DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Child Said, What Is The Grass?
by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
The Cat
by Charles Baudelaire

I.
A cat is strolling through my mind
Acting as though he owned the place,
A lovely cat-strong, charming, sweet.
When he meows, one scarcely hears,
So tender and discreet his tone;
But whether he should growl or purr
His voice is always rich and deep.
That is the secret of his charm.
This purling voice that filters down
Into my darkest depths of soul
Fulfils me like a balanced verse,
Delights me as a potion would.
It puts to sleep the cruellest ills
And keeps a rein on ecstasies
Without the need for any words
It can pronounce the longest phrase.
Oh no, there is no bow that draws
Across my heart, fine instrument,
And makes to sing so royally
The strongest and the purest chord,
More than your voice, mysterious cat,
Exotic cat, seraphic cat,
In whom all is, angelically,
As subtle as harmonious.
II.
From his soft fur, golden and brown,
Goes out so sweet a scent, one night
I might have been embalmed in it
By giving him one little pet.
He is my household's guardian soul;
He judges, he presides, inspires
All matters in his royal realm;
Might he be fairy? or a god?
When my eyes, to this cat I love
Drawn as by a magnet's force,
Turn tamely back from that appeal,
And when I look within myself,
I notice with astonishment
The fire of his opal eyes,
Clear beacons glowing, living jewels,
Taking my measure, steadily.
A Charm Invests A Face
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld, --
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.
But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies, --
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.
The Jealous Husband
by Jean de La Fontaine

A CERTAIN husband who, from jealous fear,
With one eye slept while t'other watched his dear,
Deprived his wife of every social joy,
(Friends oft the jealous character annoy,)
And made a fine collection in a book,
Of tricks with which the sex their wishes hook.
Strange fool! as if their wiles, to speak the truth,
Were not a hydra, both in age and youth.
HIS wife howe'er engaged his constant cares;
He counted e'en the number of her hairs;
And kept a hag who followed every hour,
Where'er she went, each motion to devour;
Duenna like, true semblance of a shade,
That never quits, yet moves as if afraid.
THIS arch collection, like a prayer-book bound;
Was in the blockhead's pocket always found,
The form religious of the work, he thought,
Would prove a charm 'gainst vice whenever sought!
ONE holy day, it happened that our dame,
As from the neighb'ring church she homeward came;
And passed a house, some wight, concealed from view;
A basket full of filth upon her threw.
WITH anxious care apologies were made;
The lady, frightened by the frolick played,
Quite unsuspicious to the mansion went;
Her aged friend for other clothes she sent,
Who hurried home, and ent'ring out of breath;
Informed old hunks - what pained him more than death
ZOUNDS! cried the latter, vainly I may look
To find a case like this within my book;
A dupe I'm made, and nothing can be worse: - 
Hell seize the work - 'tis thoroughly a curse!
NOT wrong he proved, for, truly to confess;
This throwing dirt upon the lady's dress
Was done to get the hag, with Argus' eyes
Removed a certain distance from the prize.
The gay gallant, who watched the lucky hour,
Felt doubly blessed to have her in his power.
HOW vain our schemes to guard the wily sex!
Oft plots we find, that ev'ry sense perplex.
Go, jealous husbands, books of cases burn;
Caresses lavish, and you'll find return.
A Case Of Libel.
by Thomas Moore

