DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Maple Tree.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Where craggy hills round Madoc rise,
With scenic grandeur bold,
Where frowning rocks, from wooded heights,
Look down so stern and cold,
On peaceful vales, and silent lakes,
And islets, wild and fair,
Where trees, in fadeless beauty clad,
Display their verdure there.
Where men, undaunted by the force
Of nature's stern array,
Determin'd, drive a prosp'rous course,
And honorable way.
Here doth the oak rear high its form,
The spreading beech beside,
And here the hemlock meets the storm,
With branches stretching wide.
The pine, with straight and lofty stem,
The birch, whose shapen rind
Sails o'er the lakes by dusky hands,
Or favorable wind.
Such trees as those, are widely known,
And many more beside,
And may be found from Madoc's hills,
To Huron's waters wide.
Right dear they are to sturdy hearts;
To pioneers, their name
Lights up the thoughts of other days,
With bright and cheerful flame.
But dearer far than all of these,
Than all from sea to sea,
To Canada's brave sons of toil,
Is the stout maple tree.
The maple tree! the maple tree!
Because its leaf so fair,
Is emblem of our Canada,
And all our hopes are there.
Our country thrives, and so shall we,
On this, our native sod,
If we respect our maple tree,
And worship only God.
The maple leaf! the maple leaf!
Tho' in the fall it fade,
May it but die, to bloom again,
And brighten up the glade.
Oh, deeper strike each year thy roots,
Young Canada's fair tree,
That no rude hand may tear thee up,
Thou emblem of the free.
If on thy branch an eagle bold,
Or other bird of prey,
Shall dare with haughtiness to sit,
May it soon fly away.
God's Mirth: Man's Mourning.
by Robert Herrick

Where God is merry, there write down thy fears:
What He with laughter speaks, hear thou with tears.
Song Of The Fifth River
by Rudyard Kipling

Where first by Eden Tree
The Four Great Rivers ran,
To each was appointed a Man
Her Prince and Ruler to be.
But after this was ordained
(The ancient legends' tell),
There came dark Israel,
For whom no River remained.
Then He Whom the Rivers obey
Said to him: "Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow clay,
And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,
In secret the Earth around;
And Her secret evermore,
Shall be shown to thee and thy Race."
So it was said and done.
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,
Or sap the power of King,
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold,
The Secret River of Gold!
And Israel laid down
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank
Where the waters flashed and sank
And burrowed in earth and fell
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel
He is Lord of the Last,
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: "She will fall,"
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.
He can foresay: "She will rise."
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North,
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain,
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.
A Ruler without a Throne,
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone,
As it was ordered to be.
Recovery
by John Frederick Freeman

Where are you going with eyes so dull,
You whose eyes were beautiful,
You whose hair with the light was gay,
And now is thin and harsh and gray?
Is it age alone or age and tears
That has slowly rubbed your beauty away?
Where were you going when your swift eyes
Were like merry birds under May skies?--
In your cheeks the colours fluttering brave
As you danced with the wind and ran with the wave.
From what bright star was your brightness caught?
What to your music the music gave?
Now is your beauty a thing of old,
The fire is sunken, the ashes cold.
But if sweet singing on your ear stray,
Or the praise is uttered of yesterday,
Or of courage and nobleness one word said--
Like a cloud Time's ravage is brushed away.
Seal Fishing And Hunting.
by James McIntyre

Where frosts doth northern bays congeal,
There you will find the finest seal,
They do pursue them o'er each bay
From early dawn till close of day.
The Indians display great zeal,
Engaged in hunting of the seal,
And ladies love for to display
Their seal furs from this famous bay.
Most precious of all furs is seal,
Their flesh is good as finest veal,
And the seal it is a squatter,
Lives on either land or water.
The Indian boys happy feel,
When they capture the young seal,
They do seem so happy ever,
Sailing o'er each bay and river.
They train them their canoes to tow,
And o'er the waters merry go,
Full quick to right or left they wheel,
Guided by reins the docile seal.
Like lad on colt without a saddle,
These youths use no oar nor paddle,
But swift o'er water rushes keel,
For 'tis propelled by the fast seal.
To Uncle Sam we do appeal,
How can you own the whole sea's seal,
And at the same time claim our cod,
If from the shore a mile abroad.
Maid Quiet
by William Butler Yeats

