DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Picture Songs.
by George MacDonald

I.
A pale green sky is gleaming;
The steely stars are few;
The moorland pond is steaming
A mist of gray and blue.
Along the pathway lonely
My horse is walking slow;
Three living creatures only,
He, I, and a home-bound crow!
The moon is hardly shaping
Her circle in the fog;
A dumb stream is escaping
Its prison in the bog.
But in my heart are ringing
Tones of a lofty song;
A voice that I know, is singing,
And my heart all night must long.
II.
Over a shining land--
Once such a land I knew--
Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned,
The sky is all white and blue.
The waves are kissing the shores,
Murmuring love and for ever;
A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars
Flash out of the level river.
Oh to be there with thee
And the sun, on wet sands, my love!
With the shining river, the sparkling sea,
And the radiant sky above!
III.
The autumn winds are sighing
Over land and sea;
The autumn woods are dying
Over hill and lea;
And my heart is sighing, dying,
Maiden, for thee.
The autumn clouds are flying
Homeless over me;
The nestless birds are crying
In the naked tree;
And my heart is flying, crying,
Maiden, to thee.
The autumn sea is crawling
Up the chilly shore;
The thin-voiced firs are calling
Ghostily evermore:
Maiden, maiden! I am falling
Dead at thy door.
IV.
The waters are rising and flowing
Over the weedy stone--
Over it, over it going:
It is never gone.
Waves upon waves of weeping
Went over the ancient pain;
Glad waves go over it leaping--
Still it rises again!
A Girl's Garden
by Robert Lee Frost

A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, "Why not?"
In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, "Just it."
And he said, "That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm."
It was not enough of a garden
Her father said, to plow;
So she had to work it all by hand,
But she don't mind now.
She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road;
But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load,
And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed.
She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but weed.
A hill each of potatoes,
Radishes, lettuce, peas,
Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees.
And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider-apple
In bearing there today is hers,
Or at least may be.
Her crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.
Now when she sees in the village
How village things go,
Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, "I know!
"It's as when I was a farmer..."
Oh never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale
To the same person twice.
A Hope Carol.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

A night was near, a day was near;
Between a day and night
I heard sweet voices calling clear,
Calling me:
I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
But could not see the sight;
I long to see my birds that sing, -
I long to see.
Below the stars, beyond the moon,
Between the night and day,
I heard a rising falling tune
Calling me:
I long to see the pipes and strings
Whereon such minstrels play;
I long to see each face that sings, -
I long to see.
To-day or may be not to-day,
To-night or not to-night;
All voices that command or pray,
Calling me,
Shall kindle in my soul such fire,
And in my eyes such light,
That I shall see that heart's desire
I long to see.
Lasting Fame. III-30 (From The Odes Of Horace)
by Helen Leah Reed

A monument outlasting brass I have builded,
Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory,
That no devouring storm, nor futile North wind
Can overthrow, nor years in long succession,
Nor fleeting seasons. I shall not wholly perish.
In great part I'll escape the funeral pyre;
And lately praised, my praise will go on growing
To latest years. As long as Priest and Vestal
Ascend the Capitol, I shall be mentioned
Where Aufidus fierce rages, and where Daunus
A rustic race rules in an arid country.
Great, though of humble birth, I the first poet
To write in Latin rhythms 'olian lyrics,
Take pride, Melpomene, in well-earned merits,
And crown me willingly with Delphic laurel.
The Old Tramp
by James Whitcomb Riley

