OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Ingelow)

POEMS.
BY
JEAN INGELOW.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
| G. J. PINWELL | J. W. NORTH | J. WOLF |
| E. J. POYNTER | E. DALZIEL | T. DALZIEL |
| A. B. HOUGHTON and W. SMALL. |||
| ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL. |||
LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, READER, & DYER.
DEDICATION.
TO
GEORGE K. INGELOW.
YOUR LOVING SISTER
OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS
AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE
PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORTS
WITH YOUR NAME.
Kensington, June, 1863.
CONTENTS.
POEMS.
# Poems (Jackson)

POEMS BY HELEN JACKSON
POEMS
BY
HELEN JACKSON
POEMS
BY
HELEN JACKSON
ILLVSTRATED
ROBERTS·BROTHERS
BOSTON
1892
Copyright, 1873, 1886, 1892,
By Roberts Brothers.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
illustrations are by M Emile Bayard-and the photogravures are by Messrs AW Elson and Company.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/From a Satire written to King James I

From a Satire written to King James I
Did I not know a great man's power and might In spite of innocence can smother right, Colour his villainies to get esteem, And make the honest man the villain seem? I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true. Yet I protest if such a man I knew, That might my country prejudice or thee Were he the greatest or the proudest he, That breathes this day; if so it might be found That any good to either might redound, I unappalled, dare in such a case Rip up his foulest crimes before his face, Though for my labour I were sure to drop Into the mouth of ruin without hope.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/In Obitum M S, X° Maij, 1614

Epitaphs
In Obitum M S, X° Maij, 1614
May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring, Mine only died. W. B.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Love

Love
Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That doth prove the work of it.
Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.
There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;
Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare
Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.
Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn discard it.
The Passionate Shepherd.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/May Day Customs

May Day Customs
I have seen the Lady of the May Set in an arbour, on a holiday, Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains, When envious night commands them to be gone Call for the merry youngsters one by one, And for their well performance soon disposes: To this a garland interwove with roses, To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip, Gracing another with her cherry lip; To one her garter, to another then A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again; And none returneth empty that hath spent His pains to fill their rural merriment. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Morning

Morning
The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat, The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd, Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad ​Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes, Winding meanders and self-knitting traces, Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time, The careful smith had in his sooty forge Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly, And day as then might plead his in fancy. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Night

Night
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declining on the western shore The oriental hills black mantles wore, And thence apace the gentle twilight fled, That had from hideous caverns ushered All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet. By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky, The helps of darkness waited orderly. First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains; Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring; From standing pools and fens were following Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill Sent up their vapours to attend her will These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven And as Night's chariot through the air was driven, Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue ​Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance, And all the upper world lay in a trance. Only the curled streams soft chidings kept; And little gales that from the green leaf swept Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred. As loath to waken any singing bird. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Cælia

Cælia
(Sonnets)
Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost. Not dreading loss, do sing again of love; And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd, Try if my stars still inauspicious prove: Not to make good that poets never can Long time without a chosen mistress be, Do I sing thus; or my affections ran Within the maze of mutability; What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind, And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair. Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere, I may adore it there, and love the cell For entertaining what I lov'd so well.
Why might I not for once be of that sect, Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right, Some other bodies to themselves elect; And sunlike make the day, and license night? That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere Was to enlighten straight another part; ​In that horizon, if I see it there, Calls for my first respect and its desert; Her virtue is the same and may be more; For as the sun is distant, so his power In operation differs, and the store Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our. And verily I think her climate such, Since to my former flame it adds so much.
Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry You took my hand to try if you could guess By lines therein if any wight there be Ordain'd to make me know some happiness; I wish'd that those characters could explain, Whom I will never wrong with hope to win; Or that by them a copy might be ta'en, By you alone what thoughts I have within. But since the hand of Nature did not set (As providently loath to have it known) The means to find that hidden alphabet, Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone; By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair, If now you see her that doth love me there.
Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest And take a long leave of sweet poesy; Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west, Should hear no more mine oaten melody; Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile Unperfect lie, and make no further known The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle; Till I have left some record of mine own. You are the subject now, and, writing you, I well may versify, not poetize: Here needs no fiction: for the graces true And virtues clip not with base flatteries. Here could I write what you deserve of praise. Others might wear, but I should win the bays.
​Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps, And gentle gales play gently with the leaves; Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise, (A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre) Give way, that I in silence may admire. Is not her sleep like that of innocents, Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair, Almost in death, than are the ornaments Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are? She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Flowers

Flowers
The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down, A golden tuft within a silver crown; (Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!) The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place; The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity; Carnations sweet with colour like the fire, The fit impresas for inflam'd desire; The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue Claims to be worn of none but those are true; The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands. And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands, The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd To be the badges of a jealous mind; The orange-tawny marigold: the night Hides not her colour from a searching sight. . . . The columbine in tawny often taken. Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken; Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye Is hope even in the depth of misery. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Her Beauty

