DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Soldier Going To The War
by Richard Le Gallienne

Soldier going to the war - 
Will you take my heart with you,
So that I may share a little
In the famous things you do?
Soldier going to the war - 
If in battle you must fall,
Will you, among all the faces,
See my face the last of all?
Soldier coming from the war - 
Who shall bind your sunburnt brow
With the laurel of the hero,
Soldier, soldier - vow for vow!
Soldier coming from the war - 
When the street is one wide sea,
Flags and streaming eyes and glory - 
Soldier, will you look for me?
The Author's Farewell To The Bushmen
by Henry Lawson

Some carry their swags in the Great North-West,
Where the bravest battle and die,
And a few have gone to their last long rest,
And a few have said: Good-bye!
The coast grows dim, and it may be long
Ere the Gums again I see;
So I put my soul in a farewell song
To the chaps who barracked for me.
Their days are hard at the best of times,
And their dreams are dreams of care,
God bless them all for their big soft hearts,
And the brave, brave grins they wear!
God keep me straight as a man can go,
And true as a man may be!
For the sake of the hearts that were always so,
Of the men who had faith in me!
And a ship-side word I would say, you chaps
Of the blood of the Don't-give-in!
The world will call it a boast, perhaps,
But I'll win, if a man can win!
And not for gold nor the world's applause,
Though ways to the end they be,
I'll win, if a man might win, because
Of the men who believed in me.
A Cavalier's Toast.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Some drink to Friendship, some to Love,
Through whom the world is fair, perdie!
But I to one these others prove,
Who leaps 'mid lions for a glove,
Or dies to set another free
I drink to Loyalty.
II.
No dagger his, no cloak and mask,
Free-faced he stands so all may see;
Let Friendship set him any task,
Or Love reward he does not ask,
The deed is done whate'er it be
So here's to Loyalty.
A Fable.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,
A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,
One day all meet together
To hold a caucus and settle the fate
Of a certain bird (without a mate),
A bird of another feather.
"My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise,
"The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,
In a way that is quite improper;
Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,
And I think her actions have grown so bold
That some of us ought to stop her."
"I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh,
"That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,
And I wholly scorn and despise her.
This, and more, I am told they say,
And I think that the only proper way
Is never to recognize her."
"I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw,
"That the Eagle minds no moral law,
She's a most unruly creature."
"She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird;
"Some call her handsome - it's so absurd - 
She hasn't a decent feature."
Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,
She said she was sure - she hadn't a doubt - 
Of the truth of each bird's story:
And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,
To pull her down from her lofty height,
And take the gilt from her glory.
But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand
That looks out over the smiling land
And over the mighty ocean,
The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings - 
She rises, rises, and upward swings,
With a slow, majestic motion.
Up in the blue of God's own skies,
With a cry of rapture, away she flies,
Close to the Great Eternal:
She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;
Her soul is filled with the infinite
And the joy of things supernal.
Thus rise forever the chosen of God,
The genius-crowned or the power-shod,
Over the dust-world sailing;
And back, like splinters blown by the winds,
Must fall the missiles of silly minds,
Useless and unavailing.
Reverie of Ormuz the Persian
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Softly the feathery Palm-trees fade in the violet Distance,
Faintly the lingering light touches the edge of the sea,
Sadly the Music of Waves, drifts, faint as an Anthem's insistence,
Heard in the aisles of a dream, over the sandhills, to me.
Now that the Lights are reversed, and the Singing changed into sighing,
Now that the wings of our fierce, fugitive passion are furled,
Take I unto myself, all alone in the light that is dying,
Much of the sorrow that lies hid at the Heart of the World.
Sad am I, sad for your loss: for failing the charm of your presence,
Even the sunshine has paled, leaving the Zenith less blue.
Even the ocean lessens the light of its green opalescence,
Since, to my sorrow I loved, loved and grew weary of, you.
Why was our passion so fleeting, why had the flush of your beauty
Only so slender a spell, only so futile a power?
Yet, even thus ever is life, save when long custom or duty
Moulds into sober fruit Love's fragile and fugitive flower.
Fain would my soul have been faithful; never an alien pleasure
Lured me away from the light lit in your luminous eyes,
But we have altered the World as pitiful man has leisure
To criticise, balance, take counsel, assuredly lies.
All through the centuries Man has gathered his flower, and fenced it,
- Infinite strife to attain; infinite struggle to keep, - 
Holding his treasure awhile, all Fate and all forces against it,
Knowing it his no more, if ever his vigilance sleep.
But we have altered the World as pitiful man has grown stronger,
So that the things we love are as easily kept as won,
Therefore the ancient fight can engage and detain us no longer,
And all too swiftly, alas, passion is over and done.
Far too speedily now we can gather the coveted treasure,
Enjoy it awhile, be satiated, begin to tire;
And what shall be done henceforth with the profitless after-leisure,
Who has the breath to kindle the ash of a faded fire?
Ah, if it only had lasted!    After my ardent endeavour
Came the delirious Joy, flooding my life like a sea,
Days of delight that are burnt on the brain for ever and ever,
Days and nights when you loved, before you grew weary of me.
Softly the sunset decreases dim in the violet Distance,
Even as Love's own fervour has faded away from me,
Leaving the weariness, the monotonous Weight of Existence, - 
All the farewells in the world weep in the sound of the sea.
Sound Sleep
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.
By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
There are lilies, and there blushes
The deep rose, and there the thrushes
Sing till latest sunlight flushes
In the west; a fresh wind brushes
Through the leaves while evening hushes.
There by day the lark is singing
And the grass and weeds are springing;
There by night the bat is winging;
There for ever winds are bringing
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
Night and morning, noon and even,
Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
The long strife at lent is striven:
Till her grave-bands shall be riven
Such is the good portion given
To her soul at rest and shriven.
Nursery Rhyme. XLIX. Tales.
by Unknown

Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday:
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy.
The Lost Occasion
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Some die too late and some too soon,
At early morning, heat of noon,
Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,
Whom the rich heavens did so endow
With eyes of power and Jove's own brow,
With all the massive strength that fills
Thy home-horizon's granite hills,
With rarest gifts of heart and head
From manliest stock inherited,
New England's stateliest type of man,
In port and speech Olympian;
Whom no one met, at first, but took
A second awed and wondering look
(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece
On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece);
Whose words in simplest homespun clad,
The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had,
With power reserved at need to reach
The Roman forum's loftiest speech,
Sweet with persuasion, eloquent
In passion, cool in argument,
Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes
As fell the Norse god's hammer blows,
Crushing as if with Talus' flail
Through Error's logic-woven mail,
And failing only when they tried
The adamant of the righteous side,
Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved
Of old friends, by the new deceived,
Too soon for us, too soon for thee,
Beside thy lonely Northern sea,
Where long and low the marsh-lands spread,
Laid wearily down thy August head.
Thou shouldst have lived to feel below
Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow;
The late-sprung mine that underlaid
Thy sad concessions vainly made.
Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall
The star-flag of the Union fall,
And armed rebellion pressing on
The broken lines of Washington!
No stronger voice than thine had then
Called out the utmost might of men,
To make the Union's charter free
And strengthen law by liberty.
How had that stern arbitrament
To thy gray age youth's vigor lent,
Shaming ambition's paltry prize
Before thy disillusioned eyes;
Breaking the spell about thee wound
Like the green withes that Samson bound;
Redeeming in one effort grand,
Thyself and thy imperilled land!
Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee,
O sleeper by the Northern sea,
The gates of opportunity!
God fills the gaps of human need,
Each crisis brings its word and deed.
Wise men and strong we did not lack;
But still, with memory turning back,
In the dark hours we thought of thee,
And thy lone grave beside the sea.
Above that grave the east winds blow,
And from the marsh-lands drifting slow
The sea-fog comes, with evermore
The wave-wash of a lonely shore,
And sea-bird's melancholy cry,
As Nature fain would typify
The sadness of a closing scene,
The loss of that which should have been.
But, where thy native mountains bare
Their foreheads to diviner air,
Fit emblem of enduring fame,
One lofty summit keeps thy name.
For thee the cosmic forces did
The rearing of that pyramid,
The prescient ages shaping with
Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith.
Sunrise and sunset lay thereon
With hands of light their benison,
The stars of midnight pause to set
Their jewels in its coronet.
And evermore that mountain mass
Seems climbing from the shadowy pass
To light, as if to manifest
Thy nobler self, thy life at best
Prophecy
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Some day - I have signs - a mortal storm
Is coming from the far north.
Everywhere is the smell of corpses.
The great killing begins.
The lump of sky grows dark,
Storm-death lifts its clawed paws;
All the lumps fall down,
Mimes burst.    Girls explode.
Horses' stables crash to the ground.
Not a fly can ecape.
Handsome homosexuals roll
Out of their beds.
The walls of houses develop fissures.
Fish rot in the stream.
Everything meets its own disgusting end.
Groaning buses tip over.
The Walk At Midnight
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Soft, shadowy moon-beam! by the light
Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale:
How various are the sounds of night,
Borne on the scarely-rising gale!
The swell of distant brook is heard,
Whose far-off waters faintly roll;
And piping of the shrill small bird,
Arrested by the wand'ring owl.
Come hither! let us thread with care
The maze of this green path, which binds
The beauties of the broad parterre,
And thro' yon fragrant alley winds.
Or on this old bench will we sit,
Round which the clust'ring woodine wreathes;
While birds of night around us flit;
And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes,
Unto my ravish'd senses, brought
From yon thick-woven odorous bowers,
The still rich breeze, with incense fraught
Of glowing fruits and spangled flowers.
The whispering leaves, the gushing stream,
Where trembles the uncertain moon,
Suit more the poet's pensive dream,
Than all the jarring notes of noon.
Then, to the thickly-crowded mart
The eager sons of interest press;
Then, shine the tinsel works of art'
Now, all is Nature's loneliness!
Then, wealth aloft in state displays
The glittering of her gilded cars;
Now, dimly stream the mingled rays
Of yon far-twinkling, silver stars.
Yon church, whose cold grey spire appears
In the black outline of the trees,
Conceals the object of my tears,
Whose form in dreams my spirit sees.
There in the chilling bed of earth,
The chancel's letter'd stone above'
There sleepeth she who gave me birth,
Who taught my lips the hymn of love!
Yon mossy stems of ancient oak,
So widely crown'd with sombre shade,
Those ne'er have heard the woodman's stroke
Their solemn, secret depths invade.
How oft the grassy way I've trod
That winds their knotty boles between,
And gather'd from the blooming sod
The flowers that flourish'd there unseen!
Rise! let us trace that path once more,
While o'er our track the cold beams shine;
Down this low shingly vale, and o'er
Yon rude rough bridge of prostrate pine.
A Genteel Family.
by Kate Greenaway

