DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Joy And Peace In Believing.
by William Cowper

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing in his wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after rain.
In holy contemplation,
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation,
And find it ever new.
Set free from present sorrow,
We cheerfully can say,
E'en let the unknown to-morrow[1]
Bring with it what it may.
It can bring with it nothing,
But he will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing,
Will clothe his people too;
Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And he who feeds the ravens,
Will give his children bread.
The vine nor fig-tree neither[2]
Their wonted fruit should bear,
Though all the fields should wither,
Nor flocks nor herds be there:
Yet God the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice;
For, while in him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.
Sometimes Even Now
by Rupert Brooke

Sometimes even now I may
Steal a prisoner's holiday,
Slip, when all is worst, the bands,
Hurry back, and duck beneath
Time's old tyrannous groping hands,
Speed away with laughing breath
Back to all I'll never know,
Back to you, a year ago.
Truant there from Time and Pain,
What I had, I find again:
Sunlight in the boughs above,
Sunlight in your hair and dress,
The hands too proud for all but Love,
The Lips of utter kindliness,
The Heart of bravery swift and clean
Where the best was safe, I knew,
And laughter in the gold and green,
And song, and friends, and ever you
With smiling and familiar eyes,
You, but friendly: you, but true.
And Innocence accounted wise,
And Faith the fool, the pitiable.
Love so rare, one would swear
All of earth for ever well.
Careless lips and flying hair,
And little things I may not tell.
It does but double the heart-ache
When I wake, when I wake.
Love's Wisdom
by Richard Le Gallienne

Sometimes my idle heart would roam
Far from its quiet happy nest,
To seek some other newer home,
Some unaccustomed Best:
But ere it spreads its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.
Sometimes my idle heart would sail
From out its quiet sheltered bay,
To tempt a less pacific gale,
And oceans far away:
But ere it shakes its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.
Sometimes my idle heart would fly,
Mothlike, to reach some shining sin,
It seems so sweet to burn and die
That wondrous light within:
But ere it burns its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.
Now
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Sometimes a single hour
Rings thro' a long life-time,
As from a temple tower
There often falls a chime
From blessed bells, that seems
To fold in Heaven's dreams
Our spirits round a shrine;
Hath such an hour been thine?
Sometimes -- who knoweth why?
One minute holds a power
That shadows every hour,
Dialed in life's sky.
A cloud that is a speck
When seen from far away
May be a storm, and wreck
The joys of every day.
Sometimes -- it seems not much,
'Tis scarcely felt at all --
Grace gives a gentle touch
To hearts for once and all,
Which in the spirit's strife
May all unnoticed be.
And yet it rules a life;
Hath this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one little word,
Whispered sweet and fleet,
That scarcely can be heard,
Our ears will sudden meet.
And all life's hours along
That whisper may vibrate,
And, like a wizard's song,
Decide our ev'ry fate.
Sometimes a sudden look,
That falleth from some face,
Will steal into each nook
Of life, and leave its trace;
To haunt us to the last,
And sway our ev'ry will
Thro' all the days to be,
For goodness or for ill;
Hath this e'er come to thee?
Sometimes one minute folds
The hearts of all the years,
Just like the heart that holds
The Infinite in tears;
There be such thing as this --
Who knoweth why, or how?
A life of woe or bliss
Hangs on some little Now.
Resurrection.
by Sidney Lanier