A Old Tramp slep' in our stable wunst,
An' The Raggedy Man he caught
An' roust him up, an' chased him off
Clean out through our back lot!
An' th' Old Tramp hollered back an' said, -
"You're a purty man! - You air! -
With a pair o' eyes like two fried eggs,
An' a nose like a Bartlutt pear!"
The League Of The Rats.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A mouse was once in mortal fear
Of a cat that watch'd her portal near.
What could be done in such a case?
With prudent care she left the catship,
And courted, with a humble grace,
A neighbour of a higher race,
Whose lordship - I should say his ratship - 
Lay in a great hotel;
And who had boasted oft, 'tis said,
Of living wholly without dread.
'Well,' said this braggart, 'well,
Dame Mouse, what should I do?
Alone I cannot rout
The foe that threatens you.
I'll rally all the rats about,
And then I'll play him such a trick!'
The mouse her court'sy dropp'd,
And off the hero scamper'd quick,
Nor till he reach'd the buttery stopp'd,
Where scores of rats were clustered,
In riotous extravagance,
All feasting at the host's expense.
To him, arriving there much flustered,
Indeed, quite out of breath,
A rat among the feasters saith,
'What news? what news? I pray you, speak.'
The rat, recovering breath to squeak,
Replied, 'To tell the matter in a trice,
It is, that we must promptly aid the mice;
For old Raminagrab is making
Among their ranks a dreadful quaking.
This cat, of cats the very devil,
When mice are gone, will do us evil.'
'True, true,' said each and all;
'To arms! to arms!' they cry and call.
Some ratties by their fears
Were melted e'en to tears.
It matter'd not a whisk,
Nor check'd the valour brisk.
Each took upon his back
Some cheese in haversack,
And roundly swore to risk
His carcass in the cause.
They march'd as to a feast,
Not flinching in the least. - 
But quite too late, for in his jaws
The cat already held the mouse.
They rapidly approach'd the house - 
To save their friend, beyond a doubt.
Just then the cat came growling out,
The mouse beneath his whisker'd nose.
And march'd along before his foes.
At such a voice, our rats discreet,
Foreboding a defeat,
Effected, in a style most fleet,
A fortunate retreat.
Back hurried to his hole each rat,
And afterwards took care to shun the cat.
Repose.
by Theodore Harding Rand

A mossy footfall in this wood
A peal of thunder were,
Or autumn tempest-shriek, compared
With the unwhispered stir
Of massy fluids lift in air,
To build these leafy pillars fair.
Lavished at wordless wish or mute
Command, the chemic wealth
Upsprings to meet the builders' hands,
All hushed as dusky stealth.
Noiseless as love, as silent prayer
Mysterious, the builders are.
Ah, sure, these silences are works
Of God's sabbatic rest,
A music perfect as the calm
Of wave's unbroken crest!
These woven leaves that stilly nod,
These violets, ope their eyes on God.
The deep serene that worketh here
Works, too, 'mid human tears;
A thousand years as one day is,
One day a thousand years.
Fell death still thunders at his task,
But death the peace of God doth mask.
The Man And The Wooden God.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A pagan kept a god of wood, - 
A sort that never hears,
Though furnish'd well with ears, - 
From which he hoped for wondrous good.
The idol cost the board of three;
So much enrich'd was he
With vows and offerings vain,
With bullocks garlanded and slain:
No idol ever had, as that,
A kitchen quite so full and fat.
But all this worship at his shrine
Brought not from this same block divine
Inheritance, or hidden mine,
Or luck at play, or any favour.
Nay, more, if any storm whatever
Brew'd trouble here or there,
The man was sure to have his share,
And suffer in his purse,
Although the god fared none the worse.
At last, by sheer impatience bold,
The man a crowbar seizes,
His idol breaks in pieces,
And finds it richly stuff'd with gold.
'How's this? Have I devoutly treated,'
Says he, 'your godship, to be cheated?
Now leave my house, and go your way,
And search for altars where you may.
You're like those natures, dull and gross,
From, which comes nothing but by blows;
The more I gave, the less I got;
I'll now be rich, and you may rot.'
The Four Gifts.
by H. P. Nichols

A new-born babe was sleeping
Within its cradle fair,
And angel guards were keeping
Its peaceful slumbers there.
Gone was the age of fairies,
And of the elfins wild,
Who, hovering o'er the infant's couch,
Were wont to bless the child.
But in a distant city,
Fays that still glad the earth,
Four gentle little children,
Hailed with delight his birth.
Out spake the eldest sister,
"O, let us fairies play,
And give to our young brother
Some precious gift to-day.
"Sit down around the fireside,
And I my gift will tell."
And the little children sat them down
The fancy pleased them well.
Again thus spake the eldest,
"I 'll give him _beauty_ rare;
His eyes shall be as diamonds bright,
His brow like marble fair.
"He shall have golden ringlets,
His cheeks shall mock the rose;
And he shall be the loveliest
Where'er his light form goes."
The next replied, "Oh! sister,
Not such a gift is mine;
For beauty's charms, though lovely,
Must perish and decline.
"I'll give him _wit_ and _talents_;
In manhood he shall stand
Among the gifted and the wise,
That bless our native land."
"I'll give him _sweet good-temper_,"
Said the third loving child;
"He shall make glad our happy home
By actions kind and mild."
The youngest raised her wondering eyes,
And said, in accents low,
"I thought the gift I chose would be
The first that you 'd bestow.
"I'll give our little brother
_Obedience_ to-day,
And he shall mind, with cheerfulness,
All that our parents say."
Oh! blessed is the childish heart,
In life's first opening dawn,
For all its high and holy thoughts
From heavenly founts are drawn.
May our most valued blessings be
Obedience and love!
Our hearts, like that sweet sister's, full
Of teachings from above!
A Murmur In The Trees To Note,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A murmur in the trees to note,
Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
Nor near enough to find;
A long, long yellow on the lawn,
A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
But dapperer, more sweet;
A hurrying home of little men
To houses unperceived, --
All this, and more, if I should tell,
Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
Although I heard them try!
But then I promised ne'er to tell;
How could I break my word?
So go your way and I'll go mine, --
No fear you'll miss the road.
Halloween.
by Edwin C. Ranck