Some children are so naughty,
And some are very good;
But the Genteel Family
Did always what it should.
They put on gloves when they went out,
And ran not in the street;
And on wet days not one of them
Had ever muddy feet.
Then they were always so polite,
And always thanked you so;
And never threw their toys about,
As naughty children do.
They always learnt their lessons
When it was time they should;
And liked to eat up all their crusts 
They were so very good.
And then their frocks were never torn,
Their tuckers always clean;
And their hair so very tidy 
Always quite fit to be seen.
Then they made calls with their mamma
And were so very neat;
And learnt to bow becomingly
When they met you in the street.
And really they were everything
That children ought to be;
And well may be examples now
For little you and me.
Childish Griefs.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Softened by Time's consummate plush,
How sleek the woe appears
That threatened childhood's citadel
And undermined the years!
Bisected now by bleaker griefs,
We envy the despair
That devastated childhood's realm,
So easy to repair.
Nod
by Walter De La Mare

Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.
The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.
His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
'Rest, rest, and rest again.'
A Reiver's Neck-Verse
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Some die singing, and some die swinging,
And weel mot a' they be:
Some die playing, and some die praying,
And I wot sae winna we, my dear,
And I wot sae winna we.
Some die sailing, and some die wailing,
And some die fair and free:
Some die flyting, and some die fighting,
But I for a fause love's fee, my dear,
But I for a fause love's fee.
Some die laughing, and some die quaffing,
And some die high on tree:
Some die spinning, and some die sinning,
But faggot and fire for ye, my dear,
Faggot and fire for ye.
Some die weeping, and some die sleeping,
And some die under sea:
Some die ganging, and some die hanging,
And a twine of a tow for me, my dear,
A twine of a tow for me.
The Rock Of Rubies And The Quarry Of Pearls
by Robert Herrick