Where has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood?
The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
O how could I be so calm
When she rose up to depart?
Now words that called up the lightning
Are hurtling through my heart.
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXXV. - After Landing - The Valley Of Dover - Nov. 1820
by William Wordsworth

Where be the noisy followers of the game
Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that passed
Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast,
And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame.
Peace greets us; rambling on without an aim
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea;
And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim
The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound
Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight,
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,
Here only serve a feeling to invite
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height,
And makes this rural stillness more profound.
Young Fellow My Lad
by Robert William Service

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."
. . . . .
"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."
. . . . .
"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night."
. . . . .
"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
. . . . .
"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You'll never come back again:
(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD,
AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.
"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you."
Impromptu
by John Clare

"Where art thou wandering, little child?"
I said to one I met to-day.--
She pushed her bonnet up and smiled,
"I'm going upon the green to play:
Folks tell me that the May's in flower,
That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull,
And I've got leave to spend an hour
To get this little basket full."
--And thou'st got leave to spend an hour!
My heart repeated.--She was gone;
--And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower,
And childhood's bliss is urging on:
Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh,
This once as happy heart of mine,
Would nature with the boon comply,
How gladly would I change for thine.
Rhymes And Rhythms - I
by William Ernest Henley

Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade
On desolate sea and lonely sand,
Out of the silence and the shade
What is the voice of strange command
Calling you still, as friend calls friend
With love that cannot brook delay,
To rise and follow the ways that wend
Over the hills and far away?
Hark in the city, street on street
A roaring reach of death and life,
Of vortices that clash and fleet
And ruin in appointed strife,
Hark to it calling, calling clear,
Calling until you cannot stay
From dearer things than your own most dear
Over the hills and far away.
Out of the sound of ebb and flow,
Out of the sight of lamp and star,
It calls you where the good winds blow,
And the unchanging meadows are:
From faded hopes and hopes agleam,
It calls you, calls you night and day
Beyond the dark into the dream
Over the hills and far away.
To The Immortal Memory Of The Halibut, On Which I Dined This Day, Monday, April 26, 1784.
by William Cowper

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued
Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd,
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe'
And in thy minikin and embryo state,
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed,
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps
Above the brine'where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the surge'and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
'Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st,
And I not more, that I should feed on thee.
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish,
To him who sent thee! and success, as oft
As it descends into the billowy gulf,
To the same drag that caught thee!'Fare thee well!
Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin
Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.
The Devon Maid: Stanzas Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon
by John Keats

Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
And what have ye there i' the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your meads, and I love your flowers,
And I love your junkets mainly,
But 'hind the door, I love kissing more,
O look not so disdainly!
I love your hills, and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating;
But O, on the heather to lie together,
With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,
Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow,
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
To-Morrow.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When young and old, and strong and weak,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, -
In thy place - ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled - To-day.
The Page And The Miller'S Daughter.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

PAGE.
Where goest thou? Where?
Miller's daughter so fair!
Thy name, pray? 
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
'Tis Lizzy.
PAGE.
Where goest thou? Where?
With the rake in thy hand?
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Father's meadows and land
To visit, I'm busy.
PAGE.
Dost go there alone?
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
By this rake, sir, 'tis shown
That we're making the hay;
And the pears ripen fast
In the garden at last,
So I'll pick them to-day.
PAGE.
Is't a silent thicket I yonder view?
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Oh, yes! there are two;
There's one on each side.
PAGE.
I'll follow thee soon;
When the sun burns at noon
We'll go there, o'urselves from his rays to hide,
And then in some glade all-verdant and deep 
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Why, people would say 
PAGE.
Within mine arms thou gently wilt sleep.
MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Your pardon, I pray!
Whoever is kiss'd by the miller-maid,
Upon the spot must needs be betray'd.
'Twould give me distress
To cover with white
Your pretty dark dress.
Equal with equal! then all is right!
That's the motto in which I delight.
I am in love with the miller-boy;
He wears nothing that I could destroy.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet CII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Where be those roses gone, which sweetned so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft, with faire encrease, did frame
The height of honour in the kindly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stolne from my morning skies?
How doth the colour vade of those vermilion dies,
Which Nature self did make, and self-ingrain'd the same?
I would know by what right this palenesse ouercame
That hue whose force my hart still vnto thraldome ties?
Galens adoptiue sonnes, who by a beaten way
Their iudgements hackney on, the fault of sicknesse lay;
But feeling proofe makes me say they mistake it furre:
It is but loue which makes this paper perfit white,
To write therein more fresh the storie of delight,
Whiles Beauties reddest inke Venus for him doth sturre.
The Gallant Weaver.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "The Weavers' March."
I.
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.
Oh, I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.
II.
My daddie sign'd my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land;
But to my heart I'll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees delight in op'ning flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver.
No Man Goeth Alone
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Where one is,
There am I,--
No man goeth alone!
Though he fly to earth's remotest bound,
Though his soul in the depths of sin be drowned,--
No man goeth alone!
Though he take him the wings of fear, and flee
Past the outermost realms of light;
Though he weave him a garment of mystery,
And hide in the womb of night,--
No man goeth alone!
Though apart in the city's heart he dwell,
Though he wander beyond the stars,
Though he bury himself in his nethermost hell,
And vanish behind the bars,--
No man goeth alone!
For I, God, am the soul of man,
And none can Me dethrone.
Where one is,
There am I,--
No man goeth alone!
Spring Morning - I
by William Browne