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."
A certain Sprite, who dwells below,
('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)
Came up incog. some years ago
To try for a change the London air.
So well he lookt and drest and talkt,
And hid his tail and horns so handy,
You'd hardly have known him as he walkt
From C----e, or any other Dandy.
(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;
So he has but to take them out of the socket,
And--just as some fine husbands do--
Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)
In short, he lookt extremely natty,
And even contrived--to his own great wonder--
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,
To keep the sulphurous hogo under.
And so my gentleman hoofed about,
Unknown to all but a chosen few
At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt
He had many post-obits falling due.
Alike a gamester and a wit,
At night he was seen with Crockford's crew,
At morn with learned dames would sit--
So past his time 'twixt black and blue.
Some wisht to make him an M. P.,
But, finding Wilks was also one, he
Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he
"Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."
At length as secrets travel fast,
And devils, whether he or she,
Are sure to be found out at last,
The affair got wind most rapidly.
The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs
Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers--
Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's,
Fired off a squib in the morning papers:
"We warn good men to keep aloof
"From a grim old Dandy seen about
"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof
"Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."
Now,--the Devil being gentleman,
Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,--
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,
How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.
Away he posts to a Man of Law,
And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em,
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,
And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.
Straight an indictment was preferred--
And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,
When, asking about the Bench, he heard
That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.[1]
In vain Defendant proffered proof
That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil--
Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof
And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.
The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,
And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)
Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which
The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.
For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies
(As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)
To find it settled by laws so wise,
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!
The Abbreviated Fox And His Sceptical Comrades
by Guy Wetmore Carryl

A certain fox had a Grecian nose
And a beautiful tail. His friends
Were wont to say in a jesting way
A divinity shaped his ends.
The fact is sad, but his foxship had
A fault we should all eschew:
He was so deceived that he quite believed
What he heard from friends was true.
One day he found in a sheltered spot
A trap with stalwart springs
That was cunningly planned to supply the demand
For some of those tippet things.
The fox drew nigh, and resolved to try
The way that the trap was set:
(When the trap was through with this interview
There was one less tippet to get!)
The fox returned to his doting friends
And said, with an awkward smile,
"My tail I know was comme il faut,
And served me well for a while."
When his comrades laughed at his shortage aft
He added, with scornful bow,
"Pray check your mirth, for I hear from Worth
They're wearing them shorter now."
But one of his friends, a bookish chap,
Replied, with a thoughtful frown,
"You know to-day the publishers say
That the short tale won't go down;
And, upon my soul, I think on the whole,
That the publishers' words are true.
I should hate, good sir, to part my fur
In the middle, as done by you."
And another added these truthful words
In the midst of the eager hush,
"We can part our hair 'most anywhere
So long as we keep the brush."
THE MORAL is this: It is never amiss
To treasure the things you've penned:
Preserve your tales, for, when all else fails,
They'll be useful things--in the end.
The Dress-Maker
by Jean de La Fontaine

A CLOISTERED nun had a lover
Dwelling in the neighb'ring town;
Both racked their brains to discover
How they best their love might crown.
The swain to pass the convent-door! - 
No easy matter! - Thus they swore,
And wished it light. - I ne'er knew a nun
In such a pass to be outdone: - 
In woman's clothes the youth must dress,
And gain admission. I confess
The ruse has oft been tried before,
But it succeeded as of yore.
Together in a close barred cell
The lovers were, and sewed all day,
Nor heeded how time flew away. - 
"What's that I hear? Refection bell!
"'Tis time to part. Adieu! - Farewell! - 
"How's this?" exclaimed the abbess, "why
"The last at table?" - "Madam, I
"Have had my dress-maker." - "The rent
"On which you've both been so intent
"Is hard to stop, for the whole day
"To sew and mend, you made her stay;
"Much work indeed you've had to do!
" - Madam, 't would last the whole night through,
"When in our task we find enjoyment
"There is no end of the employment."
Niagara
by John Campbell

