DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower,
by Walter Savage Landor

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower,
Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour:
Alike they flourish and alike they fall,
And Earth who nourisht them receives them all.
Should we, her wiser sons, be less content
To sink into her lap when life is spent?
Evensong
by James Whitcomb Riley

Lay away the story, - 
Though the theme is sweet,
There's a lack of something yet,
Leaves it incomplete: - 
There's a nameless yearning - 
Strangely undefined - 
For a story sweeter still
Than the written kind.
Therefore read no longer - 
I've no heart to hear
But just something you make up,
O my mother dear. - 
With your arms around me,
Hold me, folded-eyed, - 
Only let your voice go on - 
I'll be satisfied.
A Blown Rose.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Lay but a finger on
That pallid petal sweet,
It trembles gray and wan
Beneath the passing feet.
But soft! blown rose, we know
A merriment of bloom,
A life of sturdy glow, - 
But no such dear perfume.
As some good bard, whose page
Of life with beauty's fraught,
Grays on to ripe old age
Sweet-mellowed through with thought.
So when his hoary head
Is wept into the tomb,
The mind, which is not dead,
Sheds round it rare perfume.
In Hospital - XXVI - Anterotics
by William Ernest Henley

Laughs the happy April morn
Thro' my grimy, little window,
And a shaft of sunshine pushes
Thro' the shadows in the square.
Dogs are tracing thro' the grass,
Crows are cawing round the chimneys,
In and out among the washing
Goes the West at hide-and-seek.
Loud and cheerful clangs the bell.
Here the nurses troop to breakfast.
Handsome, ugly, all are women . . .
O, the Spring - the Spring - the Spring!
Lay This Laurel On The One
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Lay this laurel on the one
Too intrinsic for renown.
Laurel! veil your deathless tree, --
Him you chasten, that is he!
Waitin' Fer The Cat To Die
by James Whitcomb Riley

Lawzy! don't I rickollect
That-'air old swing in the lane!
Right and proper, I expect,
Old times can't come back again;
But I want to state, ef they
Could come back, and I could say
What my pick 'ud be, i jing!
I'd say, Gimme the old swing
'Nunder the old locus'-trees
On the old place, ef you please! -
Danglin' there with half-shet eye,
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
I'd say, Gimme the old gang
Of barefooted, hungry, lean,
Ornry boys you want to hang
When you're growed up twic't as mean!
The old gyarden-patch, the old
Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!
The old stompin'-groun', where we
Wore the grass off, wild and free
As the swoop of the old swing,
Where we ust to climb and cling,
And twist roun', and fight, and lie -
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
'Pears like I 'most allus could
Swing the highest of the crowd -
Jes sail up there tel I stood
Downside-up, and screech out loud, -
Ketch my breath, and jes drap back
Fer to let the old swing slack,
Yit my tow-head dippin' still
In the green boughs, and the chill
Up my backbone taperin' down,
With my shadder on the ground'
Slow and slower trailin' by -
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
Now my daughter's little Jane's
Got a kind o' baby-swing
On the porch, so's when it rains
She kin play there - little thing!
And I'd limped out t'other day
With my old cheer this-a-way,
Swingin' her and rockin' too,
Thinkin' how I ust to do
At her age, when suddently,
"Hey, Gran'pap!" she says to me,
"Why you rock so slow?" ... Says I,
"Waitin' fer the cat to die!"
The Golden Mile-Stone
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,
Smoky columns
Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light;
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree
For its freedom
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,
Asking sadly
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Asking blindly
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,
And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces,
Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone;
Is the central point, from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind,
As he heard them
When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the march of the encroaching city,
Drives an exile
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures,
But we cannot
Buy with gold the old associations!
A Death Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass,
Whah de branch 'll go a-singin' as it pass.
An' w'en I 's a-layin' low,
I kin hyeah it as it go
Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'."
Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool,
An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool,
Whah de little birds in spring,
Ust to come an' drink an' sing,
An' de chillen waded on dey way to school.
Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road;
Fu' I t'ink de las' long res'
Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes'
Ef I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed.
Solitude
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Lay His Sword By His Side.
by Thomas Moore

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
"It hath victory's life in it yet!"
"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,--
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"
Lately Our Poets
by Walter Savage Landor

Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My sluber broken and my doublet torn,
I find the laurel also bears a thorn.
The Ballad Of The Foxhunter
by William Butler Yeats

