,
Vnto mine ayde I summond euery sence,
Doubting if that proude tyrant should preuaile,
My hart should suffer for mine eyes offence;
But he with beauty, first corrupted sight,
My hearing bryb'd with her tongues harmony,
My taste, by her sweet lips drawne with delight,
My smelling wonne with her breaths spicerie;
But when my touching came to play his part,
(The King of sences, greater than the rest)
That yeelds loue up the keyes vnto my hart,
And tells the other how they should be blest;
And thus by those of whom I hop'd for ayde,
To cruell Loue my soule was first betrayd.
By The River.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

When by the broad stream thou dost dwell,
Oft shallow is its sluggish flood;
Then, when thy fields thou tendest well,
It o'er them spreads its slime and mud.
The ships descend ere daylight wanes,
The prudent fisher upward goes;
Round reef and rock ice casts its chains,
And boys at will the pathway close.
To this attend, then, carefully,
And what thou wouldst, that execute!
Ne'er linger, ne'er o'erhasty be,
For time moves on with measured foot.
Christmas Fancies
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago,
And etched on vacant places
Are half-forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know - 
When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow.
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near,
We see, with strange emotion, that is not free from fear,
That continent Elysian
Long vanished from our vision,
Youth's lovely lost Atlantis, so mourned for and so dear,
Uprising from the ocean of the present surging near.
When gloomy, gray Decembers are roused to Christmas mirth,
The dullest life remembers there once was joy on earth,
And draws from youth's recesses
Some memory it possesses,
And, gazing through the lens of time, exaggerates its worth,
When gloomy, gray December is roused to Christmas mirth.
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis
Each heart recalls some folly that lit the world with bliss.
Not all the seers and sages
With wisdom of the ages
Can give the mind such pleasure as memories of that kiss
When hanging up the holly or mistletoe, I wis.
For life was made for loving, and love alone repays,
As passing years are proving, for all of Time's sad ways.
There lies a sting in pleasure,
And fame gives shallow measure,
And wealth is but a phantom that mocks the restless days,
For life was made for loving, and only loving pays.
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes,
And silences are melting to soft, melodious rhymes,
Let Love, the world's beginning,
End fear and hate and sinning;
Let Love, the God Eternal, be worshipped in all climes
When Christmas bells are pelting the air with silver chimes.
When Baby Strayed
by Fay Inchfawn

When Baby strayed, it seemed to me,
Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly.
At once, with frenzied haste, my feet
Ran up and down the busy street.
If ever in my life I prayed,
It was the evening Baby strayed.
And yet my great concern was this
(Not dread of losing Baby's kiss,
And Baby's soft small hand in mine,
And Baby's comradeship divine),
'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears!
Whose hand but mine could dry her tears?
I without Baby? In my need
I were a piteous soul indeed.
But piteous far, beyond all other,
A little child without a mother.
And God, in mercy, graciously
Gave my lost darling back to me.
O high and lofty One!
THOU couldst have lived to all eternity
Apart from ME!
In majesty, upon that emerald throne.
Thou, with Thy morning stars,
Thy dawns, with golden bars,
And all the music of the heavenly train.
Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to gain
By seeking me?
What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . . less than nought.
And yet Thy mercy sought.
Yea, Thou hast set my feet
Upon the way of holiness, and sweet
It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . .
But (this I learnt the night that Baby strayed)
Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern for me:
My desolate estate, apart from Thee!
Company Manners
by James Whitcomb Riley

When Bess gave her Dollies a Tea, said she, - 
"It's unpolite, when they's Company,
To say you've drinked two cups, you see, - 
But say you've drinked a couple of tea."
The Yellow Violet.
by William Cullen Bryant

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below.
Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.
Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.
Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.
Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them, but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.
And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.
Song At Capri
by Sara Teasdale

When beauty grows too great to bear
How shall I ease me of its ache,
For beauty more than bitterness
Makes the heart break.
Now while I watch the dreaming sea
With isles like flowers against her breast,
Only one voice in all the world
Could give me rest.
In Winter
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
When black frosts pluck the acorns down,
And in the lane the waters freeze;
And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,
And death sits grimly 'mid the trees;
When home-lights glitter in the brown
Of dusk like shaggy eyes, - 
Before the door his feet, sweetheart,
And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,
And two white arms that greet.
II.
When ways are drifted with the leaves,
And winds make music in the thorns;
And lone and lost above the frost
The new moon shows its silver horns;
When underneath the lamp-lit eaves
The opened door is crossed, - 
A happy heart and light, sweetheart,
And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart,
And lips to kiss good-night.
Upon Chub.
by Robert Herrick

