DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Evening.
by John Clare

What time the cricket unmolested sings,
And blundering beetles try their clumsy wings,
Leave me to meet the sweets of Even's hour
By hawthorn hedges when the May's in flower,
With light enough to guard my cautious tread,
As not to trample on the daisy's head,
Down beaten pathways of a wish'd extent,
Ev'n unimpeded by the bending bent
That, night and morning, bowing down with dew,
Sullies the brightness of the maiden's shoe.
There leave me musing 'neath the bow'ring ash,
Counting the knoll of bells, or spurting dash
Of muttering fountain-fall, with wild delight,
Till Even lose In the blank of Night.
Attila
by Henry Kendall

What though his feet were shod with sharp, fierce flame,
And death and ruin were his daily squires,
The Scythian, helped by Heaven's thunders, came:
The time was ripe for God's avenging fires.
Lo! loose, lewd trulls, and lean, luxurious liars
Had brought the fair, fine face of Rome to shame,
And made her one with sins beyond a name
That queenly daughter of imperial sires!
The blood of elders like the blood of sheep,
Was dashed across the circus. Once while din
And dust and lightnings, and a draggled heap
Of beast-slain men made lords with laughter leap,
Night fell, with rain. The earth, so sick of sin,
Had turned her face into the dark to weep.
To Some Ladies
by John Keats

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:
Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.
Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.
'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it, you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.
If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;
It had not created a warmer emotion
Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.
For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.
Sonnet IV.
by Robert Southey

What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim
Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear
Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name
Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR
The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart,
Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn
Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart,
And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn,
And the dark spectre of departed JOY
Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave
Love I the solitary hour to employ
Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh
Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave
Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.
Lady And Wasp.
by John Gay

What stupid nonsense must the Beauty
Endure in her diurnal duty - 
Buzzings and whispers from the stores
Of the fatuities of bores!
Yet such impertinence must be pleasing,
Or Beauty would resent such teazing.
A flap will drive a fly away,
A frown will drive a dog to bay:
So if the insects are persistent
'Twas Beauty that was inconsistent!
And if she does not know herself,
Blame not the persecuting elf.
It chanced upon a summer day
That Boris in her boudoir lay - 
She the last work of God's fair creatures,
Contemplated her faultless features.
A wasp assailed her so reclined,
Bred of a persecuting kind.
He now advanced, and now retreated,
Till Beauty's neck and face grew heated;
She smote him with her fan: she said
Wasps were excessively ill bred.
But the wasp answered her: "Alas!
Before you blame me, view your glass.
'Twas beauty caused me to presume;
Those cherry lips, that youthful bloom,
Allured me from the plums and peaches
To Beauty, which the soul o'erreaches."
"Don't hit him, Jenny!" Doris cried:
"The race of wasps is much belied;
I must recant what I have said, - 
Wasps are remarkably well bred."
Away Sir Sting fled, and went boasting
Amongst his fellows - Doris toasting;
And as his burgundy he sips,
He showed the sugar on his lips.
Away the greedy host then gathered,
Where they thought dalliance fair was feathered.
They fluttered round her, sipped her tea,
And lived in quarters fair and free;
Nor were they banished, till she found
That wasps had stings and felt the wound.
Gratitude To The Unknown Instructors
by William Butler Yeats

What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
To G. F. M. This Volume Is Inscribed In Memory Of Many Days. (One Day And Another)
by Madison Julius Cawein

What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
And tempests are unfurled.
Mine are the footpaths leading through
Life's lowly fields and woods, - with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue, - 
By which the violet lifts
Its shy appeal; and holding up
Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
Blooms bright the celandine.
Where soft upon each flowering stock
The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
The cottage cricket sings.
Where overhead eve blooms with fire,
In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
Burns through the afterglow.
I care not, so the sesame
I find; the magic flower there,
Whose touch unseals each mystery
In water, earth and air.
That in the oak tree lets me hear
Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words;
And to my mind makes crystal clear
The melodies of birds.
Why should I care, who live aloof
Beyond the din of life and dust,
While dreams still share my humble roof,
And love makes sweet my crust?
Love And Death
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

What time the mighty moon was gathering light
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise,
And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes;
When, turning round a cassia, full in view,
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight.
'You must begone,' said Death, 'these walks are mine.'
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight;
Yet ere he parted said, 'This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity
Life eminent creates the shade of death.
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign for ever over all.'
Laughing And Sneering
by Henry Lawson

