DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
What Lasts?
by Joseph Horatio Chant

The words we speak on the empty air,
Are never lost, but recorded there;
The process we may not comprehend,
Nor how the words with the air may blend,
But science shows what results may be;
Accept the fact, is enough for me.
The waves of sound may have died away
As ripples faint on a sheltered bay;
But though now faint will be heard again,
By God, ourselves, and the sons of men.
As sound e'en now may be multiplied;
The faintest moan like the roaring tide;
The housefly's tread with its tiny feet
Like tramp of horse on the stone-paved street.
So, though now faint, will those voices be,
When Christ shall come in His majesty;
Our quicken'd sense will the echo hear,
Like blast of horn to the timid deer.
In pleasant tones will the echoes be,
Of words of love and of happy glee,
Which we address to the friends we love,
Or offer up to our Lord above.
But, unlike those, all the echoes heard,
Of angry tones, and each sword-like word;
As we here mete to our fellow men,
The Judge shall mete in full measure then.
The thoughts we think may be lasting, too,
Though not inscribed on the azure blue;
On the tissued walls of the soul's great dome,
May be found those thoughts ne'er more to roam.
And like our thoughts, may we not become
The thought we think, be ourselves the sum?
May thoughts of God on my heart be graved,
And I be known as a sinner saved.
The Song Of The Happy Shepherd
by William Butler Yeats

The woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the watering kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass --
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs -- the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell.
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be.
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in truth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.
Provide, Provide
by Robert Lee Frost

The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,
The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good
For you to doubt the likelihood.
Die early and avoid the fate.
Or if predestined to die late,
Make up your mind to die in state.
Make the whole stock exchange your own!
If need be occupy a throne,
Where nobody can call you crone.
Some have relied on what they knew;
Others on simply being true.
What worked for them might work for you.
No memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard.
Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!
All For Me
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The world grows green on a thousand hills - 
By a thousand willows the bees are humming,
And a million birds by a million rills,
Sing of the golden season coming.
But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea,
And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing,
I feel that the summer is all for me,
And all for me are the joys it is bringing.
All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Just for me, in red and white,
Bloom and blossom the fields of clover;
And all for me and my delight
The wild Wind follows and plays the lover.
The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss
(I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it)
Has burned up a thousand worlds like this,
And never stopped to think about it.
And yet I believe he hurries up
Just on purpose to kiss my flowers - 
To drink the dew from the lily-cup,
And help it to grow through golden hours.
I know I am only a speck of dust,
An individual mite of masses,
Clinging upon the outer crust
Of a little ball of cooling gases.
And yet, and yet, say what you will,
And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason,
For me wholly, and for me still,
Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.
Nobody else has ever heard
The story the Wind to me discloses;
And none but I and the humming-bird
Can read the hearts of the crimson roses.
Ah, my Summer - my love - my own!
The world grows glad in your smiling weather;
Yet all for me, and me alone,
You and your Court came North together.
The Woman With Jewels
by Lola Ridge

