DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Israfel
by Edgar Allan Poe

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings,
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty,
Where Love's a grown-up God,
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit,
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute,
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
Touches.
by Madison Julius Cawein

In heavens of riveted blue, that sunset dyes
With glaucous flame, deep in the west the Day
Stands Midas-like; or, wading on his way,
Touches with splendor all the twilight skies.
Each cloud that, like a stepping-stone, he tries
With rosy foot, transforms its sober gray
To burning gold; while, ray on crystal ray,
Within his wake the stars like bubbles rise.
So should the artist in his work accord
All things with beauty, and communicate
His soul's high magic and divinity
To all he does; and, hoping no reward,
Toil onward, making darkness aureate
With light of worlds that are and worlds to be.
Gethsemane.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In golden youth when seems the earth
A Summer-land of singing mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a shadow lurks in sight,
We do not know it, but there lies
Somewhere veiled under evening skies
A garden which we all must see - 
The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days;
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,
We laugh, and say how strong we are.
We hurry on; and hurrying, go
Close to the border-land of woe,
That waits for you, and waits for me - 
Forever waits Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams
Bridged over by our broken dreams;
Behind the misty caps of years,
Beyond the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies. Strive as you may,
You cannot miss it in your way.
All paths that have been, or shall be,
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey, soon or late,
Must pass within the garden's gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who can not say,
"Not mine but thine," who only pray,
"Let this cup pass," and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.
The Log Fire
by Fay Inchfawn

In her last hour of life the tree
Gave up her glorious memories,
Wild scent of wood anemone,
The sapphire blue of April skies.
With faint but ever-strength'ning flame,
The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires
Were lost, as red-gold bracken came,
With maple bathed in living fires.
Grey smoke of ancient clematis
Towards the silver birch inclined,
And deep in thorny fastnesses
The coral bryony entwined.
Then softly through the dusky room
They strayed, fair ghosts of other days,
With breath like early cherry bloom,
With tender eyes and gentle ways.
They glimmered on the sombre walls,
They danced upon the oaken floor,
Till through the loudly silent halls
Joy reigned majestical once more.
Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear,
One rapturous Spirit radiant stood.
'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear.
We two were back in Gatcombe Wood!
In Flanders Fields
by John Alexander McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place:    and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead.    Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The Torch:    be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae
The Door In The Dark
by Robert Lee Frost

In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don't pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
The Goal
by George MacDonald

In God alone, the perfect end,
Wilt thou find thyself or friend.
The Sea-King.
by Madison Julius Cawein

1
In green sea-caverns dim,
Deep down,
A monarch pale and slim,
Whose soul's a frown,
He ruleth cold and grim
In foamy crown:
In green sea-caverns dim,
Deep down.
2
He hears the Mermaid sing
So sad!
Far off like some curs'd thing,
That ne'er is glad,
A vague, wild murmuring,
That drives men mad:
He hears the Mermaid sing
So sad!
3
Strange monster bulks are there,
That yawn
Or roll huge eyes that glare
And then are gone;
Weird foliage passing fair
Where clings the spawn:
Strange monster bulks are there,
That yawn.
4
What cares he for wrecked hulls
These years!
Red gold the water dulls!
Grim, dead-men jeers
On jaws of a thousand skulls
Of mariners!
What cares he for wrecked hulls
These years!
5
Man's tears are loved of him,
Deep down;
Set in the foamy rim
Of his frail crown
To pearls the tear-drops dim
Freeze at his frown:
Man's tears are loved of him,
Deep down.
6
Here be the halls of Sleep
Full mute,
Chill, shadowy, and deep,
Where hangs no lute
To make the still heart leap
Of man or brute:
Here be the halls of Sleep
Full mute.
Influence
by Joseph Horatio Chant

In gentle showers the rain descends,
And softly falls the dew.
The dewdrop with the raindrop blends;
The tiny stream they form then wends
Its way the grasses through.
And kindred streams with it combine
And form a rivulet;
Then on it runs like trailing vine,
Lays bare the roots of oak and pine,
And other brooks are met.
The swelling stream meanders on,
Gives power to busy mills,
And bears huge ships its breast upon,
Gives drink to kine and lovely fawn,
And drinks up other rills.
A lady's foot had changed its course,
And drank it dry a lamb,
Had they but sought it at its source;
But now it rushes on with force
And leaps the mighty dam.
Thus is it with our influence here;
Each look, each word, each deed,
Is like the rain, or dewdrop clear--
Though tiny things they now appear,
They to the ocean lead.
As grains of sand make up the hill
Which towers above the plain,
And drops combine to swell the rill
Which helps the mighty sea to fill,
So does our influence gain.
Harry The First.
by Marietta Holley

