DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Sonnet CLXXX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando.
HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM.
Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest,
My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,
Painful prerogative of lover's woe!
In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.
With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,
So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things below
Most miserable I; for Cupid's bow
Has banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.
Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to morn
And eve to eve succeeds, of death I view
(So should this life be named) one-half gone by--
Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;
That she, my friend, so tender and so true,
Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.
WRANGHAM.
Tide-Water.
by Kate Seymour Maclean

Through many-winding valleys far inland,
A maze among the convoluted hills,
Of rocks up-piled, and pines on either hand,
And meadows ribbanded with silver rills,
Faint, mingled-up, composite sweetnesses
Of scented grass and clover, and the blue
Wild-violet hid in muffling moss and fern,
Keen and diverse another breath cleaves through,
Familiar as the taste of tears to me,
As on my lips, insistent, I discern
The salt and bitter kisses of the sea.
The tide sets up the river; mimic fleetnesses
Of little wavelets, fretted by the shells
And shingle of the beach, circle and eddy round,
And smooth themselves perpetually: there dwells
A spirit of peace in their low murmuring noise
Subsiding into quiet, as if life were such
A struggle with inexorable bound,
Brief, bright, despairing, never over-lept,
Dying in such wise, with a sighing voice
Breathed out, and after silence absolute.
Faith, eager hope, toil, tears, despair,--so much
The common lot,--together over-swept
Into the pitiless unreturning sea,
The vast immitigable sea.
I walk beside the river, and am mute
Under the burden o fits mystery.
The cricket pipes among the meadow grass
His shrill small trumpet, of long summer nights
Sole minstrel: and the lonely heron makes
Voyaging slow toward her reedy nest
A moving shadow among sunset lights
Upon the river's darkening wave, which breaks.
Into a thousand circling shapes that pass
Into the one black shadow of the shore.
O tranquil spirit of the pervading test
Brooding along the valleys with shut wings
That fold all sentient and inanimate things
In their entrenched calm for evermore,
Save only the unquiet human soul;
Hear'st thou the far-off sound of waves that roll
In sighing cadence, like a soul in pain,
Hopeless of heaven or peace, beating in vain
The shores implacable for some replies
To the dumb anguish of eternal doubt,
(As I, for the sad thoughts that rise in me):
Feel'st thou upon thy heavy-lidded eyes
The salt and bitter kisses of the sea;
And dost thou draw, like me, a shuddering breath
Among dusk shadows brooding silently?
Ah me, thou hear'st me not: I walk alone.
The doubt within me, and the dark without,
In my sad ears, the waves' recurrent moan,
Sounds like the surges of the sea of death,
Beating for evermore the shores of time
With muttered prophecies, which sorrow saith
Over and over, like a set slow chime
Of funeral bells, tolling remote, forlorn,
Dirge-like the burden--"Man was made to mourn."
A Dream That Was Not All A Dream.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

Through the half-curtained window stole
An Autumn sunset's glow,
As languid on my couch I lay
With pulses weak and low.
And then methought a presence stood,
With shining feet and fair,
Amid the waves of golden light
That rippled through the air,
And laid upon my heaving breast,
With earnest glance and true,
A babe, whose fair and gentle brow
No shade of sorrow knew.
A solemn joy was in my heart,--
Immortal life was given
To Earth, upon her battle-field
To discipline for Heaven.
Soft music thrilled the quiet room,--
An unseen host were nigh,
Who left the infant pilgrim at
The threshold of our sky.
A new, strange love woke in my heart,
Defying all control,
As on the soft air rose and fell
That birth-hymn for a soul!
And now again the Autumn skies,
As on that evening, shine,
When, from a trance of agony,
I woke to joy divine.
That boundless love is in my heart,
That birth-hymn on the air;
I clasp in mine, with grateful faith,
A tiny hand in prayer.
And bless the God who guides my way,
That, mid this world so wide,
I day by day am walking with
An angel by my side.
The Friend
by Richard Le Gallienne

Through the dark wood
There came to me a friend,
Bringing in his cold hands
Two words - 'The End.'
His face was fair
As fading autumn flowers,
And the lost joy
Of unforgotten hours.
His voice was sweet
As rain upon a grave;
'Be brave,' he smiled.
And yet again - 'be brave.'
Lines Read At A Dairymaids' Social, 1887.
by James McIntyre

