DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Tefkir Name. - For Woman Due
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

For woman due allowance make!
Form'd of a crooked rib was she,
By Heaven she could not straightened be.
Attempt to bend her, and she'll break;
If left alone, more crooked grows madam;
What well could be worse, my good friend, Adam?
For woman due allowance make;
'Twere grievous, if thy rib should break!
Requiem
by Robert Fuller Murray

For thee the birds shall never sing again,
Nor fresh green leaves come out upon the tree,
The brook shall no more murmur the refrain
For thee.
Thou liest underneath the windswept lea,
Thou dreamest not of pleasure or of pain,
Thou dreadest no to-morrow that shall be.
Deep rest is thine, unbroken by the rain,
Ay, or the thunder.    Brother, canst thou see
The tears that night and morning fall in vain
For thee?
The Custard.
by Robert Herrick

For second course, last night, a custard came
To th' board, so hot as none could touch the same:
Furze three or four times with his cheeks did blow
Upon the custard, and thus cooled so;
It seem'd by this time to admit the touch,
But none could eat it, 'cause it stunk so much.
The Sonnets X - For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
by William Shakespeare

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Clemency.
by Robert Herrick

For punishment in war it will suffice
If the chief author of the faction dies;
Let but few smart, but strike a fear through all;
Where the fault springs there let the judgment fall.
Dash Into Realism: Escape Pad From The Sixties
by Paul Cameron Brown

For one, street argot became tougher.
You had to distinguish between what you meant by calling someone a mother.
The Black Panther influence, no doubt, but a rejuvenation of the
language. Street fighting man. Butchery at My Lai.
House arrest for Lieutenant Calley so strangely appropriate for the times.
So middle class and a tribute to "doing one's own thing":
Rampant, militant individualism, the hallmarks of expression.
Sit-ins, love-ins, peace-ins. The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test,
anyone? The sixties were the highwater meritocracy from the
foremost "me decade".
Getting right on target for the narcissism of the seventies.
Or so it was rumoured.
What's next in the social roller derby?
Cutbacks, retrenchments, accountability.
Even uglier, this new argot of the eighties.
After A Reading
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

For the seven times seventh time love would renew the delight without end or alloy
That it takes in the praise as it takes in the presence of eyes that fulfil it with joy;
But how shall it praise them and rest unrebuked by the presence and pride of the boy?
Praise meet for a child is unmeet for an elder whose winters and springs are nine
What song may have strength in its wings to expand them, or light in its eyes to shine,
That shall seem not as weakness and darkness if matched with the theme I would fain make mine?
The round little flower of a face that exults in the sunshine of shadowless days
Defies the delight it enkindles to sing of it aught not unfit for the praise
Of the sweetest of all things that eyes may rejoice in and tremble with love as they gaze.
Such tricks and such meanings abound on the lips and the brows that are brighter than light,
The demure little chin, the sedate little nose, and the forehead of sun-stained white,
That love overflows into laughter and laughter subsides into love at the sight.
Each limb and each feature has action in tune with the meaning that smiles as it speaks
From the fervour of eyes and the fluttering of hands in a foretaste of fancies and freaks,
When the thought of them deepens the dimples that laugh in the corners and curves of his cheeks.
As a bird when the music within her is yet too intense to be spoken in song,
That pauses a little for pleasure to feel how the notes from withinwards throng,
So pauses the laugh at his lips for a little, and waxes within more strong.
As the music elate and triumphal that bids all things of the dawn bear part
With the tune that prevails when her passion has risen into rapture of passionate art,
So lightens the laughter made perfect that leaps from its nest in the heaven of his heart.
Deep, grave and sedate is the gaze of expectant intensity bent for awhile
And absorbed on its aim as the tale that enthralls him uncovers the weft of its wile,
Till the goal of attention is touched, and expectancy kisses delight in a smile.
And it seems to us here that in Paradise hardly the spirit of Lamb or of Blake
May hear or behold aught sweeter than lightens and rings when his bright thoughts break
In laughter that well might lure them to look, and to smile as of old for his sake.
O singers that best loved children, and best for their sakes are beloved of us here,
In the world of your life everlasting, where love has no thorn and desire has no fear,
All else may be sweeter than aught is on earth, nought dearer than these are dear.
The Unuttered
by John Frederick Freeman

