DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Bells Of Kirkby Overblow
by Frederic William Moorman

Draw back my curtains, Mary,
An' oppen t' windey wide;
Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',
While to-morn I'll hardlins bide.
But yit afore all's ovver,
An' I lig cowd as snow,
I'll hear once more them owd church bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.
Mony a neet an' mornin'
I've heerd yon church bells peal;
An' how I've threaped an' cursed 'em
When I was strong an' weel!
Gert, skelpin', chunterin' taistrils,(1)
All janglin' in a row!
Ay, mony a time I've cursed yon bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.
When you hear yon church bells ringin',
You can't enjoy your sin;
T' bells clutches at your heart-strings
I' t' ale-house ower your gin.
At pitch-an'-toss you're laikin',
Down theer i' t' wood below;
An' then you damn them rowpy(2) bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.
An' when I've set off poachin'
At back-end o' the year,
Wi' ferret, bag an' snickle,(3)
Church bells have catched my ear.
"Thou's takken t' road to Hell, lad,
Wheer t' pit-fire's bumin' slow;"
That's what yon bells kept shoutin' out
At Kirkby Overblow.
But now I'm owd an' bed-fast,
I ommost like their sound,
Ringin' so clear i' t' star-leet
Across the frozzen ground.
I niver mell on(4) parsons,
There ain't a prayer I know;
But prayer an' sarmon's i' yon bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.
Six boards o' gooid stout ellum
Is what I'll want to-morn;
Then lay me low i' t' church-yard
Aneath t' owd crooked thorn.
I'll have no funeral sarvice
When I'm browt down below,
But let 'em touzle t' bells like mad
At Kirkby Overblow.
I don't know wheer I'm boun' for,
It hardlins can be Heaven;
I've sinned more sins nor most men
'Twixt one an' seven-seven.
But this I'll tak my oath on:
Wheeriver I mun go,
I'll hark to t' echoes o' yon bells
O' Kirkby Overblow.
Hymn To Physical Pain
by Rudyard Kipling

Dread Mother of Forgetfulness
Who, when Thy reign begins,
Wipest away the Soul's distress,
And memory of her sins.
The trusty Worm that dieth not
The steadfast Fire also,
By Thy contrivance are forgot
In a completer woe.
Thine are the lidless eyes of night
That stare upon our tears,
Through certain hours which in our sight
Exceed a thousand years:
Thine is the thickness of the Dark
That presses in our pain,
As Thine the Dawn that bids us mark
Life's grinning face again.
Thine is the weariness outworn
No promise shall relieve,
That says at eve, "Would God 'twere morn"
At morn, "Would God 'twere eve!"
And when Thy tender mercies cease
And life unvexed is due,
Instant upon the false release
The Worm and Fire renew.
Wherefore we praise Thee in the deep,
And on our beds we pray
For Thy return that Thou may'st keep
The Pains of Hell at bay!
Friends
by Madison Julius Cawein

Down through the woods, along the way
That fords the stream; by rock and tree,
Where in the bramble-bell the bee
Swings; and through twilights green and gray
The redbird flashes suddenly,
My thoughts went wandering to-day.
I found the fields where, row on row,
The blackberries hang dark with fruit;
Where, nesting at the elder's root,
The partridge whistles soft and low;
The fields, that billow to the foot
Of those old hills we used to know.
There lay the pond, all willow-bound,
On whose bright face, when noons were hot,
We marked the bubbles rise; some plot
To lure us in; while all around
Our heads, - like faery fancies, - shot
The dragonflies without a sound.
The pond, above which evening bent
To gaze upon her gypsy face;
Wherein the twinkling night would trace
A vague, inverted firmament;
In which the green frogs tuned their bass,
And firefly sparkles came and went.
The oldtime place we often ranged,
When we were playmates, you and I;
The oldtime fields, with boyhood's sky
Still blue above them! - Naught was changed:
Nothing. - Alas! then, tell me why
Should we be? whom the years estranged.
The Angel
by Virna Sheard

Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread
He came ere break of day - 
A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head,
His misty robes were grey.
And no man even knew that he went by,
None saw or heard him pass;
Softly he moved as clouds drift down the sky,
Or shadows cross the grass.
Close to a little bed where one lay low,
At last he took his stand,
And touched the head that tossed in restless woe
With gentle, outstretched hand.
"When bitterness," he said, "is at an end,
And joy grows far and dim,
I am the angel whom the Lord doth send
To lead men on to Him.
"Past the innumerable stars, my friend,
Past all the winds that blow,
We, too, must travel to our journey's end.
Arise! And let us go!"
"Stay! Stay!" the other cried. "I know thy face!
Death is thy dreaded name!"
"Nay - I am known as 'Love' in that far place,"
He said, "from whence I came."
But still the other cried, with moan and tear,
"I fear the dark - and thee!"
"There is no dark," the angel said, "nor fear,
For those who go with me.
"There is no loneliness, and nevermore
The shadow-haunted night,
When we pass out beyond Life's swinging door
The road," he said, "is bright."
Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head,
Downward the robe of grey;
A radiant presence by the lowly bed
Greeted the breaking day.
*    *    *    *    *
Within the long white ward one lay alone,
None watched by him awhile,
But some who passed him said, in whispered tone,
"See - on his lips - the smile!"
Twilight.
by Marietta Holley

Draped in shadows stands the mountain
Against the eastern sky,
Above it the fair summer moon
Looks downward tenderly;
And Venus in the glowing west,
Opens her languid eye.
Now the winds breathe softer music,
Half a song, and half a sigh;
While twilight wraps her purple veil
Around us silently,
And our thoughts appear like pictures,
Pictures shaded wondrously.
Quiet landscapes, sweet and lonely,
Silvery sea, and shadowy glade,
Forest lakes by man forsaken,
Where the white fawn's steps are stayed;
And contadinos straying
'Neath the Pantheon's solemn shade.
And we see the wave bridged over
By the moonlight's mystic link,
Desert wells by tall palms shaded,
Where dusky camels drink;
While dark-eyed Arab maidens
Fill their pitchers at the brink.
And secluded convent chapels,
Where veiled nuns kneel to pray,
With a dim light streaming o'er them
Through arches quaint and gray,
While down the long and winding aisles
Low music dies away.
There is a starry twilight
Of the soul, as sadly fair,
When our wild emotions are at rest,
Like the pale nuns at prayer;
And our griefs are hushed like sleepers,
And put off the robes of care.
Dow's Flat
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Dow's flat. That's its name;
And I reckon that you
Are a stranger? The same?
Well, I thought it was true,
For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.
It was called after Dow,
Which the same was an ass,
And as to the how
Thet the thing kem to pass,
Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass.
You see this 'yer Dow
Hed the worst kind of luck;
He slipped up somehow
On each thing thet he struck.
Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing'd get up and buck.
He mined on the bar
Till he couldn't pay rates;
He was smashed by a car
When he tunneled with Bates;
And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.
It was rough, mighty rough;
But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff
For a house, on the sly;
And the old woman, well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh.
But this 'yer luck of Dow's
Was so powerful mean
That the spring near his house
Dried right up on the green;
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.
Then the bar petered out,
And the boys wouldn't stay;
And the chills got about,
And his wife fell away;
But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way.
One day, it was June,
And a year ago, jest
This Dow kem at noon
To his work like the rest,
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in his breast.
He goes to the well,
And he stands on the brink,
And stops for a spell
Jest to listen and think:
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, kinder made the cuss blink.
His two ragged gals
In the gulch were at play,
And a gownd that was Sal's
Kinder flapped on a bay:
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, as I've heer'd the folks say.
And That's a peart hoss
Thet you've got, ain't it now?
What might be her cost?
Eh? Oh! Well, then, Dow
Let's see, well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.
For a blow of his pick
Sorter caved in the side,
And he looked and turned sick,
Then he trembled and cried.
For you see the dern cuss had struck 'Water?' Beg your parding, young man, there you lied!
It was gold, in the quartz,
And it ran all alike;
And I reckon five oughts
Was the worth of that strike;
And that house with the coopilow's his'n, which the same isn't bad for a Pike.
Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;
And the thing of it is
That he kinder got that
Through sheer contrairiness:
For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss.
Thet's so! Thar's your way,
To the left of yon tree;
But a look h'yur, say?
Won't you come up to tea?
No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow,    and thet's me.
The Hungry Sea
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Down to the sea, the hungry sea,
O the sea is hungry ever!
Seeking food for the bairns and me,
Seeking food in the hungry sea;
O the sea is hungry ever!
My man and my lad--their bones are white,
O the sea is hungry ever!
Into the maw of the grim black night,
Their hearts were bold and their faces bright;
O the sea is hungry ever!
The sun was red and the clouds were black,
O the sea is hungry ever!
And the sky was heavy with flying wrack,
When forth they fared,--and they came not back;
O the sea is hungry ever!
Forth they fared and they came not back,
O the sea is hungry ever!
O, I fear the sea, and I hate the sea,
That took my man and my lad from me;
O the sea is hungry ever!
Betrayed
by John Clare