Where the young lady waiters were dressed as dairymaids.
Throughout the world they do extol
The fame of our town Ingersoll,
The capital of dairyland,
To-night it seems like fairy land,
The youth and beauty here arrayed,
So sweet and neat each dairymaid.
And worthy of a poet's theme,
Sweet and smooth flows milk and cream,
For song or glee what is fitter
In this land of cheese and butter,
But no young man should be afraid
To court a pretty dairymaid.
And far abroad he should not roam
But find a charmer here at home,
Find some one now your heart to cheer,
Thus celebrate the jubilee year,
Remember long this ladies' aid
And each bewitching dairymaid.
On Leaving Newstead Abbey.
by George Gordon Byron

Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1]
I.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle:
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.
2.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [3]
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
3.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan [4] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death.
4.
Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.
5.
On Marston, [5] with Rupert, [6] 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. [7]
6.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
7.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget.
8.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
A Bride Song.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Through the vales to my love!
To the happy small nest of home
Green from basement to roof;
Where the honey-bees come
To the window-sill flowers,
And dive from above,
Safe from the spider that weaves
Her warp and her woof
In some outermost leaves.
Through the vales to my love!
In sweet April hours
All rainbows and showers,
While dove answers dove, -
In beautiful May,
When the orchards are tender
And frothing with flowers, -
In opulent June,
When the wheat stands up slender
By sweet-smelling hay,
And half the sun's splendour
Descends to the moon.
Through the vales to my love!
Where the turf is so soft to the feet,
And the thyme makes it sweet,
And the stately foxglove
Hangs silent its exquisite bells;
And where water wells
The greenness grows greener,
And bulrushes stand
Round a lily to screen her.
Nevertheless, if this land,
Like a garden to smell and to sight,
Were turned to a desert of sand,
Stripped bare of delight,
All its best gone to worst,
For my feet no repose,
No water to comfort my thirst,
And heaven like a furnace above, -
The desert would be
As gushing of waters to me,
The wilderness be as a rose,
If it led me to thee,
O my love!
The Sonnets LXVIII - Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn
by William Shakespeare

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
The Greatness Of The World.
by Friedrich Schiller

Through the world which the Spirit creative and kind
First formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind,
Until on the strand
Of its billows I land,
My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more,
And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore.
I saw infant stars into being arise,
For thousands of years to roll on through the skies;
I saw them in play
Seek their goal far away,
For a moment my fugitive gaze wandered on,
I looked round me, and lo! all those bright stars had flown!
Madly yearning to reach the dark kingdom of night.
I boldly steer on with the speed of the light;
All misty and drear
The dim heavens appear,
While embryo systems and seas at their source
Are whirling around the sun-wanderer's course.
When sudden a pilgrim I see drawing near
Along the lone path, "Stay! What seekest thou here?"
"My bark, tempest-tossed,
I sail toward the land where the breeze blows no more,
And Creation's last boundary stands on the shore."
"Stay, thou sailest in vain! 'Tis INFINITY yonder!"
"'Tis INFINITY, too, where thou, pilgrim, wouldst wander!
Eagle-thoughts that aspire,
Let your proud pinions tire!
For 'tis here that sweet phantasy, bold to the last,
Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!"
Upon His Departure Hence.
by Robert Herrick

Thus I
Pass by,
And die:
As one
Unknown
And gone:
I'm made
A shade,
And laid
I' th' grave:
There have
My cave,
Where tell
I dwell.
Farewell.
Opening The Window
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Thus I lift the sash, so long
Shut against the flight of song;
All too late for vain excuse, - 
Lo, my captive rhymes are loose.
Rhymes that, flitting through my brain,
Beat against my window-pane,
Some with gayly colored wings,
Some, alas! with venomed stings.
Shall they bask in sunny rays?
Shall they feed on sugared praise?
Shall they stick with tangled feet
On the critic's poisoned sheet?
Are the outside winds too rough?
Is the world not wide enough?
Go, my winged verse, and try, - 
Go, like Uncle Toby's fly!
Mary
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Thus early with the dead - 
Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
The light and joyous tread, - 
Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!
A little while ago
We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;
Now thou art lying low,
Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!
Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
Of thee as of the dead - the pale, still dead! - 
'Tis hard to think the b'eak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!
*             *             *             *             *
Thus early with thy God!
'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice
Called thee to His abode,
'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!
Mary! thy feet have passed
The silent valley; - on thy placid brow
Heaven's sunlight falls at last, - 
Thou'rt with God's shining ones - thyself an angel now!
Thank God! the dreary tomb
Has lost its sting! The Saviour broke death's reign,
Clothing with fadeless bloom
Frail human dust! In Heaven, Mary, we'll meet again!
The Sweep's Carol.
by George Pope Morris