A night when witches skim the air,
When spooks and goblins climb the stair;
When bats rush out with muffled wings,
And now and then the door-bell rings;
But just the funniest thing of all
Is 'cause you can't see when they call.
The Migratory Swans
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

A necklace in the depth of blue
Of scintillating, silvery pearls,
Which peering eagerly we view
As gracefully it curves and whirls,
Safely and swiftly, far away
They seek the groves of date and lime;
Naught can arrest and naught dismay
From heights so lofty and sublime.
In dreams alone their wintry home
Can haunt them with its ice and snow;
Mingled with visions as they come
Of shimmering waves where lilies grow
And open lakes are fresh and clear,
Fit mirror for a plumaged breast,
Shaded by moss-grown trees. 'Tis here
They'll dip and dive in gleeful rest.
Vanished! and vainly do we try
To trace upon the distant air
That scroll which written on the sky
Told of the hand which led them there.
Could we upon our heavenward way
From tempting snares as far remove
And be as disenthralled as they,
We'd plainer show a guiding love.
We skim too closely to the earth,
We press too slowly for the prize,
Let thoughts and cares of trivial worth
Retard our journey to the skies.
Oh, let us watch and pray to have
A loftier flight from transient things,
Inspired like swans at last to lave
In streams of bliss our wearied wings!
A Morn Of Guilt, An Hour Of Doom. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"There was darkness."
A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom - 
Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom - 
Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings - tremblings in the dark,
In heaven, and earth, and hell.
Groping, stumbling up the way,
They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do - they say,
"Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
And we will believe!"
Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
Cloven rocks down hurl'd;
God's love itself doth seem to fail
The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
Either side is scorn;
Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!"
Of heaven and earth forlorn.
Still o'er His passion darkness lowers,
He nears the deathly goal;
But He shall see in His last hours
Of the travail of His soul;
Lo, a cry! - the firstfruits given
On the accurs'd tree - 
"Dying Love of God in heaven,
Lord, remember me!"
By His sacrifice, foreknown
Long ages ere that day,
And by God's sparing of His own
Our debt of death to pay;
By the Comforter's consent,
With ardent flames bestow'd,
In this dear race when Jesus went
To make His mean abode - 
By the pangs God look'd not on,
And the world dared not see;
By all redeeming wonders won
Through that dread mystery; - 
Lord, receive once more the sigh
From the accurs'd tree - 
"Sacred Love of God most high,
O remember me!"
Imitated From The Japanese
by William Butler Yeats

A most astonishing thing --
Seventy years have I lived;
(Hurrah for the flowers of Spring,
For Spring is here again.)
Seventy years have I lived
No ragged beggar-man,
Seventy years have I lived,
Seventy years man and boy,
And never have I danced for joy.
Ein Yahav
by Yehuda Amichai

A night drive to Ein Yahav in the Arava Desert,
a drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain.
There I met people who grow date palms,
there I saw tamarisk trees and risk trees,
there I saw hope barbed as barbed wire.
And I said to myself: That's true, hope needs to be
like barbed wire to keep out despair,
hope must be a mine field.
The Nightingale And Glowworm.
by William Cowper

A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued his thus, right eloquent'
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
Birchbrook Mill
by John Greenleaf Whittier