The woman with jewels sits in the cafe,
Spraying light like a fountain.
Diamonds glitter on her bulbous fingers
And on her arms, great as thighs,
Diamonds gush from her ear-lobes over the goitrous throat.
She is obesely beautiful.
Her eyes are full of bleared lights,
Like little pools of tar, spilled by a sailor in mad haste for shore...
And her mouth is scarlet and full - only a little crumpled -    like a flower that has been pressed apart...
Why does she come alone to this obscure basement - 
She who should have a litter and hand-maidens to support her on either side?
She ascends the stairway, and the waiters turn to look at her, spilling the soup.
The black satin dress is a little lifted, showing the dropsical legs in their silken fleshings...
The mountainous breasts tremble...
There is an agitation in her gems,
That quiver incessantly, emitting trillions of fiery rays...
She erupts explosive breaths...
Every step is an adventure
From this...
The serpent's tooth
Saved Cleopatra.
Work And Contemplation
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church, that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.
The Wolf And The Stork.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
The wolves are prone to play the glutton.
One, at a certain feast, 'tis said,
So stuff'd himself with lamb and mutton,
He seem'd but little short of dead.
Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast.
Well for this wolf, who could not speak,
That soon a stork quite near him pass'd.
By signs invited, with her beak
The bone she drew
With slight ado,
And for this skilful surgery
Demanded, modestly, her fee.
'Your fee!' replied the wolf,
In accents rather gruff;
'And is it not enough
Your neck is safe from such a gulf?
Go, for a wretch ingrate,
Nor tempt again your fate!'
Booker T. Washington
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The word is writ that he who runs may read.
What is the passing breath of earthly fame?
But to snatch glory from the hands of blame--
That is to be, to live, to strive indeed.
A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed,
And from its dark and lowly door there came
A peer of princes in the world's acclaim,
A master spirit for the nation's need.
Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind,
The mark of rugged force on brow and lip,
Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind
Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip;
With one idea foremost in his mind,
Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.
The Age Of Motored Things
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The wonderful age of the world I sing - 
The age of battery, coil and spring,
Of steam, and storage, and motored thing.
Though faith may slumber and art seem dead,
And all that is spoken has once been said,
And all that is written were best unread;
Though hearts are iron and thoughts are steel,
And all that has value is mercantile,
Yet marvelous truths shall the age reveal.
Ay, greater the marvels this age shall find
Than all the centuries left behind,
When faith was a bigot and art was blind.
Oh, sorry the search of the world for gods,
Through faith that slaughters and art that lauds,
While reason sits on its throne and nods.
But out of the leisure that men will know,
When the cruel things of the sad earth go,
A Faith that is Knowledge shall rise and grow.
In the throb and whir of each new machine
Thinner is growing the veil between
The visible earth and the worlds unseen.
The True Religion shall leisure bring;
And Art shall awaken and Love shall sing:
Oh, ho! for the age of the motored thing!
The Lobster And Her Daughter.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
The wise, sometimes, as lobsters do,
To gain their ends back foremost go.
It is the rower's art; and those
Commanders who mislead their foes,
Do often seem to aim their sight
Just where they don't intend to smite.
My theme, so low, may yet apply
To one whose fame is very high,
Who finds it not the hardest matter
A hundred-headed league to scatter.
What he will do, what leave undone,
Are secrets with unbroken seals,
Till victory the truth reveals.
Whatever he would have unknown
Is sought in vain. Decrees of Fate
Forbid to check, at first, the course
Which sweeps at last with torrent force.
One Jove, as ancient fables state,
Exceeds a hundred gods in weight.
So Fate and Louis[2] would seem able
The universe to draw,
Bound captive to their law. - 
But come we to our fable.
A mother lobster did her daughter chide:
'For shame, my daughter! can't you go ahead?'
'And how go you yourself?' the child replied;
'Can I be but by your example led?
Head foremost should I, singularly, wend,
While all my race pursue the other end.'
She spoke with sense: for better or for worse,
Example has a universal force.
To some it opens wisdom's door,
But leads to folly many more.
Yet, as for backing to one's aim,
When properly pursued
The art is doubtless good,
At least in grim Bellona's game.
The Answer (Sent By Dr. Delany To Dr. Swift, In Order To Be Admitted To Speak To Him When He Was Deaf. 1724)
by Jonathan Swift