Dream not of love, to think it like
What waking love may prove to be,
For I dreamed so and broke my heart,
When my false lover slighted me.
Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green;
The rose in bud aye best appears;
And she that loves a handsome man
Should have more wit than she has years.
I put my finger in a bush,
Thinking the sweeter rose to find;
I pricked my finger to the bone,
And left the sweetest rose behind.
I threw a stone into the sea,
And deep it sunk into the sand,
And so did my poor heart in me
When my false lover left the land.
I watched the sun an hour too soon
Set into clouds behind the town;
So my false lover left, and said
"Good night" before the day was down.
I cropt a lily from the stalk,
And in my hand it died away;
So did my joy, so will my heart,
In false love's cruel grasp decay.
At Cape Schanck
by James Lister Cuthbertson

Down to the lighthouse pillar
The rolling woodland comes,
Gay with the gold of she-oaks
And the green of the stunted gums,
With the silver-grey of honeysuckle,
With the wasted bracken red,
With a tuft of softest emerald
And a cloud-flecked sky o'erhead.
We climbed by ridge and boulder,
Umber and yellow scarred,
Out to the utmost precipice,
To the point that was ocean-barred,
Till we looked below on the fastness
Of the breeding eagle's nest,
And Cape Wollomai opened eastward
And the Otway on the west.
Over the mirror of azure
The purple shadows crept,
League upon league of rollers
Landward evermore swept,
And burst upon gleaming basalt,
And foamed in cranny and crack,
And mounted in sheets of silver,
And hurried reluctant back.
And the sea, so calm out yonder,
Wherever we turned our eyes,
Like the blast of an angel's trumpet
Rang out to the earth and skies,
Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts
Throbbed to the giant fray,
And the gullies and jutting headlands
Were bathed in a misty spray.
Oh, sweet in the distant ranges,
To the ear of inland men,
Is the ripple of falling water
In sassafras-haunted glen,
The stir in the ripening cornfield
That gently rustles and swells,
The wind in the wattle sighing,
The tinkle of cattle bells.
But best is the voice of ocean,
That strikes to the heart and brain,
That lulls with its passionate music
Trouble and grief and pain,
That murmurs the requiem sweetest
For those who have loved and lost,
And thunders a jubilant anthem
To brave hearts tempest-tossed.
That takes to its boundless bosom
The burden of all our care,
That whispers of sorrow vanquished,
Of hours that may yet be fair,
That tells of a Harbour of Refuge
Beyond life's stormy straits,
Of an infinite peace that gladdens,
Of an infinite love that waits.
Young Love XI - Comfort Of Dante
by Richard Le Gallienne

Down where the unconquered river still flows on,
One strong free thing within a prison's heart,
I drew me with my sacred grief apart,
That it might look that spacious joy upon:
And as I mused, lo! Dante walked with me,
And his face spake of the high peace of pain
Till all my grief glowed in me throbbingly
As in some lily's heart might glow the rain.
So like a star I listened, till mine eye
Caught that lone land across the water-way
Wherein my lady breathed, - now breathing is -
'O Dante,' then I said, 'she more than I
Should know thy comfort, go to her, I pray.'
'Nay!' answered he, 'for she hath Beatrice.'
The Reward Of Merit.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Dr. Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age:
His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;
His poems held a noble rank, although it's very true
That, being very proper, they were read by very few.
He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the "line,"
And even Mr. Ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine;
But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high 
The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy 
And everybody said
"How can he be repaid 
This very great this very good this very gifted man?"
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,
A plan for making everybody's fortune but his own;
For, in business, an Inventor's little better than a fool,
And my highly gifted friend was no exception to the rule.
His poems people read them in the Quarterly Reviews 
His pictures they engraved them in the Illustrated News 
His inventions they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,
But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;
And everybody said
"How can he be repaid 
This very great this very good this very gifted man?"
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute despair,
When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,
With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,
And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!
Then it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards
Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!
And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,
As this very great this very good this very gifted man?
(Though I'm more than half afraid
That it sometimes may be said
That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,
However great his merits if his cousin hadn't died!)
Waggon Hill
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Drake in the North Sea grimly prowling,
Treading his dear Revenge's deck,
Watched, with the sea-dogs round him growling,
Galleons drifting wreck by wreck.
"Fetter and Faith for England's neck,
Faggot and Father, Saint and chain,---
Yonder the Devil and all go howling,
Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!
Drake at the last off Nombre lying,
Knowing the night that toward him crept,
Gave to the sea-dogs round him crying,
This for a sign before he slept:---
"Pride of the West! What Devon hath kept
Devon shall keep on tide or main;
Call to the storm and drive them flying,
Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!"
Valour of England gaunt and whitening,
Far in a South land brought to bay,
Locked in a death-grip all day tightening,
Waited the end in twilight gray.
Battle and storm and the sea-dog's way!
Drake from his long rest turned again,
Victory lit thy steel with lightning,
Devon, o Devon, in wind and rain!
Waiting at the Gate.
by John Hartley