In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned,
In the quiet earned by labor,
Life's reposeful Indian summer,
Grandpa sits; and lets the paper
Lie upon his knee unheeded.
Shine his cheeks like winter apples,
Gleams his smile like autumn sunshine,
As he looks on little Harry,
First-born of the house of Graham,
Bravely cutting teeth in silence,
Cutting teeth with looks heroic.
Some deep thought seems moving Grandpa,
Ponders he awhile in silence,
Then he turns, and says to Grandma,
"Nancy, do you think that ever
There was such a child before?"
Grandma, with prim precision
The seam-stitch impaleth deftly
On her sharp and glittering needle,
Then she turns and answers calmly,
With a deep assurance - "Never
Was there such a child before!"
Papa thinks so, but in manly
Dignity controls his feelings;
More than half a year a father,
He must show a cool composure,
He must stately be if ever.
But his dark eyes plainly tell it,
Tell it, as he sayeth proudly,
"Papa's man is little Harry."
Mamma, maybe, does not speak it,
But she prints the thought on velvet,
Rosy-hued, with fondest kisses,
When the pink, soft page is lying
Folded closely to her bosom.
A little farther goes his auntie,
Aged fourteen - age of fancy;
She looks down the future ages
With her wise, prophetic vision;
Sees the babies pass before her,
Babies of the twentieth century,
All the long and dusty ages,
To the thousand years of glory.
Oh, the host of bright-eyed children,
Thronging like the stars at midnight,
Faces sweet and countless, as the
Rose-leaves of a thousand summers.
All the pretty heads so curly
That shall hold a riper wisdom
Than our youthful planet dreams of;
All the ranks of dimple shoulders,
That shall move Time's rolling chariot
Nearer to the golden city;
Vieweth these the blue-eyed prophet,
Still the oracle says calmly,
Speaks the seer with golden tresses - 
"No! there never was, nor will be
Such a child as our Harry,
Such a noble boy as Harry."
Summer brings a wealth of flowers,
Flowers of every form and color,
Orange, crimson, royal purple,
All along the mountain passes,
All along the pleasant valley,
Low the emerald branches bendeth
With their weight of summer glory.
But they do not waken in us
Half the tender, blissful feeling,
Half the pure and sweet emotion
As the first spring-flower in April,
With its lashes tinged with crimson,
Partly raised from eyes half-timid,
Fearful that the snow will drown it;
How we love the dainty blossom,
How we wear it in our bosom.
Just so with the tree ancestral,
Many flowers may blossom on it,
But the first wee bud that's grafted,
To its heart, ah, how we love it;
Others may be loved as fondly,
But they are not loved so proudly,
Loved so blindly, so entirely.
Yes, when first the heart's door opens
To the touch of baby fingers,
Quick the dimpled feet will bear them
To the dearest place and warmest
Plenty room enough for other
Buds of beauty, buds of promise,
In the heart's capacious chambers;
But the first is firmly settled - 
Little Harry's firmly settled
In the centre of affection;
Later ones must settle round him.
The Little Girl Lost
by William Blake

In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise, and seek
for her Maker meek;
And the desert wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer's prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told.
She had wandered long,
Hearing wild birds' song.
"Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother, weep?
Where can Lyca sleep?
"Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
"If her heart does ache,
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
"Frowning, frowning night,
O'er this desert bright
Let thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes."
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
Viewed the maid asleep.
The kingly lion stood,
And the virgin viewed:
Then he gambolled round
O'er the hallowed ground.
Leopards, tigers, play
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old
Bowed his mane of gold,
And her breast did lick
And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loosed her slender dress,
And naked they conveyed
To caves the sleeping maid.
Sonnet 58
by Michael Drayton

In former times, such as had store of coyne,
In warres at home, or when for conquests bound,
For feare that some their treasures should purloyne,
Gaue it to keepe to spirites within the ground;
And to attend it, them so strongly tide,
Till they return'd, home when they neuer came,
Such as by art to get the same haue tride,
From the strong spirits by no means get the same,
Neerer you come, that further flies away,
Striuing to holde it strongly in the deepe:
Euen as this spirit, so she alone doth play,
With those rich Beauties heauen giues her to keepe:
Pitty so left, to coldenes of her blood,
Not to auaile her, nor do others good.
Laus Deo
by Madison Julius Cawein

In her vast church of glimmering blue,
Gray-stoled from feet to chin,
Her dark locks beaded with the dew,
The nun-like dawn comes in:
At once the hills put on their spencers
Of purple, swinging streaming censers
Of mist before the God of Day
Who goes with pomp his way.
With sapphire draperies of light
Is hung the sombre pines;
Filling each valley, every height
With sacerdotal lines
Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured,
The forests bow and, heavenly gestured,
Lift high the chalice of the sun,
Intoning, "Night is done!"
The Sweet Hussy
by Thomas Hardy