The wise pretend to make it clear,
'Tis no great loss to lose an ear.
Why are we then so fond of two,
When by experience one would do?
'Tis true, say they, cut off the head,
And there's an end; the man is dead;
Because, among all human race,
None e'er was known to have a brace:
But confidently they maintain,
That where we find the members twain,
The loss of one is no such trouble,
Since t'other will in strength be double.
The limb surviving, you may swear,
Becomes his brother's lawful heir:
Thus, for a trial, let me beg of
Your reverence but to cut one leg off,
And you shall find, by this device,
The other will be stronger twice;
For every day you shall be gaining
New vigour to the leg remaining.
So, when an eye has lost its brother,
You see the better with the other,
Cut off your hand, and you may do
With t'other hand the work of two:
Because the soul her power contracts,
And on the brother limb reacts.
But yet the point is not so clear in
Another case, the sense of hearing:
For, though the place of either ear
Be distant, as one head can bear,
Yet Galen most acutely shows you,
(Consult his book de partium usu)
That from each ear, as he observes,
There creep two auditory nerves,
Not to be seen without a glass,
Which near the os petrosum pass;
Thence to the neck; and moving thorough there,
One goes to this, and one to t'other ear;
Which made my grandam always stuff her ears
Both right and left, as fellow-sufferers.
You see my learning; but, to shorten it,
When my left ear was deaf a fortnight,
To t'other ear I felt it coming on:
And thus I solve this hard phenomenon.
'Tis true, a glass will bring supplies
To weak, or old, or clouded eyes:
Your arms, though both your eyes were lost,
Would guard your nose against a post:
Without your legs, two legs of wood
Are stronger, and almost as good:
And as for hands, there have been those
Who, wanting both, have used their toes.[1]
But no contrivance yet appears
To furnish artificial ears.
The Bibliomaniac's Bride
by Eugene Field

The women-folk are like to books,--
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale,--
Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found,--
Quite often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I'd choose no folio tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal,--
As plump and pudgy as a snipe;
Well worth her weight in gold;
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife
How should I keep and con!
How like a dream should run my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health, she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d'esprit,--
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse when to verse inclined,--
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this
What happiness abounds!
Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!
The Woman at the Washtub
by Victor James Daley

The Woman at the Washtub,
She works till fall of night;
With soap and suds and soda
Her hands are wrinkled white.
Her diamonds are the sparkles
The copper-fire supplies;
Her opals are the bubbles
That from the suds arise.
The Woman at the Washtub
Has lost the charm of youth;
Her hair is rough and homely,
Her figure is uncouth;
Her temper is like thunder,
With no one she agrees,
The children of the alley
They cling around her knees.
The Woman at the Washtub,
She too had her romance;
There was a time when lightly
Her feet flew in the dance.
Her feet were silver swallows,
Her lips were flowers of fire;
Then she was Bright and Early,
The Blossom of Desire.
0 Woman at the Washtub,
And do you ever dream
Of all your days gone by in
Your aureole of steam?
From birth till we are dying
You wash our sordid duds,
0 Woman of the Washtub!
0 Sister of the Suds!
One night I saw a vision
That filled my soul with dread,
I saw a Woman washing
The grave-clothes of the dead;
The dead were all the living,
And dry were lakes and meres,
The Woman at the Washtub
She washed them with her tears.
I saw a line with banners
Hung forth in proud array,
The banners of all battles
From Cam to judgment Day.
And they were stiff with slaughter
And blood, from hem to hem,
And they were red with glory,
And she was washing them.
'Who comes forth to the judgment,
And who will doubt my plan?'
'I come forth to the judgment
And for the Race of Man.
I rocked him in his cradle,
I washed him for his tomb,
I claim his soul and body,
And I will share his doom.'
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode VII.
by Thomas Moore

The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has pas past away.
"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinned my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give.
All For Me.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The world grows green on a thousand hills - 
By a thousand willows the bees are humming,
And a million birds by a million rills,
Sing of the golden season coming.
But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea,
And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing,
I feel that the Summer is all for me,
And all for me are the joys it is bringing.
All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Just for me, in red and white,
Bloom and blossom the fields of clover;
And all for me and my delight
The wild Wind follows and plays the lover.
The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss
(I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it)
Has burned up a thousand worlds like this,
And never stopped to think about it.
And yet I believe he hurries up
Just on purpose to kiss my flowers - 
To drink the dew from the lily-cup,
And help it to grow through golden hours.
I know I am only a speck of dust,
An individual mite of masses,
Clinging upon the outer crust
Of a little ball of cooling gases.
And yet, and yet, say what you will,
And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason,
For me wholly, and for me still,
Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.
Nobody else has ever heard
The story the Wind to me discloses;
And none but I and the humming-bird
Can read the hearts of the crimson roses.
Ah, my Summer - my love - my own!
The world grows glad in your smiling weather;
Yet all for me, and me alone,
You and your Court came north together.
Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men Are Fools In Wine."
by Thomas Gent