Draw closer to my side to-night,
Dear wife, give me thy hand,
My heart is sad with memories
Which thou canst understand,
Its twenty years this very day,
I know thou minds it well,
Since o'er our happy wedded life
The heaviest trouble fell.
We stood beside the little cot,
But not a word we said;
With breaking hearts we learned, alas,
Our little Claude was dead,
He was the last child born to us,
The loveliest, - the best,
I sometimes fear we loved him more
Than any of the rest.
We tried to say "Thy will be done,"
We strove to be resigned;
But all in vain, our loss had left
Too deep a wound behind.
I saw the tears roll down thy cheek,
And shared thy misery,
But could not speak a soothing word,
I could but grieve with thee.
He looked so calm, so sweet, so fair
Why should we stand and weep?
Death had but paused a moment there,
And put our pet to sleep.
The weary hours crept sadly on,
Until the burial day;
Then in the deep, cold, gravel grave,
We saw him laid away.
His little bed was taen apart,
His toys put out of sight;
His brother and his sister soon
Grew gay again and bright.
But we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off,
The sorrow o'er us cast;
And even yet, at times, we grieve,
Though twenty years have passed.
We know he's in a better land,
A heaven where all is bliss;
Nor would we try if we'd the power
To bring him back to this.
Draw closer to my side, dear wife,
And wipe away that tear,
Heaven does not seem so far away,
I seem to feel him near.
He'll come no more with us to dwell,
For our life's lamp burns dim;
But He who doeth all things well,
Will draw us up to Him.
Come closer, wife, let us not part,
We have not long to wait;
A something whispers to my heart,
"Claude's waiting at the Gate."
The Wander-Lovers.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Down the world with Marna!
That's the life for me!
Wandering with the wandering wind,
Vagabond and unconfined!
Roving with the roving rain
Its unboundaried domain!
Kith and kin of wander-kind,
Children of the sea!
Petrels of the sea-drift!
Swallows of the lea!
Arabs of the whole wide girth
Of the wind-encircled earth!
In all climes we pitch our tents,
Cronies of the elements,
With the secret lords of birth
Intimate and free.
All the seaboard knows us
From Fundy to the Keys;
Every bend and every creek
Of abundant Chesapeake;
Ardise hills and Newport coves
And the far-off orange groves,
Where Floridian oceans break,
Tropic tiger seas.
Down the world with Marna,
Tarrying there and here!
Just as much at home in Spain
As in Tangier or Touraine!
Shakespeare's Avon knows us well,
And the crags of Neufch'tel;
And the ancient Nile is fain
Of our coming near.
Down the world with Marna,
Daughter of the air!
Marna of the subtle grace,
And the vision in her face!
Moving in the measures trod
By the angels before God!
With her sky-blue eyes amaze
And her sea-blue hair!
Marna with the trees' life
In her veins a-stir!
Marna of the aspen heart
Where the sudden quivers start!
Quick-responsive, subtle, wild!
Artless as an artless child,
Spite of all her reach of art!
Oh, to roam with her!
Marna with the wind's will,
Daughter of the sea!
Marna of the quick disdain,
Starting at the dream of stain!
At a smile with love aglow,
At a frown a statued woe,
Standing pinnacled in pain
Till a kiss sets free!
Down the world with Marna,
Daughter of the fire!
Marna of the deathless hope,
Still alert to win new scope
Where the wings of life may spread
For a flight unhazarded!
Dreaming of the speech to cope
With the heart's desire!
Marna of the far quest
After the divine!
Striving ever for some goal
Past the blunder-god's control!
Dreaming of potential years
When no day shall dawn in fears!
That's the Marna of my soul,
Wander-bride of mine!
A Madrigal
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dream days of fond delight and hours
As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine.
Love's drowsy wine,
Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers,
Flows softly o'er my lips
And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.
There were no light if thou wert not;
The sun would be too sad to shine,
And all the line
Of hours from dawn would be a blot;
And Night would haunt the skies,
An unlaid ghost with staring dark-ringed eyes.
Oh, love, if thou wert not my love,
And I perchance not thine--what then?
Could gift of men
Or favor of the God above,
Plant aught in this bare heart
Or teach this tongue the singer's soulful art?
Ah, no! 'Tis love, and love alone
That spurs my soul so surely on;
Turns night to dawn,
And thorns to roses fairest blown;
And winter drear to spring--
Oh, were it not for love I could not sing!
Gradely Weel off.
by John Hartley

Draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away,
Put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm:
We've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day,
An a rest willn't do us mich harm.
Awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old,
We shall have to toil on to its end;
An altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold,
Yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a Friend.
Soa cheer up, old lass,
Altho' we've grown grey,
An we havn't mich brass,
Still awr hearts can be gay:
For we've health an contentment an soa we can say,
'At we're gradely weel off after all.
As aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by,
An th' young squire wor sittin inside;
An wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh,
As for th' furst time aw saw his young bride.
Shoo wor white as a sheet, an soa sickly an sad,
Wol aw could'nt but pity his lot;
Thinks aw, old an grey, yet awm richer to-day,
For aw've health an content i' mi cot.
Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.
Gie me th' pipe off o'th' hob, an aw'll tak an odd whiff,
For aw raillee feel thankful to-neet;
An altho' mi booans wark, an mi joints are all stiff,
Yet awm able to keep mi heart leet.
If we've had a fair share ov th' world's trubble an care,
We mun nivver forget i' times past,
Ther wor allus one Friend, His help ready to lend,
An He'll nivver forsake us at last.
Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.
Tho' we've noa pew at th' church, an we sit whear we can,
An th' sarmon we dooant understand;
An th' sarvice is all ov a new fangled plan,
An th' mewsic's suppooased to be grand, - 
We can lift up awr hearts when we come hooam at neet,
As we sing th' old psalms ovver agean;
An tho' old crackt voices dooant saand varry sweet,
He knows varry weel what we mean.
Soa cheer up, old lass,
Altho' we've grown grey,
An we havn't mich brass,
Still awr hearts can be gay;
For we've health an contentment, an soa we can say,
'At we're gradely weel off after all.
Down-Adown-Derry
by Walter De La Mare

Down-adown-derry,
Sweet Annie Maroon,
Gathering daisies
In the meadows of Doone,
Hears a shrill piping,
Elflike and free,
Where the waters go brawling
In rills to the sea;
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
Sweet Annie Maroon,
Through the green grasses
Peeps softly; and soon
Spies under green willows
A fairy whose song
Like the smallest of bubbles
Floats bobbing along;
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
Her cheeks were like wine,
Her eyes in her wee face
Like water-sparks shine,
Her niminy fingers
Her sleek tresses preen,
The which in the combing
She peeps out between;
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
Shrill, shrill was her tune: - 
"Come to my water-house,
Annie Maroon:
Come in your dimity,
Ribbon on head,
To wear siller seaweed
And coral instead";
Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry,
Lean fish of the sea,
Bring lanthorns for feasting
The gay Fa'rie;
'Tis sand for the dancing,
A music all sweet
In the water-green gloaming
For thistledown feet";
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
Sweet Annie Maroon
Looked large on the fairy
Curled wan as the moon
And all the grey ripples
To the Mill racing by,
With harps and with timbrels
Did ringing reply;
Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry,"
Sang the Fairy of Doone,
Piercing the heart
Of Sweet Annie Maroon;
And lo! when like roses
The clouds of the sun
Faded at dusk, gone
Was Annie Maroon;
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
The daisies are few;
Frost twinkles powdery
In haunts of the dew;
And only the robin
Perched on a thorn,
Can comfort the heart
Of a father forlorn;
Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,
There's snow in the air;
Ice where the lily
Bloomed waxen and fair;
He may call o'er the water,
Cry - cry through the Mill,
But Annie Maroon, alas!
Answer ne'er will;
Singing down-adown-derry.