Thomalin.
Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?
Piers.
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green,
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young,
Nor her morning's lesson sung
In the shady grove:
But the nightingale in dark
Singing woke the mounting lark:
She records her love.
Not the sun hath with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams;
Rising from the sea,
Mists do crown the mountains' tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops:
'Tis but newly day.
The Shepherd's Pipe.
Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook - I - The First Attempt to Reach the Shore
by Henry Kendall

Where is the painter who shall paint for you,
My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped
In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew
Who gazed on unknown shores a thoughtful few
What time the heart of their great Leader leaped
Till he was faint with pain of longing? New
And wondrous sights on each and every hand,
Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew
Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand,
Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view!
And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band
Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew
With yells of fear! Who'll paint thy face, O Cook!
Turned seaward, 'after many a wistful look!'
Where is David, the Next King of Israel?
by Vachel Lindsay

Where is David? . . .    O God's people,
Saul has passed, the good and great.
Mourn for Saul the first-anointed - 
Head and shoulders o'er the state.
He was found among the Prophets:
Judge and monarch, merged in one.
But the wars of Saul are ended
And the works of Saul are done.
Where is David, ruddy shepherd,
God's boy-king for Israel?
Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty,
Singing where still waters dwell?
Prophet, find that destined minstrel
Wandering on the range to-day,
Driving sheep and crooning softly
Psalms that cannot pass away.
"David waits," the prophet answers,
"In a black notorious den,
In a cave upon the border
With four hundred outlaw men.
"He is fair, and loved of women,
Mighty-hearted, born to sing:
Thieving, weeping, erring, praying,
Radiant royal rebel-king.
"He will come with harp and psaltry,
Quell his troop of convict swine,
Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals,
Witching them with words divine - 
"They will ram the walls of Zion!
They will win us Salem hill,
All for David, Shepherd David - 
Singing like a mountain rill!"
Jesus.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Where is poor Jesus gone?
He sits with Dives now,
And not even the crumbs are flung
To Lazarus below.
Where is poor Jesus gone?
Is he with Magdalen?
He doles her one by one
Her wages of shame!
Where is poor Jesus gone?
The good Samaritan,
What does he there alone?
He stabs the wounded man!
Where is poor Jesus gone,
The lamb they sacrificed?
They've made God of his carrion
And labelled it "Christ!"
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - X - Where Long And Deeply Hath Been Fixed The Root
by William Wordsworth

Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root
In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree,
(Blighted or scathed tho' many branches be,
Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot)
Can never cease to bear celestial fruit.
Witness the Church that oft-times, with effect
Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to eject
Her bane, her vital energies recruit.
Lamenting, do not hopelessly repine,
When such good work is doomed to be undone,
The conquests lost that were so hardly won:
All promises vouchsafed by Heaven will shine
In light confirmed while years their course shall run,
Confirmed alike in progress and decline.
Three Songs
by Duncan Campbell Scott