What though the world does me ill turns
And cares my life environ;
I'd sooner laugh with Bobbie Burns
Than sneer with titled Byron.
The smile has always been the best;
'Tis stronger than the frown, sirs:
And Venus smiled the waves to rest;
She didn't sneer them down, sirs.
Fluctuations
by Anne Bronte

What though the sun had left my sky;
To save me from despair
The blessed moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there.
I watched her, with a tearful gaze,
Rise slowly o'er the hill,
While through the dim horizon's haze
Her light gleamed faint and chill.
I thought such wan and lifeless beams
Could ne'er my heart repay,
For the bright sun's most transient gleams
That cheered me through the day:
But as above that mist's control
She rose, and brighter shone,
I felt her light upon my soul;
But now, that light is gone!
Thick vapours snatched her from my sight,
And I was darkling left,
All in the cold and gloomy night,
Of light and hope bereft:
Until, methought, a little star
Shone forth with trembling ray,
To cheer me with its light afar,
But that, too, passed away.
Anon, an earthly meteor blazed
The gloomy darkness through;
I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed,
But that soon vanished too!
And darker, drearier fell the night
Upon my spirit then;
But what is that faint struggling light?
Is it the Moon again?
Kind Heaven! increase that silvery gleam,
And bid these clouds depart,
And let her soft celestial beam
Restore my fainting heart!
Avitor
by Bret Harte (Francis)

What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!
What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!
Avitor!
What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The roc that brought Sindbad across,
The Calendar's own winged horse!
Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites, but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!
What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson's gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!
My first ascent I may not tell;
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell.
Avitor!
My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions, and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas.
Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies.
Avitor!
What Will You Say Tonight, Poor Lonely Soul
by Charles Baudelaire

What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul,
What will you say old withered heart of mine,
To the most beautiful, the best, most dear,
Whose heavenly regard brings back your bloom?
We will assign our pride to sing her praise:
Nothing excels the sweetness of her will;
Her holy body has an angel's scent,
Her eye invests us with a cloak of light.
Whether it be in night and solitude,
Or in the streets among the multitude,
Her ghost before us dances like a torch.
It speaks out: 'I am lovely and command
That you will love only the Beautiful;
I am your Guardian, Madonna, Muse!'
Upon One Lily, Who Married With A Maid Called Rose.
by Robert Herrick

What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows,
Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose!
What next is look'd for? but we all should see
To spring from thee a sweet posterity.
Men O' The Forest Mark.
by Jean Blewett

What we most need is men of worth,
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and mighty girth
And green, unbroken bark.
Not men whom circumstances
Have stunted, wasted, sapped,
Men fearful of fighting chances,
Clinging to by-paths mapped.
Holding honor and truth below
Promotion, place and pelf;
Weaklings that change as winds do blow,
Lost in their love of self.
Tricksters playing a game unfair
(Count them, sirs, at this hour),
Ready to dance to maddest air
Piped by the man in power.
The need, sore need, of this young land
Is honest men, good sirs,
Men as her oak trees tall and grand,
Staunch as her stalwart firs.
Steadfast, unswerving, first and last,
Fearless of front and strong,
Meeting the challenge of the blast
With high, clear battle song.
Not sapless things of the byways,
Lacking in life and strength,
Not shrivelled shrubs of the highways,
Pigmy of breadth and length,
But noblest growth of God's green earth - 
Men o' the forest mark,
Of lofty height and giant girth
And green, unbroken bark.
Pompeii And Herculaneum.
by Friedrich Schiller