For so long and so long had I forgot,
Serenely busied
With thousand things; at whiles desire grew hot
And my soul dizzied
With hapless and insatiable salt thirst.
Nor was I humbled
Saving with shame that, running with the worst
My feet yet stumbled.
Pride and delight of life enchained my heart,
My heart enchanted,
And oh, soft subtle fingers had their part,
And eyes love-haunted.
But while my busy mind was thus intent,
Or thus surrendered,
What was it, oh what strange thing was it sent
Through all that hindered
A thrill that woke the buried soul in me?--
It seemed there fluttered
A thought--or was it a sudden fear?--of Thee,
Remote, unuttered.
Musagetes.
by Madison Julius Cawein

For the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow
From stormy wind-chasms and caves,
And I heard their wild cataracts wallow
Huge bulks in long spasms of waves,
And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow!
And our path is o'er myriads of graves."
Then I felt that the black earth was porous
And rotten with worms and with bones;
And I knew that the ground that now bore us
Was cadaverous with Death's skeletons;
And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorous
And dolorous gnashings and groans.
But the night of the tempest and thunder,
The might of the terrible skies,
And the fire of Hell that, - coiled under
The hollow Earth, - smoulders and sighs,
And the laughter of stars and their wonder
Mingled and mixed in its eyes.
And we clomb - and the moon old and sterile
Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar!
And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,
Wan mountains and cities of spar - 
"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in peril
Of falling and failing your star."
And we clomb - through a murmur of pinions,
Thin rattle of talons and plumes;
And a sense as of Boreal dominions
Clove down to the abysms and tombs;
And the Night's naked, Ethiope minions
Swarmed on us in legions of glooms.
And we clomb - till we stood at the portal
Of the uttermost point of the peak,
And it led with a step more than mortal
Far upward some presence to seek;
And I felt that this love was immortal,
This love which had made me so weak.
We had clomb till the limbo of spirits
Of darkness and crime deep below
Swung nebular; nor could we hear its
Lost wailings and moanings of woe, - 
For we stood in a realm that inherits
A vanquishing virgin of snow.
Acrostic.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

For thee, my son, a mother's earnest prayer
Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere,
Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most;
Not merely earthly good for thee she prays,
Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days,
What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.
In this life we find alternate day and night,
Not always darkness, sure not always light;
'Tis well it should be so, we're travellers here,
Home, that "sweet home," the Christian's place of rest,
Rises by faith to view when most distressed:
Oh! this life past - mayst thou find entrance there.
Perplexed, distressed, sick, or by friends betrayed,
Beset with snares, deprived of human aid,
In all thy sorrows whatsoe'er they be,
Go to the Saviour, tell him all thy need,
Entreat his pity, he's a friend indeed;
Lay hold by faith on Him, and he will succor thee.
Oh, do not live for this dull world alone,
When with the Angels thou mayst find a home.
Jan. 1853.
For Old Sake's Sake!
by Henry Austin Dobson

"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose
Words fitter for an old-world Muse
Than these, that in their cadence bring
Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,
And charms that rustic lovers use.
The long day lengthens, and we lose
The first pale flush, the morning hues,--
Ah! but the back-look, lingering,
For old sake's sake!
That we retain. Though Time refuse
To lift the veil on forward views,
Despot in most, he is not King
Of those kind memories that cling
Around his travelled avenues
For old sake's sake!
"Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son 'ge
De son 'ge a tout le malheur."
Voltaire.
Severus Speaks
by Helen Leah Reed

"For nearly eighteen years upon my head
The crown of Empire heavily has set.
The burden on my shoulders I have borne
Of an estate encumbered far and wide
With debts I had to pay. Ah! everywhere
Murmurs, revolts, or wars assailed my throne.
Now quiet comes - even in Britain here,
The most disturbing Province of them all.
Yet I must go, the profits I must leave
To others to enjoy - to hold with ease
What I with bitter travail have obtained.
Peace there must be, and mutual amity,
The one support to hold the Empire firm,
To keep the Glory of the Empire bright.
Discord would be the ruin of the pile,
That my poor hands have built so painfully.
Only when Peace prevails may we behold
How small things grow to greatness.
- Now I die
And all the issue of the coming days
I leave to my successor, and my son,
Though he has been a cruel son to me.
Bassanius I name your Emperor,
The new-made Antoninus, who long tried
To get that title by the sword,
Who sought my death, the dangers knowing not
That always must surround a diadem,
Forgetting that the places of the great
Are guarded well by Envy and by Fear.
Blind is ambition, for it cannot see
That though a sovereign's power large may seem
To others, by himself the things possessed
Are counted small enough, aye small theyare.
For titles cannot make a happy man.
While his thin thread of life must waver so,
His might is laid upon a weak support.
So men may point to me, and say 'Behold - 
A man who once was all things in this world,
Yet now is nothing. For like meaner men
He paid his debt to nature. His exploits
He left behind.' Aye, friends I leave my deeds
For you to register. Reproach or praise
The shadowing pencil of oblivion
At last will blot. And yet that all the care
That I have taken for the general good
May bring forth happy fruits when I am dust,
This would I make my one, my last request,
- Assist my sons with counsel and with aid,
That they may rule according to the law,
And you obey according to the right.
So, through you both - my legions and my sons - 
The Empire shall be held in high respect."
And then the dying Emperor feebly turned
Toward the urn wherein so soon must lie
His ashes - and he cried "So shalt thou hold
What the whole world one time could not contain."
Thus died Severus.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXX - The Point At Issue
by William Wordsworth