Through the streets of New York City,
Blithely every morn,
I carolled o'er my artless ditty,
Cheerly though forlorn!
Before the rosy light, my lay
Was to the maids begun,
Ere winters snows had passed away,
Or smiled the summer sun.
CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!
In summer months I'd fondly woo
Those merry, dark-eyed girls,
With faces of ebon hue,
And teeth like eastern pearls!
One vowed my love she would repay--
Her heart my song had won--
When winter snows had passed away,
And smiled the summer sun.
CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!
A year, alas! had scarcely flown--
Hope beamed but to deceive--
Ere I was left to weep alone,
From morn till dewy eve!
She died one dreary break of day!--
Grief weighs my heart upon!--
In vain the snows may pass away,
Or smile the summer sun.
CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!
Warp And Woof
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Through the sunshine, and through the rain
Of these changing days of mist and splendour,
I see the face of a year-old pain
Looking at me with a smile half tender.
With a smile half tender, and yet all sad,
Into each hour of the mild September
It comes, and finding my life grown glad
Looks down in my eyes, and says 'Remember.'
Says 'Remember,' and points behind
To days of sorrow, and tear-wet lashes;
When joy lay dead and hope was blind,
And nothing was left but dust and ashes.
Dust and ashes and vain regret,
Flames fanned out, and the embers falling.
But the sun of the saddest day must set,
And hope wakes ever with Springtime's calling.
With Springtime's calling the pulses thrill;
And the heart is tuned to a sweeter measure.
For never a green Spring crossed the hill
That came not laden with some new pleasure.
Some new pleasure that brings content;
And the heart looks up with a smile of gladness,
And wonders idly when sorrow went
Out of the life that seemed all sadness.
That seemed all sadness, and yet grew bright
With colours we thought could tinge it never.
Yet I think the pain though out of sight,
Like the warp of the carpet, is there for ever.
There for ever, and by and by
When the woof wears thin, or draws asunder,
We see the sombre threads that lie
Intertwining and twisting under.
Twisting under and binding so
The brighter threads that they may not sever.
Thus the pain of a year ago
Must stay a part of my life for ever.
Invocation
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old,
Formless and void the dead earth rolled;
Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind
To the great lights which o'er it shined;
No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath,
A dumb despair, a wandering death.
To that dark, weltering horror came
Thy spirit, like a subtle flame,
A breath of life electrical,
Awakening and transforming all,
Till beat and thrilled in every part
The pulses of a living heart.
Then knew their bounds the land and sea;
Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree;
From flower to moth, from beast to man,
The quick creative impulse ran;
And earth, with life from thee renewed,
Was in thy holy eyesight good.
As lost and void, as dark and cold
And formless as that earth of old;
A wandering waste of storm and night,
Midst spheres of song and realms of light;
A blot upon thy holy sky,
Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I.
O Thou who movest on the deep
Of spirits, wake my own from sleep
Its darkness melt, its coldness warm,
The lost restore, the ill transform,
That flower and fruit henceforth may be
Its grateful offering, worthy Thee
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXXIX. Games.
by Unknown

[An exercise during which the fingers of the child are enumerated.]
Thumbikin, Thumbikin, broke the barn,
Pinnikin, Pinnikin, stole the corn.
Long back'd Gray
Carried it away.
Old Mid-man sat and saw,
But Peesy-weesy paid for a'.
Mothers
by Thomas O'Hagan