Her Beauty
Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind
Of more sweetness than all art
Or inventions can impart;
Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed. . . . . . . What pearls, what rubies can
Seem so lovely fair to man,
As her lips whom he doth love
When in sweet discourse they move:
Or her lovelier teeth, the while
She doth bless him with a smile!
Stars indeed fair creatures be;
Yet amongst us where is he
Joys not more the whilst he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?
Note the beauty of an eye,
And if aught you praise it by
Leave such passion in your mind,
Let my reason's eye be blind.
Mark if ever red or white
Anywhere gave such delight
As when they have taken place
In a worthy woman's face.
From Faire Virtue.
# Pastoral Poems (Breton); Selected Poetry (Wither); Pastoral Poetry (Browne)/Music on the Thames

Music on the Thames
As I have seen when on the breast of Thames A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames, In some calm ev'ning of delightful May, With music give a farewell to the day, Or as they would, with an admired tone, Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne, Rapt with their melody a thousand more Run to be wafted from the bounding shore. From Britannia's Pastorals.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/Spring Offensive

SPRING OFFENSIVE
Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease; And, finding comfortable chests and knees, Carelessly slept. But many there stood still To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge, And though the summer oozed into their veins Like an injected drug for their bones' pains, Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass, Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder the warm field— And the far valley behind, where the buttercups Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up, Where even the little brambles would not yield, But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands; They breathe like trees unstirred.
Till like a cold gust thrills the little word At which each body and its soul begird And tighten them for battle. No alarms Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste— Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done. O larger shone that smile against the sun,— Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together Over an open stretch of herb and heather Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned With fury against them; and soft sudden cups Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
​Of them who running on that last high place Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge, Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence' brink Ventured but drave too swift to sink, The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames— And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder— Why speak not they of comrades that went under?
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/Strange Meeting

For another version published in 1931, see Strange Meeting.
STRANGE MEETING
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall; With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained; Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn." "None," said the other, "Save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something has been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress, None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery; Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery; To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. ​I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now . . ."
(This poem was found among the author's papers. It ends on this strange note)
Another Version
Earth's wheels run oiled with blood. Forget we that. Let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought. Beauty is yours and you have mastery, Wisdom is mine and I have mystery. We two will stay behind and keep our troth. Let us forego men's minds that are brute's natures, Be we not swift with swiftness of the tigress. Let us break ranks from those who trek from progress. Miss we the march of this retreating world Into old citadels that are not walled. Let us lie out and hold the open truth. Then when their blood hath clogged the chariot wheels We will go up and wash them from deep wells. What though we sink from men as pitchers falling Many shall raise us up to be their filling Even from wells we sunk too deep for war And filled by brows that bled where no wounds were.
Alternative Line—
Even as One who bled where no wounds were.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/The Chances

THE CHANCES
I mind as 'ow the night before that show Us five got talkin,—we was in the know. "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." "Ah well," says Jimmy,—an' 'e's seen some scrappin'— "There ain't no more nor five things as can 'appen, Ye get knocked out; else wounded—bad or cushy; Scuppered; or nowt except you're feelin' mushy."
One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. One lad was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. And one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'Ad the misfortune to be took by Fritz. Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty, (Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty), But poor old Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot— The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/The Dead-Beat

THE DEAD-BEAT
He dropped,—more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; —Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. "I'll do 'em in," he whined. "If this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will."
A low voice said, "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead: Bold uncles, smiling ministerially; Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."
We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded;—stout lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"
Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/S. I. W.

S. I. W.
"I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him."
W. B. Yeats
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse,... Brothers—would send his favourite cigarette. Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.
He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol. Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" So Father said.
One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident?—Rifles go off... Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)
​It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half-promising, and both their riling.
With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother, "Tim died smiling."
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/The Show

THE SHOW
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, And pitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openings As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, Brown strings, towards strings of grey, with bristling spines, All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten. I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.
Whereat, in terror what the sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. ​And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/Parable of the Old Men and the Young

PARABLE OF THE OLD MEN AND THE YOUNG
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, And builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . .
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/The Send-off

THE SEND-OFF
Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way To the siding-shed, And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray As men's are, dead.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp Stood staring hard, Sorry to miss them from the upland camp. Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp Winked to the guard.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went. They were not ours: We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant Who gave them flowers.
Shall they return to beatings of great bells In wild trainloads? A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to still village wells, Up half-known roads.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/Smile, Smile, Smile

SMILE, SMILE, SMILE
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned, For, said the paper, "when this war is done The men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, It being certain war has but begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,— The sons we offered might regret they died If we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, We rulers sitting in this ancient spot Would wrong our very selves if we forgot The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, Who kept this nation in integrity. Nation?-The half-limbed readers did not chafe But smiled at one another curiously Like secret men who know their secret safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, That England one by one had fled to France (Not many elsewhere now, save under France). Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, And people in whose voice real feeling rings Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.
23rd September 1918.