Sometimes in morning sunlights by the river
Where in the early fall long grasses wave,
Light winds from over the moorland sink and shiver
And sigh as if just blown across a grave.
And then I pause and listen to this sighing.
I look with strange eyes on the well-known stream.
I hear wild birth-cries uttered by the dying.
I know men waking who appear to dream.
Then from the water-lilies slow uprises
The still vast face of all the life I know,
Changed now, and full of wonders and surprises,
With fire in eyes that once were glazed with snow.
Fair now the brows old Pain had erewhile wrinkled,
And peace and strength about the calm mouth dwell.
Clean of the ashes that Repentance sprinkled,
The meek head poises like a flower-bell.
All the old scars of wanton wars are vanished;
And what blue bruises grappling Sense had left
And sad remains of redder stains are banished,
And the dim blotch of heart-committed theft.
O still vast vision of transfigured features
Unvisited by secret crimes or dooms,
Remain, remain amid these water-creatures,
Stand, shine among yon water-lily blooms.
For eighteen centuries ripple down the river,
And windy times the stalks of empires wave,
- Let the winds come from the moor and sigh and shiver,
Fain, fain am I, O Christ, to pass the grave.
The Parrots
by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,
But where or when I'll never know,
Parrots of shrilly green
With crests of shriller scarlet flying
Out of black cedars as the sun was dying
Against cold peaks of snow.
From what forgotten life
Of other worlds I cannot tell
Flashes that screeching strife;
Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying
Sing through my blood and set my heart replying
And jangling like a bell.
Study
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird
Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel,
Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back,
Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways'll
All be sweet with white and blue violet.
(Hush now, hush. Where am I? - Biuret - )
On the green wood's edge a shy girl hovers
From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass,
Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers
Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas!
Oh the sunset swims in her eyes' swift pool.
(Work, work, you fool - !)
Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling
Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads,
And the red firelight steadily wheeling
Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep.
And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing
For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep.
(Tears and dreams for them; for me
Bitter science - the exams. are near.
I wish I bore it more patiently.
I wish you did not wait, my dear,
For me to come: since work I must:
Though it's all the same when we are dead. - 
I wish I was only a bust,
All head.)
How Fair, How Fresh Were The Roses ...
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has stuck in my memory - 
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-panes; in the dark room burns a solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner; and in my head the line keeps echoing and echoing - 
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
And I see myself before the low window of a Russian country house. The summer evening is slowly melting into night, the warm air is fragrant of mignonette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on her arm, her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, and silently, intently gazes into the sky, as though looking for new stars to come out. What candour, what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving innocence in the parted questioning lips, how calmly breathes that still-growing, still-untroubled bosom, how pure and tender the profile of the young face! I dare not speak to her; but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats!
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
But here in the room it gets darker and darker.... The candle burns dim and gutters, dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling, the cruel crunch of the frost is heard outside, and within the dreary murmur of old age....
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
There rise up before me other images. I hear the merry hubbub of home life in the country. Two flaxen heads, bending close together, look saucily at me with their bright eyes, rosy cheeks shake with suppressed laughter, hands are clasped in warm affection, young kind voices ring one above the other; while a little farther, at the end of the snug room, other hands, young too, fly with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano, and the Lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the patriarchal samovar ...
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
The candle flickers and goes out.... Whose is that hoarse and hollow cough?
Curled up, my old dog lies, shuddering at my feet, my only companion....
I'm cold ... I'm frozen ... and all of them are dead ... dead ...
'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
Sept. 1879.
The Cotswold Farmers
by John Drinkwater

Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go
Along the hill-top way,
And with long scythes of silver mow
Meadows of moonlit hay,
Until the cocks of Cotswold crow
The coming of the day.
There's Tony Turkletob who died
When he could drink no more,
And Uncle Heritage, the pride
Of eighteen-twenty-four,
And Ebenezer Barleytide,
And others half a score.
They fold in phantom pens, and plough
Furrows without a share,
And one will milk a faery cow,
And one will stare and stare,
And whistle ghostly tunes that now
Are not sung anywhere.
The moon goes down on Oakridge lea,
The other world's astir,
The Cotswold Farmers silently
Go back to sepulchre,
The sleeping watchdogs wake, and see
No ghostly harvester.
The Katydids
by James Whitcomb Riley

Sometimes I keep
From going to sleep,
To hear the katydids "cheep-cheep!"
And think they say
Their prayers that way;
But katydids don't have to pray!
I listen when
They cheep again
And so, I think, they're singing then!
But, no; I'm wrong, - 
The sound's too long
And all-alike to be a song!
I think, "Well, there!
I do declare,
If it is neither song nor prayer,
It's talk - and quite
Too vain and light
For me to listen to all night!"
And so, I smile,
And think, - "Now I'll
Not listen for a little while!" - 
Then, sweet and clear,
Next "cheep" I hear
'S a kiss.... Good morning, Mommy dear!
A Memory (From A Sonnet-Sequence)
by Rupert Brooke

Somewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept
Softly along the dim way to your room,
And found you sleeping in the quiet gloom,
And holiness about you as you slept.
I knelt there; till your waking fingers crept
About my head, and held it. I had rest
Unhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast.
I knelt a long time, still; nor even wept.
It was great wrong you did me; and for gain
Of that poor moment's kindliness, and ease,
And sleepy mother-comfort!
Child, you know
How easily love leaps out to dreams like these,
Who has seen them true. And love that's wakened so
Takes all too long to lay asleep again.
Somewhere
by James Williams

Somewhere in a distant star,
Cities of Cocaigne there are,
Paradises of the Bar.
Somewhere 'neath another sun
Counsel cease to see the fun
Lurking in a judge's pun.
Somewhere courts are fair to see,
Beauty joins utility,
Ushers answer courteously.
Somewhere there are bailiwicks
Which for dock defences fix
Nothing under three-five-six.
Somewhere rises struggle sore
For revisorships no more,
Every shire has half a score.
Somewhere educated thought
Scientifically taught
Cross-examines as it ought.
Somewhere judgments are obeyed,
Executions are not stayed,
Fees are almost always paid.
Somewhere County Councils press
Banquets on the circuit mess,
Fleshpots in the wilderness.
Somewhere at Assizes grow
Prosecutions row on row,
Every man has six or so.
Somewhere, eager but for right,
Court and counsel cease to cite
Pointless cases recondite.
Somewhere headnotes give the ground
Whereupon the judges found
Judgments generally sound.
Somewhere juries use their sense,
Basing on the evidence
Verdicts of intelligence.
Somewhere rich embroideries
Woven cunningly of lies
Part in twain at truth's clear eyes.
Somewhere justice grows from wrong,
Till the right that suffered long
Sings at last its triumph song.
Somewhere--even in a place
Peopled by a perfect race--
One side holds a losing case.
Somewhere since the world began
Heaven hath made an honest man,
Somewhere in Aldebaran.
The Charm
by William Browne

Son of Erebus and Night,
Hie away; and aim thy flight
Where consort none other fowl
Than the bat and sullen owl;
Where upon the limber grass
Poppy and mandragoras
With like simples not a few
Hang for ever drops of dew.
Where flows Lethe without coil
Softly like a stream of oil.
Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:
With this Greek no longer keep.
Thrice I charge thee by my wand;
Thrice with moly from my hand
Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,
And with the jaspis: Then arise,
Sagest Greek....
The Inner Temple Masque.
In The Night.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
I hear the strangest things, - 
As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
That struggles for form and wings,
I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet,
As it speeds with a rush and a whir
From heart to brain and back again,
Like a race-horse under the spur.
With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear
The tender Silence speak,
As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
For something that is kin;
And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
As it folds and fondles Sin.
In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
I can hear the Earth catch breath,
As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,
And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star,
Whose name is unknown to me,
I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice,
For I keep ward o'er thee!"
Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range
Through the chambers of the night;
And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates,
May hear, if he lists aright.
Shelley's Skylark
by Thomas Hardy

(The neighbourhood of Leghorn: March, 1887)
Somewhere afield here something lies
In Earth's oblivious eyeless trust
That moved a poet to prophecies -
A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust
The dust of the lark that Shelley heard,
And made immortal through times to be; -
Though it only lived like another bird,
And knew not its immortality.
Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell -
A little ball of feather and bone;
And how it perished, when piped farewell,
And where it wastes, are alike unknown.
Maybe it rests in the loam I view,
Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's green,
Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue
Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene.
Go find it, faeries, go and find
That tiny pinch of priceless dust,
And bring a casket silver-lined,
And framed of gold that gems encrust;
And we will lay it safe therein,
And consecrate it to endless time;
For it inspired a bard to win
Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme.
By the Spring, at Sunset
by Vachel Lindsay

Sometimes we remember kisses,
Remember the dear heart-leap when they came:
Not always, but sometimes we remember
The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame
Of laughter and farewell.
Beside the road
Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write,
Far from my city task, my lawful load.
Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder,
Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night
Enchant me now.    The splendors growing bolder
Make bold my soul for some new wise delight.
I write the day's event, and quench my drouth,
Pausing beside the spring with happy mind.
And now I feel those kisses on my mouth,
Hers most of all, one little friend most kind.
To The Emperor William.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