Through the vigils deep of the sable night
A mother sits in grief alone,
For her sons have gone to the battle front
And left on the hearth a crushing stone.
Beyond the stars that burn at night
She sees God's arm in pity reach;
It counsels patience, love and faith,
Heroic hearts and souls to teach.
The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.
And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer;
And the mother turns from this throne of grief
To pierce the years with a joyous tear;
For duty born of a mother's heart
Fills all the rounds of our common day -
Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night,
And fills with light each hidden way.
For Miss Ina Coolbrith.
Paradise Re-Entered
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Through the strait gate of passion,
Between the bickering fire
Where flames of fierce love tremble
On the body of fierce desire:
To the intoxication,
The mind, fused down like a bead,
Flees in its agitation
The flames' stiff speed:
At last to calm incandescence,
Burned clean by remorseless hate,
Now, at the day's renascence
We approach the gate.
Now, from the darkened spaces
Of fear, and of frightened faces,
Death, in our awful embraces
Approached and passed by;
We near the flame-burnt porches
Where the brands of the angels, like torches
Whirl, - in these perilous marches
Pausing to sigh;
We look back on the withering roses,
The stars, in their sun-dimmed closes,
Where 'twas given us to repose us
Sure on our sanctity;
Beautiful, candid lovers,
Burnt out of our earthy covers,
We might have nestled like plovers
In the fields of eternity.
There, sure in sinless being,
All-seen, and then all-seeing,
In us life unto death agreeing,
We might have lain.
But we storm the angel-guarded
Gates of the long-discarded,
Garden, which God has hoarded
Against our pain.
The Lord of Hosts, and the Devil
Are left on Eternity's level
Field, and as victors we travel
To Eden home.
Back beyond good and evil
Return we. Eve dishevel
Your hair for the bliss-drenched revel
On our primal loam.
Sonnet CXLIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi.
EVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNES.
Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove,
Where arm'd travellers bend their fearful way;
Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,
Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.
Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,
Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:
And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, move
Like nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her play
I seem to hear her, when the whispering gale
Steals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,
When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.
How grateful might this darksome wood appear,
Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;
But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.
ANON. 1777.
Amid the wild wood's lone and difficult ways,
Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms,
I pass secure--for only me alarms
That sun, which darts of living love the rays--
Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to her
Whom time and space so little hide from me;
E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see,
But maids and matrons in each beech and fir:
Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan,
The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dell
Where its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.
Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone,
The solitary horror pleased so well,
Except that of my sun too much I lose.
MACGREGOR.
To The Clouds.
by George MacDonald

Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped,
Speed onward still, a strange wild company,
Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye,
Whether the sun lift up his shining head,
High throned at noontide and established
Among the shifting pillars, or we see
The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully
Against the sunlight, passionless and dead!
Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun,
From all the cloudy labour of man's hand--
Whether the quickening nations rise and run,
Or in the market-place we idly stand
Casting huge shadows over these thy plains--
Even thence, O God, draw thy rich gifts of rains.
The Sonnets LI - Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
by William Shakespeare

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made,
Shall neigh'no dull flesh, in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade, 
'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.'
Carthusians
by Ernest Christopher Dowson

Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire,
Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace,
Despising the world's wisdom and the world's desire,
Which from the body of this death bring no release?
Within their austere walls no voices penetrate;
A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains;
Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate;
This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pains.
From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways;
Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys;
And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with bays,
And each was tired at last of the world's foolish noise.
It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God's holy wrath,
They were too stern to bear sweet Francis' gentle sway;
Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path,
To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray.
A cloistered company, they are companionless,
None knoweth here the secret of his brother's heart:
They are but come together for more loneliness,
Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part.
O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay,
Your great refusal's victory, your little loss,
Deserting vanity for the more perfect way,
The sweeter service of the most dolorous Cross.
Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail!
Your silence and austerity shall win at last:
Desire and mirth, the world's ephemeral lights shall fail,
The sweet star of your queen is never overcast.
We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine;
With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art;
Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine:
None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart.
Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed!
Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail:
Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ!
Though the world fall apart, surely ye shall prevail.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): John Webster
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Thunder: the flesh quails, and the soul bows down.
Night: east, west, south, and northward, very night
Star upon struggling star strives into sight,
Star after shuddering star the deep storms drown.
The very throne of night, her very crown,
A man lays hand on, and usurps her right
Song from the highest of heaven's imperious height
Shoots, as a fire to smite some towering town.
Rage, anguish, harrowing fear, heart-crazing crime,
Make monstrous all the murderous face of Time
Shown in the spheral orbit of a glass
Revolving. Earth cries out from all her graves.
Frail, on frail rafts, across wide-wallowing waves,
Shapes here and there of child and mother pass.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLVI. Games.
by Unknown

Thumb bold,
Thibity-thold,
Langman,
Lick pan,
Mama's little man.