In his early days he was quite surprised
When she told him she was compromised
By meetings and lingerings at his whim,
And thinking not of herself but him;
While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round
That scandal should so soon abound,
(As she had raised them to nine or ten
Of antecedent nice young men)
And in remorse he thought with a sigh,
How good she is, and how bad am I! -
It was years before he understood
That she was the wicked one he the good.
Sonnets: Idea LVIII
by Michael Drayton

In former times, such as had store of coin,
In wars at home or when for conquests bound,
For fear that some their treasure should purloin,
Gave it to keep to spirits within the ground;
And to attend it them as strongly tied
Till they returned. Home when they never came,
Such as by art to get the same have tried,
From the strong spirit by no means force the same.
Nearer men come, that further flies away,
Striving to hold it strongly in the deep.
Ev'n as this spirit, so you alone do play
With those rich beauties Heav'n gives you to keep;
Pity so left to th' coldness of your blood,
Not to avail you nor do others good.
Henry Martyn
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from a copy taken down from North Devon tradition by the Rev. S. Baring Gould, and printed by Child; since when other versions have been found still in circulation in England. A Sussex version, though perhaps derived from a Catnach broadside, is given in the Journal of the Folk-Song Society, vol. i. 162.
The Story.--This ballad is undoubtedly a degenerate version of the preceding, Sir Andrew Barton, of which name, as Child says, Henry Martyn would be no extraordinary corruption. It is given here as an instance of the fate which awaits a popular ballad in the process of being sung to pieces.
HENRY MARTYN
1.
In merry Scotland, in merry Scotland
There lived brothers three;
They all did cast lots which of them should go
A robbing upon the salt sea.
2.
The lot it fell on Henry Martyn,
The youngest of the three;
That he should go rob on the salt, salt sea
To maintain his brothers and he.
3.
He had not a-sailed a long winter's night,
Nor yet a short winter's day,
Before that he met with a lofty old ship,
Come sailing along that way.
4.
O when she came by Henry Martyn;
'I prithee now, let us go!'
'O no, God wot! that, that will I not,
O that will I never do.
5.
'Stand off, stand off!' said Henry Martyn,
'For you shall not pass by me;
For I am a robber all on the salt seas,
To maintain us brothers three.
6.
'How far, how far,' cries Henry Martyn,
'How far do you make it?' said he;
'For I am a robber all on the salt seas,
To maintain us brothers three.'
7.
For three long hours they merrily fought,
For hours they fought full three;
At last a deep wound got Henry Martyn,
And down by the mast fell he.
8.
'Twas broadside to a broadside then,
And a rain and hail of blows,
But the salt sea ran in, ran in, ran in,
To the bottom then she goes.
9.
Bad news, bad news for old England,
Bad news has come to the town,
For a rich merchant's vessel is cast away,
And all her brave seamen drown.
10.
Bad news, bad news through London Street,
Bad news has come to the king,
For all the brave lives of the mariners lost,
That are sunk in the watery main.
Lilacs
by Virna Sheard

In lonely gardens deserted - unseen - 
Oh! lovely lilacs of purple and white,
You are dipping down through a mist of green;
For the morning sun's delight.
And the velvet bee, all belted with black,
Drinks deep of the wine which your flagons hold,
Clings close to your plumes while he fills his pack
With a load of burnished gold.
You hide the fences with blossoms of snow,
And sweeten the shade of castle towers;
Over low, grey gables you brightly blow,
Like amethysts turned to flowers.
The tramp on the highway - ragged and bold - 
Wears you close to his heart with jaunty air;
You rest in my lady's girdle of gold,
And are held against her hair.
In God's own acre your tender flowers,
Bend down to the grasses and seem to sigh
For those who count time no more by hours - 
Whose summers have all passed by - 
But at eventide the south wind will sing,
Like a gentle priest who chanteth a prayer;
And thy purple censers he'll set a-swing,
To perfume the twilight air.
Will Carleton.
by James McIntyre

In homely apparel one
Clothes farming songs Will Carleton,
But they have a manly ring
And we his praises hearty sing.
The Rosebud
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

In June I brought her roses, and she cupt
One slim bud in her hand and cherisht it,
And put it to her mouth. Rose and she supt
Each other's sweetness; but the flower was lit
By her kind eyes, and glowed. Then in her breast
She laid it blushing, warm and doubly blest.
The Bohemian Hymn
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

In many forms we try
To utter God's infinity,
But the boundless hath no form,
And the Universal Friend
Doth as far transcend
An angel as a worm.
The great Idea baffles wit,
Language falters under it,
It leaves the learned in the lurch;
Nor art, nor power, nor toil can find
The measure of the eternal Mind,
Nor hymn, nor prayer, nor church.
Contrast, The
by Captain C. Morris

