DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - VI - Persecution
by William Wordsworth

Lament! for Diocletian's fiery sword
Works busy as the lightning; but instinct
With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked
Which God's ethereal store-houses afford:
Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord
It rages; some are smitten in the field
Some pierced to the heart through the ineffectual shield
Of sacred home; with pomp are others gored
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried,
England's first Martyr, whom no threats could shake;
Self-offered victim, for his friend he died,
And for the faith; nor shall his name forsake
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice.
Last Night - And This.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Last night - how deep the darkness was!
And well I knew its depths, because
I waded it from shore to shore,
Thinking to reach the light no more.
She would not even touch my hand. - 
The winds rose and the cedars fanned
The moon out, and the stars fled back
In heaven and hid - and all was black!
But ah!    To-night a summons came,
Signed with a teardrop for a name, - 
For as I wondering kissed it, lo,
A line beneath it told me so.
And now - the moon hangs over me
A disk of dazzling brilliancy,
And every star-tip stabs my sight
With splintered glitterings of light!
On A Wag In Mauchline.
by Robert Burns

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid whole weeks awa,
Your wives they ne'er had missed ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass,
Perhaps he was your father.
Sunset.
by John Hartley

Last eve the sun went down
Like a globe of glorious fire;
Into a sea of gold
I watched the orb expire.
It seemed the fitting end
For the brightness it had shed,
And the cloudlets he had kissed
Long lingered over head.
All vegetation drooped,
As if with pleasure faint:
The lily closed its cup
To guard 'gainst storm and taint.
The cool refreshing dew
Fell softly to the earth,
All lovely things to cheer,
And call more beauties forth.
And as I sat and thought
On Nature's wond'rous plan,
I felt with some regret,
How small a thing is man.
However bright he be,
His efforts are confined,
Yet maybe, if he will,
Leave some rich fruits behind.
The sun that kissed the flowers,
And made the earth look gay,
Was culling, through the hours,
Rich treasures on his way.
And when the day was dead,
His stored up riches fell,
And to the moon arose
Incense from hill and dell.
And when our span of life
Is ended, will it be
Through such a glorious death
We greet Eternity?
What have we said or done
In all the long years passed!
And may not such as me,
Forgotten, die at last?
Lines on the Death of Edward John Trelawny
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Last high star of the years whose thunder
Still men's listening remembrance hears,
Last light left of our fathers' years,
Watched with honour and hailed with wonder
Thee too then have the years borne under,
Thou too then hast regained thy peers.
Wings that warred with the winds of morning,
Storm-winds rocking the red great dawn,
Close at last, and a film is drawn
Over the eyes of the storm-bird, scorning
Now no longer the loud wind's warning,
Waves that threaten or waves that fawn.
Peers were none of thee left us living,
Peers of theirs we shall see no more.
Eight years over the full fourscore
Knew thee: now shalt thou sleep, forgiving
All griefs past of the wild world's giving,
Moored at last on the stormless shore.
Worldwide liberty's lifelong lover,
Lover no less of the strength of song,
Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong,
Over thy dust that the dust shall cover
Comes my song as a bird to hover,
Borne of its will as of wings along.
Cherished of thee were this brief song's brothers
Now that follows them, cherishing thee.
Over the tides and the tideless sea
Soft as a smile of the earth our mother's
Flies it faster than all those others,
First of the troop at thy tomb to be.
Memories of Greece and the mountain's hollow
Guarded alone of thy loyal sword
Hold thy name for our hearts in ward:
Yet more fain are our hearts to follow
One way now with the southward swallow
Back to the grave of the man their lord.
Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, hearing
Surely, if hearts of the dead may hear,
Whose true heart it is now draws near?
Surely the sense of it thrills thee, cheering
Darkness and death with the news now nearing
Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here.
Lasciviousness.
by Robert Herrick

Lasciviousness is known to be
The sister to saturity.
The Children's Song
by Rudyard Kipling

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.
Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.
Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.
Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.
Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!
The Artist
by Frederic William Moorman