Some ask'd me where the Rubies grew:
And nothing I did say,
But with my finger pointed to
The lips of Julia.
Some ask'd how Pearls did grow, and where:
Then spoke I to my girl,
To part her lips, and shew me there
The quarrelets of Pearl.
A Clasp of Hands
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I
Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.
A babe's hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleet
The minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.
II
A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet vice
What man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
Whom would not one such test suffice?
Well may we tremble as we kneel
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe's closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.
III
Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists
What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?
Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.
South-Wind Song. (Moods Of Love.)
by George Parsons Lathrop

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease
(Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!)
Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed
'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these
Loth blushes faint and maidenly - rich Breeze,
Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade
Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid
The power to build or blight rich fruit of trees,
The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain.
Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,
Both measureless, but either counted gain
Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow
Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.
Tears are the gems of joy and misery!
Angelus.
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Softly drops the crimson sun:
Softly down from overhead,
Drop the bell-notes, one by one,
Melting in the melting red;
Sign to angel bands unsleeping,--
"Day is done, the dark is dread,
Take the world in care and keeping.
"Set the white-robed sentries close,
Wrap our want and weariness
In the surety of repose;
Let the shining presences,
Bearing fragrance on their wings,
Stand about our beds to bless,
Fright away all evil things.
"Rays of Him whose shadow pours
Through all lives a brimming glory,
Float o'er darksome woods and moors,
Float above the billows hoary;
Shine, through night and storm and sin,
Tangled fate and bitter story,
Guide the lost and wandering in!"
Now the last red ray is gone;
Now the twilight shadows hie;
Still the bell-notes, one by one,
Send their soft voice to the sky,
Praying, as with human lip,--
"Angels, hasten, night is nigh,
Take us to thy guardianship."
The Flight
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Softly into the saddle
Of my black horse with white feet;
Your brothers are frowning
And grasping swords in sleep.
My rifle is as clean as moonlight,
My flints are new;
My long grey sword is sighing
In his blue sheath.
Fatima gave me my grey sword
Of Temrouk steel,
Damascened in red gold
To cut a pathway for the feet of love.
My eye is dark and keen,
My hand has never trembled on the sword.
If your brothers rise and follow
On their stormy horses,
If they stretch their hot hands
To catch you from my breast,
My rifle shall not sing to them,
My steel shall spare.
My rifle's song is for my yellow girl,
My eye is dark and keen,
I'll send my bullet to the fairest heart
That ever lady loved with in the world.
My hand upon the sword
Shall be so strong,
He'll find the little laughing place
Where you dance in my breast;
And we'll have no more of the silly world
Where our lips must lie apart.
We'll let death pour our souls
Into one cup,
And mount like joyous birds to God
With hearts on fire,
And God will mingle us into one shape
In an eternal garden of gold stars.
Love Ballad of the Caucasus.
The Purification.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high - 
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky - 
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil - from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.
Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and bright:
Agate and porphyry - precious gems - cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.
But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye; - 
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face - 
With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.
Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born child,
Late entered on this world of woe - still pure and undefiled;
While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there
Tell that, despite her girlish years, she knows a matron's care.
No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the view,
E'en had He been the child of sin - and she a sinner, too;
But how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on,
Knowing Him, as the Temple's Lord - the Word - th'Eternal Son!
While she was that Maid Mother rare - fairest of Adam's race,
Whom Heaven's Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of grace, - 
The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast - 
the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women blessed.
Piano
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
November.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Sombre November, least belov'd of all
The months that make the pleasurable year,
Too late for the resplendence of the fall,
Too soon for Christmas-bringing winter's cheer;
Ignoble interregnum following
The golden cycle of a good queen's reign,
Before her heir, proclaimed already king,
Has come of age to rule in her domain;
We do not praise you; many a dreary day
Impatiently we chide your laggard pace;
Backward we look, and forward, and we say:
The queen was kind and fair of form and face;
The king is stern, but clad in brave array:
God save His Majesty and send him grace.
The Candle Indoors
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by.
I muse at how its being puts blissful back
With yellowy moisture mild night's blear-all black,
Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye.
By that window what task what fingers ply,
I plod wondering, a-wanting, just for lack
Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack
There     God to aggr'ndise, God to glorify. - 
Come you indoors, come home; your fading fire
Mend first and vital candle in close heart's vault:
You there are master, do your own desire;
What hinders? Are you beam-blind, yet to a fault
In a neighbour deft-handed? Are you that liar
And cast by conscience out, spendsavour salt?