In London I never know what I'd be at,
Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for man.
But the country, Lord help me! sets all matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to night;
Oh, it settles the spirits when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green!
In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope,
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope;
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days?
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.
In the country, what bliss, when it rains in the fields,
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields;
Or go crawling from window to window, to see
A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree.
In town, we've no use for the skies overhead,
For when the sun rises then we go to bed;
And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon,
She shines out of season, like satin in June.
In the country, these planets delightfully glare,
Just to show us the object we want isn't there;
Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise,
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes!
But 'tis in the country alone we can find
That happy resource, the relief of the mind,
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make,
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:
Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
To see ladies well-draggled and wet in their feet;
But what is all that to the transport we feel
When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?
I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet,
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet;
That's to come, for as yet I, alas! am a swain,
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.
In the country, if Cupid should find a man out,
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about;
But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure,
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.
In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!
Nursery Rhyme. CIII. Proverbs.
by Unknown

In July,
Some reap rye;
In August,
If one will not the other must.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LIII
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

In martiall sports I had my cunning tride,
And yet to breake more staues did mee addresse,
While, with the peoples shouts, I must confesse,
Youth, lucke, and praise euen fil'd my veines with pride;
When Cupid, hauing me, his slaue, descride
In Marses livery prauncing in the presse,
What now, Sir Foole! said he, (I would no lesse:)
Looke here, I say! I look'd, and Stella spide,
Who, hard by, made a window send forth light.
My heart then quak'd, then dazled were mine eyes,
One hand forgat to rule, th'other to fight,
Nor trumpets sound I heard, nor friendly cries:
My foe came on, and beate the air for me,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.
In Lands I Never Saw, They Say,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

In lands I never saw, they say,
Immortal Alps look down,
Whose bonnets touch the firmament,
Whose sandals touch the town, --
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad daisies play.
Which, sir, are you, and which am I,
Upon an August day?
Let Us Have Peace
by Eugene Field

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight
Above their bowls of liquor;
But such as we, when on a spree,
Should never brawl and bicker!
These angry words and clashing swords
Are quite de trop, I'm thinking;
Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise,
And drown your wrath in drinking.
Aha, 't is fine,--this mellow wine
With which our host would dope us!
Now let us hear what pretty dear
Entangles him of Opus.
I see you blush,--nay, comrades, hush!
Come, friend, though they despise you,
Tell me the name of that fair dame,--
Perchance I may advise you.
O wretched youth! and is it truth
You love that fickle lady?
I, doting dunce, courted her once;
Since when, she's reckoned shady!
Orlando Mad.
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
In mail of black my limbs I girt,
Angelica!
And when the bugles clanged the charge,
The rolling battle's bristling marge
Beheld me a black storm of war
Dash on the foe;
While Durindana glitt'ring far
Made many a foeman mouth the dirt
In bleeding woe: - 
For thou didst fire me to the war
'Mid many a Paynim scimetar,
Angelica!
II.
No more the battle fires my blood,
Angelica!
No more gay lists flaunt all their guiles,
And chivalry's charge, and beauty's smiles!
I wander lone the thistly wold
When night-snows fall,
And crispy frosts the wild grass hold.
Great knights go glimmering thro' the wood,
The clarion's call
Wakes War upon his desert wold - 
I see the dawning breaking cold,
Angelica!
III.
When Southern winds sowed all the skies,
Angelica!
With bloom-storms of the flowering May;
When all the battle-field was gay
With scented garb of sainted flowers,
I found a stream
Cold as thy heart to paramours!
Deep as the depth of thy blue eyes!
And like a dream
I found a grotto 'mid the flowers,
Cool 'mid the sunlight-sprinkled bowers,
Angelica!
IV.
My casque I dofft to scoop the fount,
Angelica!
With beaded pureness bubbling cool - 
It clashed into the purling pool; - 
Thy name lay chiseled in the rock,
And underneath - 
And then meseemed deep night did block
My steel-chained heart in one huge mount
Foreshadowing death! - 
Medoro deep in every rock!
The Moorish name my soul did mock,
Angelica!
V.
No more wild war my veins ensteeps,
Angelica!
No more gay lists flaunt all their guiles! - 
White wastes before me miles on miles
With one low, ruby sunset bound - 
Thou fleest before,
I follow on: a far off sound
Of oceans gnawing at dark steeps
Swells to a roar. - 
'Mid foam thou smil'st: I spurn the ground - 
I sink, I swim, waves hiss around - 
Oh, could I sink 'neath the profound,
And think of thee no more!