Lang-haired gauvies(1) coom my way, drawin' t' owd abbey an' brig,
All their crack is o' Art-staities an' picturs an' paints;
Want to put me on their canvas, donned i' my farmer's rig,
Tell me I'm pairt o' t' scenery, stained-glass windeys an' saints.
I reckon I'm artist an' all, though I niver gave it a thowt;
Breeder o' stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o' t' Abbey Close.
What sud a farmer want wi' picturs that brass has bowt?
All his art is i' t' mistal, wheer t' heifers are ranged i' rows.
Look at yon pedigree bull, wi' an eye as breet as a star,
An' a coat that shines like velvet, when it catches t' glent o' t' sun;
Hark to him bealin' for t' cows, wi' a voice like t' thunner on t' scar,
Watch them sinews i' t' neck, ripplin' wi' mischief an' fun.
Three generations o' men have lived their lives for yon bull,
Tewed at his keep all t' day, dreamed o' his sleekness all t' neet;
Moulded the bugth o' his buttocks, fashioned the breadth o' his skull--
Ivery one on 'em artists, sculptors o' butcher's meat.
What are your Rubens and Vandykes anent the craft that is Breed?
Anent the art that is Life, what's figures o' bronze or stone?
Us farmers 'll mould you models, better nor statties that's deead--
Strength that is wick i' the flesh, Beauty that's bred i' the bone.
Bailiff's doughter at t' Hollins,
shoo's Breed, an' shoo's Life, an shoo's Art,
Bred frae a Westmorland statesman out o' a Craven lass;
Carries hersen like a queen when shoo drives to markit i' t' cart:
Noan o' yon scraumy-legged(2) painters sal iver git howd o' her brass
Picturs is reight enough for fowks cluttered up i' Leeds,
Fowks that have ne'er hannled beasts, can't tell a tup frae a yowe ;
But the art for coontry lads is the art that breathes an' feeds,
An' t' finest gallery i' t' worrld is a Yorkshire cattle-show.
Freedom, Our Queen
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Land where the banners wave last in the sun,
Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one,
Floating o'er prairie and mountain and sea;
Hark! 't is the voice of thy children to thee!
Here at thine altar our vows we renew
Still in thy cause to be loyal and true, - 
True to thy flag on the field and the wave,
Living to honor it, dying to save!
Mother of heroes! if perfidy's blight
Fall on a star in thy garland of light,
Sound but one bugle-blast! Lo! at the sign
Armies all panoplied wheel into line!
Hope of the world! thou'hast broken its chains, - 
Wear thy bright arms while a tyrant remains,
Stand for the right till the nations shall own
Freedom their sovereign, with Law for her throne!
Freedom! sweet Freedom! our voices resound,
Queen by God's blessing, unsceptred, uncrowned!
Freedom, sweet Freedom, our pulses repeat,
Warm with her life-blood, as long as they beat!
Fold the broad banner-stripes over her breast, - 
Crown her with star-jewels Queen of the West!
Earth for her heritage, God for her friend,
She shall reign over us, world without end!
The Star
by Lola Ridge

Last night
I watched a star fall like a great pearl into the sea,
Till my ego expanding encompassed sea and star,
Containing both as in a trembling cup.
Written On The Death Of General Washington.
by Thomas Gent

Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,
While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads
Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.
Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war,
To shield it nobly from oppression's chain;
By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar,
Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.
Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend,
A generous nation's grateful tears are thine;
E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend,
And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.
Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base,
By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand;
And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace
Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!
On Finding A Copy Of Burns's Poems In The House Of An Ontario Farmer.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old,
Bearing clear proof of usage and of years,
Thine edges yellow with their faded gold,
Thy leaves with fingers stained - perchance with tears;
How oft thy venerable page has felt
The hardened hands of honorable toil!
How oft thy simple song had power to melt
The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!
How oft has fancy borne them back to see
The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou
Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free
And independent follower of the plough!
What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd
From shore to shore since his new race began,
In humble cot and "histie stibble field"
Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"?
With reverent hands I lay aside the tome,
And to my longing heart content returns,
And in the stranger's house I am at home,
For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.
And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son;
Repeat the pathos of the poet's life;
Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won
The outward struggle and the inward strife.
Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son;
Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place;
Tell what a son of man hath felt and done,
And make of us and ours a noble race, -
A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold,
To spurn the spurious and contemn the base,
Despise the shams that may be bought and sold, -
A race of brothers and of men, - a race
To usher in the long-expected time
Good men have sought and prophets have foretold,
When this bright world shall be the happy clime
Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould
Their lives like His who walked in Palestine;
The truly human manhood thou dost show,
Leading them upward to the pure divine
Nature of God made manifest below.
The Way It Wuz.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Las' July - an', I persume
'Bout as hot
As the ole Gran'-Jury room
Where they sot! -
Fight 'twixt Mike an' Dock McGriff -
'Pears to me jes' like as if
I'd a dremp' the whole blame thing -
Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard
When they're nightmares on the wing,
An' a feller's blood's jes' friz!
Seed the row from a to izzard -
'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em
As me an' you is!
Tell you the way it wuz -
An' I do n't want to see,
Like some fellers does,
When they 're goern to be
Any kind o' fuss -
On'y makes a rumpus wuss
Far to interfere
When their dander's riz -
But I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em
As me an' you is!
I wuz kind o' strayin'
Past the blame saloon -
Heerd some fiddler playin'
That "ole hee-cup tune!"
Sort o' stopped, you know,
Far a minit er so,
And wuz jes' about
Settin' down, when - Jeemses-whizz!
Whole durn winder-sash fell out!
An' there laid Doc McGriff, and Mike
A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like,
An' both a-gittin' down to biz! -
An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em
As me an' you is!
I wuz the on'y man aroun' -
(Durn old-fogy town!
'Peared more like, to me,
Sund'y 'an Saturd'y!)
Dog come 'crost the road
An' tuck a smell
An' put right back;
Mishler driv by 'ith a load
O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell -
Too mad, 'y jack!
To even ast
What wuz up, as he went past!
Weather most outrageous hot! -
Fairly hear it sizz
Roun' Dock an' Mike - till Dock he shot,
An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his
An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz
'Bout half up, a-spittin' red,
An' shuck his head -
An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em
As me an' you is!
An' Dock he says,
A-whisperin'-like, -
"It hain't no use
A-tryin'! - Mike
He's jes' ripped my daylights loose! -
Git that blame-don fiddler to
Let up, an' come out here - You
Got some burryin' to do, -
Mike makes one, an' I expects
In ten seconds I'll make two!"
And he drapped back, where he riz,
'Crost Mike's body, black and blue,
Like a great big letter X! -
An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em
As me an' you is!
Sonnet XXXIII.
by Anna Seward

Last night her Form the hours of slumber bless'd
Whose eyes illumin'd all my youthful years. - 
Spirit of dreams, at thy command appears
Each airy Shape, that visiting our rest,
Dismays, perplexes, or delights the breast.
My pensive heart this kind indulgence cheers;
Bliss, in no waking moment now possess'd,
Bliss, ask'd of thee with Memory's thrilling tears,
Nightly I cry, how oft, alas! in vain,
Give, by thy powers, that airy Shapes controul,
HONORA to my visions! - ah! ordain
Her beauteous lip may wear the smile that stole,
In years long fled, the sting from every pain!
Show her sweet face, ah show it to my soul!
June 1780.
Education.
by Jean de La Fontaine

Lapluck and Caesar brothers were, descended
From dogs by Fame the most commended,
Who falling, in their puppyhood,
To different masters anciently,
One dwelt and hunted in the boundless wood;
From thieves the other kept a kitchen free.
At first, each had another name;
But, by their bringing up, it came,
While one improved upon his nature,
The other grew a sordid creature,
Till, by some scullion called Lapluck,
The name ungracious ever stuck.
To high exploits his brother grew,
Put many a stag at bay, and tore
Full many a trophy from the boar;
In short, him first, of all his crew,
The world as Caesar knew;
And care was had, lest, by a baser mate,
His noble blood should e'er degenerate.
Not so with his neglected brother;
He made whatever came a mother;
And, by the laws of population,
His race became a countless nation - 
The common turnspits throughout France - 
Where danger is, they don't advance - 
Precisely the antipodes
Of what we call the Caesars, these!
Oft falls the son below his sire's estate:
Through want of care all things degenerate.
For lack of nursing Nature and her gifts.
What crowds from gods become mere kitchen-thrifts!
Lais When Young
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Lais when young, and all her charms in flower,
Lais, whose beauty was the fateful light
That led great ships to anchor in the night
And bring their priceless cargoes to her bower,
Lais yet found her cup of sweet turned sour.
Great Plato's pupil, from his lofty height,
Zenocrates, unmoved, had seen the white
Sweet wonder of her, and defied her power.
She snared the world in nets of subtle wiles:
The proud, the famed, all clamoured at her gate;
Dictators plead, inside her portico;
Wisdom sought madness, in her favouring smiles;
Now was she made the laughing-stock of fate:
One loosed her clinging arms, and bade her go.
Last May A Braw Wooer.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "The Lothian Lassie."
I.
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!
II.
He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love, he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!
III.
A weel-stocked mailen - himsel' for the laird - 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,
But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
IV.
But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less - 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
V.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.
VI.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
VII.
I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recovered her hearin',
And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin',
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'.
VIII.
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;
So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to morrow.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XXI - Seclusion
by William Wordsworth