A ceaseless, awful, falling sea, whose sound
Shakes earth and air, and whose resistless stroke
Shoots high the volleying foam like cannon smoke!
How dread and beautiful the floods, when, crowned
By moonbeams on their rushing ridge, they bound
Into the darkness and the veiling spray;
Or, jewel-hued and rainbow-dyed, when day
Lights the pale torture of the gulf profound!
So poured the avenging streams upon the world
When swung the ark upon the deluge wave,
And, o'er each precipice in grandeur hurled,
The endless torrents gave mankind a grave.
God's voice is mighty, on the water loud,
Here, as of old, in thunder, glory, cloud!
The Maid.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A certain maid, as proud as fair,
A husband thought to find
Exactly to her mind - 
Well-form'd and young, genteel in air,
Not cold nor jealous; - mark this well.
Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle
Must have, besides rank, wealth, and wit,
And all good qualities to fit - 
A man 'twere difficult to get.
Kind Fate, however, took great care
To grant, if possible, her prayer.
There came a-wooing men of note;
The maiden thought them all,
By half, too mean and small.
'They marry me! the creatures dote: - 
Alas! poor souls! their case I pity.'
(Here mark the bearing of the beauty.)
Some were less delicate than witty;
Some had the nose too short or long;
In others something else was wrong;
Which made each in the maiden's eyes
An altogether worthless prize.
Profound contempt is aye the vice
Which springs from being over-nice,
Thus were the great dismiss'd; and then
Came offers from inferior men.
The maid, more scornful than before,
Took credit to her tender heart
For giving then an open door.
'They think me much in haste to part
With independence! God be thank'd
My lonely nights bring no regret;
Nor shall I pine, or greatly fret,
Should I with ancient maids be rank'd.'
Such were the thoughts that pleased the fair:
Age made them only thoughts that were.
Adieu to lovers: - passing years
Awaken doubts and chilling fears.
Regret, at last, brings up the train.
Day after day she sees, with pain,
Some smile or charm take final flight,
And leave the features of a 'fright.'
Then came a hundred sorts of paint:
But still no trick, nor ruse, nor feint,
Avail'd to hide the cause of grief,
Or bar out Time, that graceless thief.
A house, when gone to wreck and ruin,
May be repair'd and made a new one.
Alas! for ruins of the face
No such rebuilding e'er takes place.
Her daintiness now changed its tune;
Her mirror told her, 'Marry soon!'
So did a certain wish within,
With more of secrecy than sin, - 
A wish that dwells with even prudes,
Annihilating solitudes.
This maiden's choice was past belief,
She soothing down her restless grief,
And smoothing it of every ripple,
By marrying a cripple.
To R. L. S. - A Child
by William Ernest Henley

A child,
Curious and innocent,
Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing
Loses himself in the Fair.
Thro' the jostle and din
Wandering, he revels,
Dreaming, desiring, possessing;
Till, of a sudden
Tired and afraid, he beholds
The sordid assemblage
Just as it is; and he runs
With a sob to his Nurse
(Lighting at last on him),
And in her motherly bosom
Cries him to sleep.
Thus thro' the World,
Seeing and feeling and knowing,
Goes Man:    till at last,
Tired of experience, he turns
To the friendly and comforting breast
Of the old nurse, Death.
1876
Ezra Bartlett
by Edgar Lee Masters

A chaplain in the army,
A chaplain in the prisons,
An exhorter in Spoon River,
Drunk with divinity, Spoon River - 
Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame,
And myself to scorn and wretchedness.
But why will you never see that love of women,
And even love of wine,
Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity,
Reaches the ecstatic vision
And sees the celestial outposts?
Only after many trials for strength,
Only when all stimulants fail,
Does the aspiring soul
By its own sheer power
Find the divine
By resting upon itself.
The City Mouse And The Country Mouse.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A City Mouse, with ways polite,
A Country Mouse invited
To sup with him and spend the night.
Said Country Mouse: "De - lighted!"
In truth it proved a royal treat,
With everything that's good to eat.
Alas! When they had just begun
To gobble their dinner,
A knock was heard that made them run.
The City Mouse seemed thinner.
And as they scampered and turned tail,
He saw the Country Mouse grow pale.
The knocking ceased. A false alarm!
The City Mouse grew braver.
"Come back!" he cried. "No, no! The farm,
Where I'll not quake or quaver,
Suits me," replied the Country Mouse.
"You're welcome to your city house."
A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's;
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A Clock Stopped -- Not The Mantel's;
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.
An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.
It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No
Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from the seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.
Paul Jones
by John Charles McNeill