LONDON, May 15, 1889. - "The promised interview with the Emperor William was granted to-day to the delegates from the coal-miners now on strike in Westphalia; but the audience lasted for only ten minutes. The men asked that the Emperor would inquire into the merits of their case and the hardships under which they suffered. His Majesty replied that he was already inquiring into the matter. He then warned the miners that he would employ all his great powers to repress socialistic agitation and intrigue. If the slightest resistance was shown he would shoot every man so offending. On the other hand, he promised to protect them if peaceable." - Cablegram.
Son of a Man and grandson of a Man,
Mannikin most miserable in thy shrunken shape
And peevish, shrivelled-soul, is't thou wouldst ape
The thunder-bearer of Fate's blustering clan?
Know, then, that never, since the years began,
The terrible truth was surer of this word:
"Who takes the sword, shall perish by the sword!"
For mankind's nod makes mannikin and man.
Surely it was not shed too long ago,
That Emperor's blood that stained the Northern snow,
O thou King Stork aspiring that art King Log,
Wild-boar that wouldst be, reeking there all hog;
To teach thy brutish brainlessness to know
Those who pulled down a lion can shoot a dog.
An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic
by Vachel Lindsay

Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire,
The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.
It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,
And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all.
And so my blood grows cold.    I say, "The bottle held but ink,
And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think."
And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor,
The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more.
O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way - 
All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night,
And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite,
My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine
Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair,
They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air.
The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew,
O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew!
The Old Clock On The Stairs
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux:
"Toujours! jamais!    Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE.
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a Miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain.
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,--
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,--
"Forever--never!
Never--forever!"
Lines ["Sometimes, from the far-away,"]
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Sometimes, from the far-away,
Wing a little thought to me;
In the night or in the day,
It will give a rest to me.
I have praise of many here,
And the world gives me renown;
Let it go -- give me one tear,
'Twill be a jewel in my crown.
What care I for earthly fame?
How I shrink from all its glare!
I would rather that my name
Would be shrined in some one's prayer.
Many hearts are all too much,
Or too little in their praise;
I would rather feel the touch
Of one prayer that thrills all days.
Somewhere
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

"For he looked for a city that hath foundations, whose Maker and Builder is God."
I.
Somewhere, I know, there waits for me
A home that mocks the pomp of Earth,
Eye hath not seen its majesty,
Nor heart conceived its priceless worth, - 
Talk not of crystal, gems, or gold,
Or towers that flame in changeless light,
Imagination, weak and cold,
Faints far below the unmeasured height!
And through its open doors for aye,
As ages after ages glide,
Without a moment's pause or stay,
Flows grandly in the living tide - 
Brothers, redeemed ones, pressing home
From every clime, from every shore,
Beneath that fair celestial dome
Meet to be parted nevermore!
II.
Somewhere, I know, there waits for me
A holy, tranquillized repose,
Calmer than summer noontides be,
Softer than twilight's tenderest close - 
Peace, deeper than the peace that stole
O'er the vexed Galilean flood,
When One, Almighty to control,
Breathed o'er it the still "peace" of God.
To break that calm, no throbbing pain
May ever come, no chilling fears,
No hopes unreached, no yearnings vain,
No love-light quenched in sorrow's tears;
But, while eternal ages glide,
That hallowed peace without alloy
Shall still increase, and still abide,
A deepening fount of holiest joy.
III.
Somewhere, I know, there wait for me
Sweet tones that wander back betimes
Through the charmed gates of Memory,
Like far-off swell of Sabbath chimes;
And fair, sweet faces, dimly seen
In the uncertain light of dreams,
And glances, tender and serene
As star-beams mirrored soft in streams; - 
They wait for me who long have missed,
From the lone paths I since have pressed,
The hands I clasped, the lips I kissed,
The loves that life's young morning blessed, - 
Wait long, while still, through mist and tears
I darkly wend my pilgrim way,
Until for me the dawn appears
And night gives place to perfect day
IV.
Somewhere, I know, in brighter lands,
ONE waits - "the Fairest of the Fair" - 
With loving words and gentle hands,
To welcome all who gather there.
"Father, I will," we heard Him say,
"That those whom thou hast given me
Be with me where I am, that they
My glory evermore may see!"
And there, without a veil between,
The sweetness of His face to hide,
Him whom I've loved yet never seen,
I shall behold well satisfied - 
And, viewing Him, shall sweetly be
Transformed into His image bright,
And through a glad Eternity
Walk in His love's unclouded light!