I
Where love is life
The roses blow,
Though winds be rude
And cold the snow,
The roses climb
Serenely slow,
They nod in rhyme
We know - we know
Where love is life
The roses blow.
Where life is love
The roses blow,
Though care be quick
And sorrows grow,
Their roots are twined
With rose-roots so
That rosebuds find
A way to show
Where life is love
The roses blow.
II
Nothing came here but sunlight,
Nothing fell here but rain,
Nothing blew but the mellow wind,
Here are the flowers again!
No one came here but you, dear,
You with your magic train
Of brightness and laughter and lightness,
Here is my joy again!
III
I have songs of dancing pleasure,
I have songs of happy heart,
Songs are mine that pulse in measure
To the throbbing of the mart.
Songs are mine of magic seeming,
In a land of love forlorn,
Where the joys are had for dreaming,
At a summons from the horn.
But my sad songs come unbidden,
Rising with a wilder zest,
From the bitter pool that's hidden,
Deep - deep - deep within my breast.
Fragment Of A Sonnet. Farewell To North Devon.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Where man's profane and tainting hand
Nature's primaeval loveliness has marred,
And some few souls of the high bliss debarred
Which else obey her powerful command;
...mountain piles
That load in grandeur Cambria's emerald vales.
The Making Of Man
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can escape
From the lower world within him, moods of tiger, or of ape?
Man as yet is being made, and ere the crowning Age of ages,
Shall not 'on after 'on pass and touch him into shape?
All about him shadow still, but, while the races flower and fade,
Prophet-eyes may catch a glory slowly gaining on the shade,
Till the peoples all are one, and all their voices blend in choric
Hallelujah to the Maker 'It is finish'd. Man is made.'
The Mississippi.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Where is the bard, O river grand and old,
That has thy praises sung, thy beauties told,
In measures lofty as the mighty pride
That lingers in thy deep and flowing tide?
And where the echoing measures low and sweet
That should thine own faint rippling songs repeat?
The eyes of nature ever turned on thee
Watch o'er thy restless wandering to the sea;
The rosy morn awakes thee from thy sleep;
Along thy dusky waves her glances creep,
And o'er the weird dark shadows of the night
She spreads her sunny robes of morning light.
The yellow noon comes too, with fiery eyes,
And all unwept the dewy morning dies;
Thy waters run in waves of rippling gold,
And all the rivers sacred deemed of old
Are not so grand as thee, nor yet so fair.
Amid the mists that fill the evening air
The sun droops low his golden head and dies,
Yet in thy depths his last glance ling'ring lies
and lights it with a royal purple glow;
Anon into a splendor falling low
Of crimson stains and gleams of molten gold
It changes, like great waves of fire rolled
Across the sky.
The moon caresses thee
With rays of silver light as to the sea
Thy dark waves glide; and shadows long and wide
Reflect grim images within thy tide.
Pale stars that wander through the trackless skies
All night, glance in thy depths with glowing eyes,
And like a stream of silver flecked with gold
Thy waters run.
O river, proud and old,
From snow-bound shores thy dark waves loosened run
To mingle with the waters of the sun;
And lo! from North and South, from East and West,
Companions come to aid thee in thy quest.
Along thy shores great cities stately stand,
Sprung up beneath thy kindly welcoming hand;
Proud commerce lives upon thy sweeping tide
And palaces upon thy bosom glide.
O Mississippi, monarch of the West,
What daring hand can quell thy proud unrest?
What human pen can paint thee as thou art,
The loved, the pride of every free-born heart?
Thou symbol of a nation strong and free,
Whose throne is on the land and on the sea!
What power is thine, what might is unto thee!
Though men shall die, thy waters still will be.
Emily Sparks
by Edgar Lee Masters

Where is my boy, my boy
In what far part of the world?
The boy I loved best of all in the school? - 
I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,
Who made them all my children.
Did I know my boy aright,
Thinking of him as a spirit aflame,
Active, ever aspiring?
Oh, boy, boy, for whom I prayed and prayed
In many a watchful hour at night,
Do you remember the letter I wrote you
Of the beautiful love of Christ?
And whether you ever took it or not,
My, boy, wherever you are,
Work for your soul's sake,
That all the clay of you, all of the dross of you,
May yield to the fire of you,
Till the fire is nothing but light!...
Nothing but light!
Silent Grief.
by George Pope Morris

Where is now my peace of mind?
Gone, alas! for evermore:
Turn where'er I may, I find
Thorns where roses bloomed before!
O'er the green-fields of my soul,
Where the springs of joy were found,
Now the clouds of sorrow roll,
Shading all the prospect round!
Do I merit pangs like these,
That have cleft my heart in twain?
Must I, to the very lees,
Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?
Silent grief all grief excels;
Life and it together part--
Like a restless worm it dwells
Deep within the human heart!