When Chub brings in his harvest, still he cries,
"Aha, my boys! here's meat for Christmas pies!"
Soon after he for beer so scores his wheat,
That at the tide he has not bread to eat.
Venus Mistaken
by Matthew Prior

When Cloe's Picture was to Venus shown;
Surpriz'd, the Goddess took it for Her own.
And what, said She, does this bold Painter mean?
When was I Bathing thus, and Naked seen?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd His Mother's Pride:
And who's blind now, Mamma? the Urchin cry'd.
'Tis Cloe's Eye, and Cheek, and Lip, and Breast:
Friend Howard's Genius fancy'd all the rest.
Israel.
by John Milton Hay

When by Jabbok the patriarch waited
To learn on the morrow his doom,
And his dubious spirit debated
In darkness and silence and gloom,
There descended a Being with whom
He wrestled in agony sore,
With striving of heart and of brawn,
And not for an instant forbore
Till the east gave a threat of the dawn;
And then, as the Awful One blessed him,
To his lips and his spirit there came,
Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him,
The cry that through questioning ages
Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages,
"Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"
Most fatal, most futile, of questions!
Wherever the heart of man beats,
In the spirit's most sacred retreats,
It comes with its sombre suggestions,
Unanswered for ever and aye.
The blessing may come and may stay,
For the wrestlers heroic endeavour;
But the question, unheeded for ever,
Dies out in the broadening day.
In the ages before our traditions,
By the altars of dark superstitions,
The imperious question has come;
When the death-stricken victim lay sobbing
At the feet of his slayer and priest,
And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing
To the sound of the cymbal and drum
On the steps of the high Teocallis;
When the delicate Greek at his feast
Poured forth the red wine from his chalice
With mocking and cynical prayer;
When by Nile Egypt worshipping lay,
And afar, through the rosy, flushed air
The Memnon called out to the day;
Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire;
In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades,
Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire
Through arts highest miracles higher,
This question of questions invades
Each heart bowed in worship or shame;
In the air where the censers are swinging,
A voice, going up with the singing,
Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"
No answer came back, not a word,
To the patriarch there by the ford;
No answer has come through the ages
To the poets, the seers, and the sages
Who have sought in the secrets of science
The name and the nature of God,
Whether cursing in desperate defiance
Or kissing His absolute rod;
But the answer which was and shall be,
"My name!    Nay, what is it to thee?"
The search and the question are vain.
By use of the strength that is in you,
By wrestling of soul and of sinew
The blessing of God you may gain.
There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven
That never will shine on our eyes;
To mortals it may not be given
To range those inviolate skies.
The mind, whether praying or scorning,
That tempts those dread secrets shall fail;
But strive through the night till the morning,
And mightily shalt thou prevail.
When Christmas Comes.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring
From drooping hearts on happy wing,
Like joyous birds that soaring rise
From hidden coverts to the skies.
And echo in the chimes that ring!
Glad millions in wild rapture sing
Hosannaed hopes of welcoming,
While praises blend in harmonies,
When Christmas comes.
Ah, happy hours! Around them cling
The dearest joys that life may bring,
And all the world's despairing cries
Are soothed to sleep with lullabies
That banish every bitter thing,
When Christmas comes!
Bibo And Charon
by Matthew Prior

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne as an egg's full of meat,
He waked in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied,
You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.
Burns And Scott In Edinburgh.
by James McIntyre

When Burns did make triumphant entry
'Mong Edina's famous gentry,
A discussion did there arise
Among those solons learned and wise,
About some lines by a new poet.
The author's name none did know it,
Poem was of Canadian snow
And how o'er it the blood did flow,
For it had then been swept by war
Where armies met in deadly jar.
But 'mong philosophers was boy
Of tender years now Scotland's joy,
He there did quickly quote each line
And author's name he did define,
Burns glanced at him with loving eyes,
Youth ever more that look did prize,
The happiest moment in his lot
Ever revered by Walter Scott.
Thus Scotlands greatest poets met,
And they did part with sad regret.