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side
A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book,
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook,
The war-worn Chieftain quits the world to hide
His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide
In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell
In soft repose he comes: within his cell,
Round the decaying trunk of human pride,
At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour,
Do penitential cogitations cling;
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine
In grisly folds and strictures serpentine;
Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring,
For recompense, their own perennial bower.
The Lapse Of Time.
by William Cullen Bryant

Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Look, how they come, a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on!
As idly might I weep, at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles;
And let the cheerful future go,
With all her promises and smiles?
The future! cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart.
Thou sweetener of the present hour!
We cannot, no, we will not part.
Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day;
The months that touch, with added grace,
This little prattler at my knee,
In whose arch eye and speaking face
New meaning every hour I see;
The years, that o'er each sister land
Shall lift the country of my birth,
And nurse her strength, till she shall stand
The pride and pattern of the earth:
Till younger commonwealths, for aid,
Shall cling about her ample robe,
And from her frown shall shrink afraid
The crowned oppressors of the globe.
True, time will seam and blanch my brow,
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grizzly beard becomes me then.
And then should no dishonour lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time, 'tis kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast:
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes,
And as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
Nursery Rhyme. DXXXIII. Natural History.
by Unknown

[The following stanza is of very considerable antiquity, and is common in Yorkshire.]
Lady-cow, lady-cow, fly thy way home,
Thy house is on fire, thy children all gone,
All but one that ligs under a stone,
Fly thee home, lady-cow, ere it be gone.
Lais When Old
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Lais, when old and all her beauty gone,
Lais, the erstwhile courted pleasure queen,
Walked homeless through Corinth.
One mocked her mien - 
One tossed her coins; she took them and passed on.
Down by the harbour sloped a terraced lawn,
Where fountains played; she paused to view the scene.
A marble palace stood in bowers of green
'Twas here of old she revelled till the dawn.
Through yonder portico her lovers came - 
Hero and statesman, athlete, merchant, sage;
They flung the whole world's treasures at her feet
To buy her favour and exalt her shame.
* * *
She spat upon her dole of coins in rage
And faded like a phantom down the street.
Easter Zunday
by William Barnes

Last Easter Jim put on his blue
Frock cwoat, the vu'st time-vier new;
Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass,
That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass;
An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole
A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole.
A span-new wes-co't, too, he wore,
Wi' yellow stripes all down avore;
An' tied his breeches' lags below
The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow;
An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide,
An' put his laggens on, an' tied
His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide,
Because 'twer Easter Zunday.
An' after mornen church wer out
He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about
All down the vields, an' drough the leane,
Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeane,
A-turnen proudly to their view
His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
The lambs did play, the grounds wer green,
The trees did bud, the zun did sheen;
The lark did zing below the sky,
An' roads wer all a-blown so dry,
As if the zummer wer begun;
An' he had sich a bit o' fun!
He meade the maidens squeal an' run,
Because 'twer Easter Zunday.
On Entering Switzerland
by William Lisle Bowles

Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day
I journey on, yet pensive turn to view,
Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue,
The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away.
So fares it with the children of the earth:
For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
Their spirits burn to tread that fairy ground,
Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
But them, alas! the dream of youth beguiles,
And soon a longing look, like me, they cast
Back on the mountains of the morning past:
Yet Hope still beckons us, and beckoning smiles,
And to a brighter world her view extends,
When earth's long darkness on her path descends.