A century of silent suns
Have set since he was laid on sleep,
And now they bear with booming guns
And streaming banners o'er the deep
A withered skin and clammy hair
Upon a frame of human bones:
Whose corse?    We neither know nor care,
Content to name it John Paul Jones.
His dust were as another's dust;
His bones--what boots it where they lie?
What matter where his sword is rust,
Or where, now dark, his eagle eye?
No foe need fear his arm again,
Nor love, nor praise can make him whole;
But o'er the farthest sons of men
Will brood the glory of his soul.
Careless though cenotaph or tomb
Shall tower his country's monument,
Let banners float and cannon boom,
A million-throated shout be spent,
Until his widowed sea shall laugh
With sunlight in her mantling foam,
While, to his tomb or cenotaph,
We bid our hero welcome home.
Twice exiled, let his ashes rest
At home, afar, or in the wave,
But keep his great heart with us, lest
Our nation's greatness find its grave;
And, while the vast deep listens by,
When armored wrong makes terms to right,
Keep on our lips his proud reply,
"Sir, I have but begun to fight!"
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXVI. Songs.
by Unknown

A carrion crow sat on an oak,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,
Watching a tailor shape his cloak;
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.
Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow;
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.
The tailor he shot and missed his mark,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,
And shot his own sow quite through the heart;
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.
Wife, bring brandy in a spoon,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,
For our old sow is in a swoon;
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.
Spring
by Alfred Lichtenstein

A certain Rudolf called out:
I have eaten too much.
Whether it's healthy is very questionable.
After such a greasy lunch
I really feel uncomfortable.
But I belch beautifully and smoke
Cigarettes now and then.
Lying on my heavy belly,
I chirp nothing but songs of spring.
Longingly, as though on a ramp
The voice squeals from the throat.
And like an old lamp
The wind blackens the bitter soul.
Lord Ullin's Daughter
by Thomas Campbell

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my cheif, I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady:
And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:
For though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water, wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still wilder brew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"Oh haste thee, hast!" the lady cries
"Though tempest round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat had left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The waters gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing:
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:
One lovely hand stretched out for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
And the waters went wild o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
Moon Song
by Robert William Service

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."
A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.
A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow - 
The lad's a-winkin' at me now."
Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,
And drawing near her resting place."
Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"
Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.
A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,
And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again.
Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face be so serene?
And tranquil still you'll make your round,
Old Moon, when we are underground.
A Dream Of Waking
by George MacDonald

A child was born in sin and shame,
Wronged by his very birth,
Without a home, without a name,
One over in the earth.
No wifely triumph he inspired,
Allayed no husband's fear;
Intruder bare, whom none desired,
He had a welcome drear.
Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift
For knocking at earth's gate,
His mother, like an evil gift,
Shunned him with sickly hate.
And now the mistress on her knee
The unloved baby bore,
The while the servant sullenly
Prepared to leave her door.
Her eggs are dear to mother-dove,
Her chickens to the hen;
All young ones bring with them their love,
Of sheep, or goats, or men!
This one lone child shall not have come
In vain for love to seek:
Let mother's hardened heart be dumb,
A sister-babe will speak!
"Mother, keep baby--keep him so;
Don't let him go away."
"But, darling, if his mother go,
Poor baby cannot stay."
"He's crying, mother: don't you see
He wants to stay with you?"
"No, child; he does not care for me."
"Do keep him, mother--do."
"For his own mother he would cry;
He's hungry now, I think."
"Give him to me, and let me try
If I can make him drink."
"Susan would hurt him! Mother will
Let the poor baby stay?"
Her mother's heart grew sore, but still
Baby must go away!
The red lip trembled; the slow tears
Came darkening in her eyes;
Pressed on her heart a weight of fears
That sought not ease in cries.
'Twas torture--must not be endured!--
A too outrageous grief!
Was there an ill could not be cured?
She would find some relief!
All round her universe she pried:
No dawn began to break:
In prophet-agony she cried--
"Mother! when shall we wake?"
O insight born of torture's might!--
Such grief can only seem.
Rise o'er the hills, eternal light,
And melt the earthly dream.