What wonder this? we ask the lympid well,
O earth! of thee and from thy solemn womb
What yieldest thou? is there life in the abyss 
Doth a new race beneath the lava dwell?
Returns the past, awakening from the tomb?
Rome Greece! Oh, come! Behold behold! for this!
Our living world the old Pompeii sees;
And built anew the town of Dorian Hercules!
House upon house its silent halls once more
Opes the broad portico! Oh, haste and fill
Again those halls with life! Oh, pour along
Through the seven-vista'd theatre the throng!
Where are ye, mimes? Come forth, the steel prepare
For crowned Atrides, or Orestes haunt,
Ye choral Furies, with your dismal chant!
The arch of triumph! whither leads it? still
Behold the forum! on the curule chair
Where the majestic image? Lictors, where
Your solemn fasces? Place upon his throne
The Praetor here the witness lead, and there
Bid the accuser stand
O God! how lone
The clear streets glitter in the quiet day 
The footpath by the doors winding its lifeless way!
The roofs arise in shelter, and around
The desolate Atrium every gentle room
Wears still the dear familiar smile of home!
Open the doors the shops on dreary night
Let lusty day laugh down in jocund light!
See the trim benches ranged in order! See
The marble-tesselated floor and there
The very walls are glittering livingly
With their clear colors. But the artist, where!
Sure but this instant he hath laid aside
Pencil and colors! Glittering on the eye
Swell the rich fruits, and bloom the flowers! See all
Art's gentle wreaths still fresh upon the wall!
Here the arch Cupid slyly seems to glide
By with bloom-laden basket. There the shapes
Of genii press with purpling feet the grapes,
Here springs the wild Bacchante to the dance,
And there she sleeps [while that voluptuous trance
Eyes the sly faun with never-sated glance]
Now on one knee upon the centaur-steeds
Hovering the Thyrsus plies. Hurrah! away she speeds!
Come come, why loiter ye? Here, here, how fair
The goodly vessels still! Girls, hither turn,
Fill from the fountain the Etruscan urn!
On the winged sphinxes see the tripod. 
Ho!
Quick quick, ye slaves, come fire! the hearth prepare!
Ha! wilt thou sell? this coin shall pay thee this,
Fresh from the mint of mighty Titus! Lo!
Here lie the scales, and not a weight we miss
So bring the light! The delicate lamp! what toil
Shaped thy minutest grace! quick pour the oil!
Yonder the fairy chest! come, maid, behold
The bridegroom's gifts the armlets they are gold,
And paste out-feigning jewels! lead the bride
Into the odorous bath lo! unguents still 
And still the crystal vase the arts for beauty fill!
But where the men of old perchance a prize
More precious yet in yon papyrus lies,
And see ev'n still the tokens of their toil 
The waxen tablets the recording style.
The earth, with faithful watch, has hoarded all!
Still stand the mute penates in the hall;
Back to his haunts returns each ancient god.
Why absent only from their ancient stand
The priests? waves Hermes his Caducean rod,
And the winged victory struggles from the hand.
Kindle the flame behold the altar there!
Long hath the god been worshipless to prayer.
Homecoming
by Robert Lowell

What was is... since 1930;
the boys in my old gang
are senior partners. They start up
bald like baby birds
to embrace retirement.
At the altar of surrender,
I met you
in the hour of credulity.
How your misfortune came out clearly
to us at twenty.
At the gingerbread casino,
how innocent the nights we made it
on our Vesuvio martinis
with no vermouth but vodka
to sweeten the dry gin,
the lash across my face
that night we adored...
soon every night and all,
when your sweet, amorous
repetition changed.
Fertility is not to the forward,
or beauty to the precipitous,
things gone wrong
clothe summer
with gold leaf.
Sometimes
I catch my mind
circling for you with glazed eye,
my lost love hunting
your lost face.
Summer to summer,
the poplars sere
in the glare,
it's a town for the young,
they break themselves against the surf.
No dog knows my smell.
The Superwoman
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing - 
She who is coming over the dim border
Of Far To-morrow, after earth's disorder
Is tidied up by Time?    What will she bring
To make life better on tempestuous earth?
How will her worth
Be greater than her forbears?    What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?
She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
Of adolescence which departs with youth - 
But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of all its potent force.
Her outer being by the inner thought
Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.
She will bring virtue; but it will not be
The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
Which hides a barren heart.    She will be human - 
Not saint or angel, but the superwoman - 
Mother and mate and friend of superman.
She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
Drawn from the Cosmic Mind - 
Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.
She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
Not at the call of sense or for man's pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.
To motherhood she will bring common sense - 
That most uncommon virtue.    She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence
(Which slaughters others that its own may live).
Love that will help each little tendril mind
To grow and climb;
Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
In training human egos to be kind.
She will be formed to guide, but not to lead - 
Leaders are ever lonely - and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
And to the leaders says, 'Proceed' or 'Wait.'
And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
That leads straight up to God.
Kaare's Song (From Sigurd Slembe)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 14)
KAARE
What wakens the billows, while sleeps the wind?
What looms in the west released?
What kindles the stars, ere day's declined,
Like fires for death's dark feast?
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
KAARE
What drives the fierce dragon to ride the foam,
While billows with blood are red?
The sea-fowl are shrieking, they seek their home,
And hover around my head.
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
KAARE
What maiden so strange to the strand draws nigh,
In light with soft music nears?
What is it that makes all the flowers die,
What fills all your eyes with tears?
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
What the Engines Said
by Bret Harte (Francis)