For what contend the wise? for nothing less
Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of Sense,
And to her God restored by evidence
Of things not seen, drawn forth from their recess,
Root there, and not in forms, her holiness;
For Faith, which to the Patriarchs did dispense
Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence
Was needful round men thirsting to transgress;
For Faith, more perfect still, with which the Lord
Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth
Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill
The temples of their hearts who, with his word
Informed, were resolute to do his will,
And worship him in spirit and in truth.
Man Of Today
by Helen Leah Reed

For thee he thought,
The Greek, who by the sea
Lay in his lithe-limbed grace, as dreamily
He gazed upon the sky begemmed with stars,
And pondered mysteries. Ah, few the bars
To stop that lofty spirit in its flight
Compared with those that lock our souls in night.
For thee he thought!
For thee he wrought,
The Tyrian, who of old
His rich web wove of purple dye and gold;
Whose little bark, outstanding many a storm,
To ruder lands the spirit and the form
Of Eastern culture bore. Ah! what we owe
To him today, let sage and poet show.
For thee he wrought!
For thee he fought!
The Saxon, who upheld
The freedom of our race; whose broad-ax felled
Imperial legions in the forest dim
Where loud his war-cry rang - a noble hymn
For manhood's victory over regal pride,
On the sad day when mighty Varus died.
For thee he fought!
For thee He taught!
The Nazarene who bore
The burden of the world, who by the shore
Of Galilee His words of wisdom spake
Whose life a pattern for our life we'd take,
Whose words, re-echoing to remotest time,
Shall lead us on toward a height sublime.
For thee He taught!
Man - man! thou heir of all the ages, thou,
Man of today! uplift thy drooping brow!
Think, work, fight, teach - thine heritage pass on
Tenfold increased. He'll reap who has foregone
Life's little, limited delights, - in measure
As selfless he has sown his earthly treasure.
An Epilogue
by John Collings Squire, Sir

I.    THE FLUKE
For two years you went
Through all the worst of it,
Men fell around you, but you did not fall.
On the Somme when the air was a sea
Of contesting flashes and clouds of smoke,
Your gunners fell fast but you got never a scratch.
And once when you watched from a village tower
(At Longueval, was it?) between our guns and theirs
As men fought in the houses below,
A shell from an English battery came
And tore a hole in the tower below you,
But you were not hurt and remained observing.
And now,
A casual shell has come
And pierced your head,
And the men who were with you, uninjured,
Carried you back,
And you died on the way.
II.    THE CONVERSATION
When we've greeted each other again,
And you've filled your pipe and sat down and stretched your legs,
You will look in the fire for a minute
And then you will say, with a yawn,
"Well, when do you think this damned war will be over?"
And I shall say nothing, or something as empty as nothing.
But I am forgetting.
We shall not greet each other again;
You will not ask that question again.
III.    THE DEAF ADDER
Well, it's no good brooding.
The past cannot return.
They have killed him and buried him.
Many men as good as he have gone:
They were good men even if one never knew them.
It is a just and honourable war.
He went in readily at the start, though he hated it,
And one would not have had him do otherwise.
And, thank God, he did the job well
That had to be done.
He has suffered with millions of others
For the sake of the future's peace,
And ungrudgingly laid down his life
In the cleanest of England's wars.
There is no room for regret here, only for pride.
*     *     *     *     *
Heart, you fool, lie down.
Cannot you hear
My excellent reasoning?
IV.    THE LANDSCAPE
You said, that first winter,
That the landscape around Ypres
Reminded you of Chinese paintings:
The green plain, striped with trenches,
The few trees on the plain,
And the puffs of smoke sprinkled over the plain.
You said, when the war was over,
That you would record that green desolation
In flat colours and lines
As a Chinese artist would.
That is what you were going to do.
The plain is still there.
V.    ANOTHER HOUR
How many days we spent together!
Thousands.
And now I would give anything,
Anything,
For another, or even for one hour:
An hour, were it only of aimless lounging,
Or a game of billiards in a pub.
After Rain
by Archibald Lampman