"A noteless stream, the Birchbrook runs
Beneath its leaning trees;
That low, soft ripple is its own,
That dull roar is the sea's.
Of human signs it sees alone
The distant church spire's tip,
And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray,
The white sail of a ship.
No more a toiler at the wheel,
It wanders at its will;
Nor dam nor pond is left to tell
Where once was Birchbrook mill.
The timbers of that mill have fed
Long since a farmer's fires;
His doorsteps are the stones that ground
The harvest of his sires.
Man trespassed here; but Nature lost
No right of her domain;
She waited, and she brought the old
Wild beauty back again.
By day the sunlight through the leaves
Falls on its moist, green sod,
And wakes the violet bloom of spring
And autumn's golden-rod.
Its birches whisper to the wind,
The swallow dips her wings
In the cool spray, and on its banks
The gray song-sparrow sings.
But from it, when the dark night falls,
The school-girl shrinks with dread;
The farmer, home-bound from his fields,
Goes by with quickened tread.
They dare not pause to hear the grind
Of shadowy stone on stone;
The plashing of a water-wheel
Where wheel there now is none.
Has not a cry of pain been heard
Above the clattering mill?
The pawing of an unseen horse,
Who waits his mistress still?
Yet never to the listener's eye
Has sight confirmed the sound;
A wavering birch line marks alone
The vacant pasture ground.
No ghostly arms fling up to heaven
The agony of prayer;
No spectral steed impatient shakes
His white mane on the air.
The meaning of that common dread
No tongue has fitly told;
The secret of the dark surmise
The brook and birches hold.
What nameless horror of the past
Broods here forevermore?
What ghost his unforgiven sin
Is grinding o'er and o'er?
Does, then, immortal memory play
The actor's tragic part,
Rehearsals of a mortal life
And unveiled human heart?
God's pity spare a guilty soul
That drama of its ill,
And let the scenic curtain fall
On Birchbrook's haunted mil
Orkney Lullaby
by Eugene Field

A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!
I would spin a web before your eyes,--
A beautiful web of silver light,
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,
And the snow-white lambkins are at play,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
A brownie stealeth from the vine
Singing, "Heigho, my dearie!
And will you hear this song of mine,--
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam's web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies;
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so,
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
Sonnet On The Nuptials Of The Marquis Antonio Cavalli With The Countess Clelia Rasponi Of Ravenna.[589]
by George Gordon Byron

A noble Lady of the Italian shore
Lovely and young, herself a happy bride,
Commands a verse, and will not be denied,
From me a wandering Englishman; I tore
One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more
To hail these gentle hearts which Love has tied,
In Youth, Birth, Beauty, genially allied
And blest with Virtue's soul, and Fortune's store.
A sweeter language, and a luckier bard
Were worthier of your hopes, Auspicious Pair!
And of the sanctity of Hymen's shrine,
But, - since I cannot but obey the Fair,
To render your new state your true reward,
May your Fate be like Hers, and unlike mine.
Ravenna, July 31, 1819.
[From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester, now for the first time printed.]
To Mrs. Newton.
by William Cowper

A noble theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But, being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd;
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd
Inquired for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his waggon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.
In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;
In consequence of which some chanced to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will),
That what we call the diligence, be-case
It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift,
Returning downward with a pace as swift;
And therefore recommends it with this aim'
To save at least three days,'the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore,
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.
News have I none that I can deign to write,
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night;
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour,
Caught in the first beginning of the shower;
But walking, running, and with much ado,
Got home'just time enough to be wet through,
Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told,
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold;
And wishing just the same good hap to you,
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu!
Greek: Adakryn Nemontai Aiona
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

'A New commandment,' said the smiling Muse,
'I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach';--
Luther, Fox, Behmen, Swedenborg, grew pale,
And, on the instant, rosier clouds upbore
Hafiz and Shakspeare with their shining choirs.
Extempore Lines
by Henry Kendall

A morning crowns the Western hill,
A day begins to reign,
A sun awakes o'er distant seas
Shall never sleep again.
The world is growing old,
And men are waxing wise;
A mist has cleared a something falls
Like scales from off their eyes.
Too long the 'Dark of Ignorance'
Has brooded on their way;
Too long Oppression 's stood before,
Excluding light of day.
But now they've found the track
And now they've seen the dawn,
A 'beacon lamp' is pointing on,
Where stronger glows the morn.
Since Adam lived, the mighty ones
Have ever ruled the weak;
Since Noah's flood, the fettered slave
Has seldom dared to speak.
'Tis time a voice was heard,
'Tis time a voice was spoken
So in the chain of tyranny
A link or two be broken.
A tiny rill will swell a stream,
A spark will cause a flame,
And one man's burning eloquence
Has help'd to do the same.
And he will persevere,
And soon that blaze must spread,
Till to the corners of the earth
Reflecting beams are shed.
The 'few' will try to beat it down,
But can they stop the flood
Bind up the pinions of the light,
Or check the will of God?
And is it not His will
That deeply injured Right
Should overthrow the iron rule
And reign instead of Might?
The Snake.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, -- did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, --
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.