The wisest men are fools in wine,
Experience makes us think:
Its magic spells are so divine,
We reason--yet we drink!
How short's the longest life of man,
How soon its brightest laurels fade--
Then, as our life is but a span,
Let all its hours be joyous made.
Wine o'er the ardent restless mind
Entwines its poppy chain;
A solace, then, the wretched find.
In fictions of the brain.
Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,
We conquer care and pain:
It woos like woman's dewy lip,
To kiss--and come again!
To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

L' alto e novo miracol ch' a d' nostri.
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.
The wonder, high and new, that, in our days,
Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,
Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch again
Better to blazon its own starry ways;
That to far times I her should paint and praise
Love wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;
But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain
To the fond task a thousand times he sways.
My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;
I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,
Or speak or write of love will prove it so.
Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,
Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,
Bless'd the eyes who saw her living day!
MACGREGOR.
The Bibliomaniac's Bride.
by Eugene Field

The women folk are like to books--
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale--
Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found--
Quite often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I'd choose no folio tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe--
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d'esprit--
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined--
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!
Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!
The One White Hair
by Walter Savage Landor

The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies
And love to hear them told;
Doubt not that Solomon
Listen'd to many a one,            
Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.
I never was among
The choir of Wisdom's song,
But pretty lies lov'd I
As much as any king,
When youth was on the wing,
And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.
Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot
When one pert lady said,
'O Walter! I am quite
Bewilder'd with affright!
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!'
Another more benign
Snipp'd it away from mine,
And in her own dark hair
Pretended it was found'
She leap'd, and twirl'd it round'
Fair as she was, she never was so fair!
The Dead Hand
by George MacDonald

The witch lady walked along the strand,
Heard a roaring of the sea,
On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand,
Good thing for a witch lady!
Lightly she stepped across the rocks,
Came where the dead man lay:
Now pretty maid with your merry mocks,
Now I shall have my way!
On a finger shone a sapphire blue
In the heart of six rubies red:
Come back to me, my promise true,
Come back, my ring, she said.
She took the dead hand in the live,
And at the ring drew she;
The dead hand closed its fingers five,
And it held the witch lady.
She swore the storm was not her deed,
Dark spells she backward spoke;
If the dead man heard he took no heed,
But held like a cloven oak.
Deathly cold, crept up the tide,
Sure of her, made no haste;
Crept up to her knees, crept up each side,
Crept up to her wicked waist.
Over the blue sea sailed the bride
In her love's own sailing ship,
And the witch she saw them across the tide
As it rose to her lying lip.
Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead
Are strong hasps they to hold!
Fled the true dove with the kite's new love,
And left the false kite with the old.
Love's Landmarks
by Richard Le Gallienne

The woods we used to walk, my love,
Are woods no more,
But' villas' now with sounding names - 
All name and door.
The pond, where, early on in March,
The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
Is now filled up.
But ah! what if they fill or fell
Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
To me - to thee?
The jerry-builder may consume,
A greedy moth,
God's mantle of the living green,
I feel no wrath;
Eat up the beauty of the world,
And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
And grassy hill.
I only laugh, for now of these
I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
And foul as fair.
Ghazal Of Mira
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

The world passes, nothing lasts, and the creation of men
Is buried alive under the vault of Time.
Autumn comes pillaging gardens;
The bulbuls laugh to see the flowers falling.
Wars start up wherever your eye glances,
And the young men moan marching on to the batteries.
Mira is the unkempt old man you see on the road;
He has taken his death-wound in battle.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century).