'Lay me in a cushioned chair;
Carry me, ye four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
'To stable and to kennel go;
Bring what is there to bring;
Lead my Lollard to and fro,
Or gently in a ring.
'Put the chair upon the grass:
Bring Rody and his hounds,
That I may contented pass
From these earthly bounds.'
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Falls in sleepy streams.
Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man's dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
'Huntsmam Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay wandering cry.
Fire is in the old man's eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
'Huntsman Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
'I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.'
Servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
Hounds are gazing on his face,
Aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass:
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
Lavender's Blue
by Walter Crane

1.
Lavender's blue, diddle, diddle!
Lavender's green;
When I am king, diddle, diddle!
You shall be queen.
2.
Call up your men, diddle, diddle!
Set them to work;
Some to the plough, diddle, diddle!
Some to the cart.
3.
Some to make hay, diddle, diddle!
Some to cut corn;
While you and I, diddle, diddle!
Keep ourselves warm.
Laugh And Be Merry
by John Masefield

Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song,
Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.
Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span.
Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.
Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time.
God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme,
Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of
His mirth
The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.
So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky,
Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by,
Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured
In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.
Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin,
Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn,
Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends.
Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends.
Sault Ste. Marie
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Laughing and singing
With rhythmical flow,
Leaping and springing,
O light-hearted Sault! - 
Tossing up snowy hands
In thy glad play,
Shaking out dewy locks
Bright with the spray, - 
Joyously ever
Thy bright waters go,
Yet wearying never,
O beautiful Sault!
Kingly Superior
Leaps to thy arms,
And all his broad waters
Are bright with thy charms;
They sparkle, and glitter,
And flash in their play,
Chasing ripple and rainbow
Away and away!
Weary, I ween,
Of his solemn repose,
Gaily the mighty Flood
Flashes and glows;
And, buoyantly, brightly,
Fleet-footed or slow,
Doth dance with thee lightly,
Unwearying Sault!
If I were a fairy
I'd dance with thee too,
Daily and nightly,
Unfalt'ring and true; - 
In sunlight and starlight,
In darkness and day,
As free as the breezes,
As glad in our play!
We'd sing in the darkness,
We'd laugh in the light,
We'd whirl in the eddies
At noonday and night, - 
We'd toss up the waters
In sunshine, to see
How they'd fling us back di'monds
And gold in their glee; - 
Such amethysts, topazes,
Rubies and pearls,
As we'd strew o'er the tide
In our innocent whirls,
And never be lonely,
Or weariness know - 
Ourselves, and us only - 
O light-hearted Sault!
Yet the dance is thine own,
And the song and the glee,
Thou dwellest alone,
Untrammelled and free
Our ships may not glide
O'er thy bosom, - our feet
May not trace out one path,
Or explore one retreat!
We may hollow our channels
To left or to right,
And glide on our way
With thy gambols in sight,
Yet this, and this only,
Of thee we may know,
Thou lone, but not lonely,
Free, fetterless Sault!
Farewell, ye bright waters, - 
We part, and for aye! - 
My pathway leads on
O'er the billows away; - 
These feet will grow weary
In life's busy mart,
These eyes be oft tear-dim,
And heavy this heart;
But thou wilt sing on
In thy joyous unrest,
Unchanging, unwearying,
Buoyant and blest
While the slow-footed centuries
Glide on their way,
And nations grow hoary,
And sink in decay, - 
Thou, tireless and tameless,
Unchecked in thy flow,
Shalt sing on as ever,
O beautiful Sault!
Epitaph On Mrs. M. Higgins, Of Weston.
by William Cowper

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXXVII. Natural History.
by Unknown

Leg over leg,
As the dog went to Dover;
When he came to a stile,
Jump he went over.
A Code Of Morals
by Rudyard Kipling

Lest you should think this story true
I merely mention I
Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most
Unmitigated misstatement.
Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise, 
At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies.
He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt, 
So stopped to take the message down, and this is whay they learnt, 
"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore.
"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?
"'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'
"Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountain top?"
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:, 
"Don't dance or ride with General Bangs, a most immoral man."
[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise, 
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General's private life.
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):
"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!"
All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man."
Leonainie
by James Whitcomb Riley