What was it the Engines said,
Pilots touching, head to head
Facing on the single track,
Half a world behind each back?
This is what the Engines said,
Unreported and unread.
With a prefatory screech,
In a florid Western speech,
Said the Engine from the West:
'I am from Sierra's crest;
And if altitude's a test,
Why, I reckon, it's confessed
That I've done my level best.'
Said the Engine from the East:
'They who work best talk the least.
S'pose you whistle down your brakes;
What you've done is no great shakes,
Pretty fair, but let our meeting
Be a different kind of greeting.
Let these folks with champagne stuffing,
Not their Engines, do the puffing.
'Listen! Where Atlantic beats
Shores of snow and summer heats;
Where the Indian autumn skies
Paint the woods with wampum dyes,
I have chased the flying sun,
Seeing all he looked upon,
Blessing all that he has blessed,
Nursing in my iron breast
All his vivifying heat,
All his clouds about my crest;
And before my flying feet
Every shadow must retreat.'
Said the Western Engine, 'Phew!'
And a long, low whistle blew.
'Come, now, really that's the oddest
Talk for one so very modest.
You brag of your East! You do?
Why, I bring the East to you!
All the Orient, all Cathay,
Find through me the shortest way;
And the sun you follow here
Rises in my hemisphere.
Really, if one must be rude,
Length, my friend, ain't longitude.'
Said the Union: 'Don't reflect, or
I'll run over some Director.'
Said the Central: 'I'm Pacific;
But, when riled, I'm quite terrific.
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel,
Just to show these folks this moral,
How two Engines in their vision
Once have met without collision.'
That is what the Engines said,
Unreported and unread;
Spoken slightly through the nose,
With a whistle at the close.
Exhortation To Prayer.
by William Cowper

What various hindrances we meet
In coming to a mercy-seat!
Yet who that knows the worth of prayer,
But wishes to be often there?
Prayer makes the darken'd cloud withdraw,
Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw,
Gives exercise to faith and love,
Brings every blessing from above.
Restraining prayer, we cease to fight,
Prayer makes the Christian's armour bright;
And Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.
While Moses stood with arms spread wide,
Success was found on Israel's side;
But when through weariness they fail'd,
That moment Amalek prevail'd.[1]
Have you no words? Ah! think again,
Words flow apace when you complain,
And fill your fellow-creature's ear
With the sad tale of all your care.
Were half the breath thus vainly spent
To Heaven in supplication sent,
Your cheerful song would oftener be,
'Hear what the Lord has done for me.'
The Miracle of Spring.
by Hattie Howard

What touch is like the Spring's?
By dainty fingerings
Such rare delight to give,
'Tis luxury to live
Amid florescent things.
Through weary months of snow
When Boreas swept low,
How many an anxious hour
We watched one little flower,
And tried to make it grow;
And thrilled with ecstasy
When, half distrustfully,
A timid bud appeared,
A tender scion reared
In window greenery.
But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom
And richness of perfume
Comes as by miracle;
Then why not possible
Within a curtained room?
Ah, no! that everywhere
The earth is passing fair,
And strange new life hath caught,
Is but the marvel wrought
By sunlight, rain, and air.
Afterword.
by Madison Julius Cawein

What vague traditions do the golden eves,
What legends do the dawns
Inscribe in fire on Heaven's azure leaves,
The red sun colophons?
What ancient stories do the waters verse?
What tales of war and love
Do winds within the Earth's vast house rehearse,
God's stars stand guard above?
Would I could know them as they are expressed
In hue and melody!
And say, in words, the beauties they suggest,
Language their mystery!
And in one song magnificently rise,
The music of the spheres,
That more than marble should immortalize
My name in after years.
Lute Song
by Madison Julius Cawein

What will you send her,
What will you tell her,
That shall unbend her,
That shall compel her?
Love, that shall fold her
So naught can sever;
Truth, that shall hold her
Ever and ever.
What will you do then
So she 'll ne' er grieve you?
Knowing you true then
Never will leave you?
I 'll lay before here,
There in her bower,
Aye to adore her,
My heart like a flower.