Leonainie - Angels named her;
And they took the light
Of the laughing stars and framed her
In a smile of white;
And they made her hair of gloomy
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy
Moonshine, and they brought her to me
In the solemn night. - -
In a solemn night of summer,
When my heart of gloom
Blossomed up to greet the comer
Like a rose in bloom;
All forebodings that distressed me
I forgot as Joy caressed me -
(Lying Joy! that caught and pressed me
In the arms of doom!)
Only spake the little lisper
In the Angel-tongue;
Yet I, listening, heard her whisper -
"Songs are only sung
Here below that they may grieve you -
Tales but told you to deceive you, -
So must Leonainie leave you
While her love is young."
Then God smiled and it was morning.
Matchless and supreme
Heaven's glory seemed adorning
Earth with its esteem:
Every heart but mine seemed gifted
With the voice of prayer, and lifted
Where my Leonainie drifted
From me like a dream.
In the Orchard
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

(PROVENCAL BURDEN.)
Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see;
Let the dew-fall drench either side of me;
Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon
Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie.
Kissed upon either cheek and either eye,
I turn to thee as some green afternoon
Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Lie closer, lean your face upon my side,
Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried,
Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon;
The pleasure lives there when the sense has died;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this:
Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss?
Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June,
My rose, so like a tender mouth it is:
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire,
Dividing my delight and my desire,
The crescent life and love the plenilune,
Love me though dusk begin and dark retire;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know,
When life runs over, life is near to go;
And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn,
And with their blood, if love will have it so;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt;
There is no building now the walls are built,
No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn,
No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain;
Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain,
Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune,
Slay me ere day can slay desire again;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea,
Take life and all, for I will die, I say;
Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?
For sweet night's sake I will not live till day;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.
Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know
Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune;
Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so.
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Leaves Have Their Time To Fall.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

FELICIA HEMANS.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,
And stars to set: but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!
The banquet has its hour,
The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:
There comes a day for grief's overwhelming shower,
A time for softer tears: but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee! - but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!
"FRONDES EST UBI DECIDANT."
"
Frondes est ubi decidant,
Marcescantque rosae flatu Aquilonio:
Horis astra cadunt suis;
Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.
Curis nata virum dies;
Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;
Somnis nox magis, et preci:
Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.
Festis hora epulis datur,
(Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)
Fusis altera lacrymis
Aut fletu tacito: quaeque tamen tua.
Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,
Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?
Rident te? Neque enim soles
Praedae parcere, dum flos adoleverit.
Lots To Be Liked.
by Robert Herrick

Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall,
Short lot or not, to be content with all.
Easter.
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Let all the flowers wake to life;
Let all the songsters sing;
Let everything that lives on earth
Become a joyous thing.
Wake up, thou pansy, purple-eyed,
And greet the dewy spring;
Swell out, ye buds, and o'er the earth
Thy sweetest fragrance fling.
Why dost thou sleep, sweet violet?
The earth has need of thee;
Wake up and catch the melody
That sounds from sea to sea.
Ye stars, that dwell in noonday skies,
Shine on, though all unseen;
The great White Throne lies just beyond,
The stars are all between.
Ring out, ye bells, sweet Easter bells,
And ring the glory in;
Ring out the sorrow, born of earth--
Ring out the stains of sin.
O banners wide, that sweep the sky,
Unfurl ye to the sun;
And gently wave about the graves
Of those whose lives are done.
Let peace be in the hearts that mourn--
Let "Rest" be in the grave;
The Hand that swept these lives away
Hath power alone to save.
Ring out, ye bells, sweet Easter bells,
And ring the glory in;
Ring out the sorrow, born of earth--
Ring out the stains of sin.
Smoke on the Field
by Alfred Lichtenstein

Lene Levi went out in the evening,
Mincing, her skirt bunched up,
Through the long, empty streets
Of a suburb.
And she spoke weeping, aching, crazy,
Strange words,
Which the wind tossed, so that they popped,
Like pods.
They made bloody scratches on trees,
And, shredded, hung on houses
And in these deaf streets
died all alone.
Lene Levi went out, until all
The roofs made their crooked mouths grimace,
And the windows and the shadows
Made faces
They had a completely drunken good time - 
Until the houses became helpless
And the mute city passed
Into the broad fields,
Which the moon smeared...
Little Lene took out of her pocket
A box of cigarettes,
Weeping took one
Out and smoked.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - III - The Recruit
by Alfred Edward Housman

Leave your home behind, lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,
Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
"The conquering hero comes,"
Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind you,
Your friends by field and town
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.