For three whole days across the sky,
In sullen packs that loomed and broke,
With flying fringes dim as smoke,
The columns of the rain went by;
At every hour the wind awoke;
The darkness passed upon the plain;
The great drops rattled at the pane.
Now piped the wind, or far aloof
Fell to a sough remote and dull;
And all night long with rush and lull
The rain kept drumming on the roof:
I heard till ear and sense were full
The clash or silence of the leaves,
The gurgle in the creaking eaves.
But when the fourth day came - at noon,
The darkness and the rain were by;
The sunward roofs were steaming dry;
And all the world was flecked and strewn
With shadows from a fleecy sky.
The haymakers were forth and gone,
And every rillet laughed and shone.
Then, too, on me that loved so well
The world, despairing in her blight,
Uplifted with her least delight,
On me, as on the earth, there fell
New happiness of mirth and might;
I strode the valleys pied and still;
I climbed upon the breezy hill.
I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop,
Sole shadow on the shining world;
I saw the mountains clothed and curled,
With forest ruffling to the top;
I saw the river's length unfurled,
Pale silver down the fruited plain,
Grown great and stately with the rain.
Through miles of shadow and soft heat,
Where field and fallow, fence and tree,
Were all one world of greenery,
I heard the robin ringing sweet,
The sparrow piping silverly,
The thrushes at the forest's hem;
And as I went I sang with them.
The Silken Snake.
by Robert Herrick

For sport my Julia threw a lace
Of silk and silver at my face:
Watchet the silk was, and did make
A show as if't had been a snake:
The suddenness did me afright,
But though it scar'd, it did not bite.
A Song Of Thanks
by Edward Smyth Jones

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale, - 
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, - 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the beaded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stall'd ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks, - 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks, - 
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, - 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,
For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl, - 
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, - 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers, - 
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, - 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
Pilgrims
by Robert William Service

For oh, when the war will be over
We'll go and we'll look for our dead;
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red:
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flow'rs;
And there where the crosses are greyest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.
For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,
Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.
'But never, oh, never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace!
So come when the valleys are sheening,
And fledged with the promise of grain;
And here where our graves will be greening,
Just smile and be happy again.'
And so, when the war will be over,
We'll seek for the Wonderful One;
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss,
As - glory beyond all believing!
We point . . . to a name on a cross.
Rondeau. - For Our Love's Sake.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

For our Love's sake I bid thee stay,
Sweet, ere the hours flee away,
Beneath the old acacia tree
That waves its blossoms quiveringly,
And think awhile of early May:
Of how the months have fled away,
And sunrise hour turned twilight gray,
While we have suffered smilingly
For our Love's sake.
It may not be - that which we pray
For tearfully - but dare not say.
And yet if, Sweet, it may not be,
We still may suffer silently,
Watching our sunlight fade away,
For our Love's sake.
The Last Time
by John Frederick Freeman

For the last time,
The last, last time,
The last ...
All those last times have I lived through again,
And every "last" renews itself in pain--
Yes, each returns, and each returns in vain:
You return not, the last remains the last,
And I remain to cast
Weak anchors of my love in shifting sands
Of faith:--
The anchors drag, nothing I see save death.
Together we
Talked and were glad. I could not see
That one black gesture menaced you and me!
We kissed, and parted;
I left you, and was even merry-hearted....
And now my love is thwarted
That reaches back to you and searches round,
And dares not look on that harsh turfless mound.
And that last time
We walked together and the air acold
Hummed shrill around; the time that you
Walked heavily,
And I dared not to see,
Nor dared you then to speak of what must be.
We knew not what the shut days would unfold--
Nay, could not know till all the days were told....
But that last time we walked together, and
--And walk no more together, nor clasp hand
In hand, just stiffly as we used to do.
Never in dreams,
O happy, never in stealing dreams
We meet; never again
I live by night the day's slow-dying pain ...
The last, last time,
The last--
That time is past; yet in too-golden day
My heart goes from me whispering,
"Where are you--you--you--you?"
And comes back easeless to an easeless breast.
But at night I rest
Dreamless as derelict ships ride out to sea
Empty, and no bird even on the snapp'd mast
Pauses: into oblivion her shadow's cast;
Into the empty night goes lonely she,
And into sleep go--oh, more lonely I.
His Prayer For Absolution
by Robert Herrick

For those my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed times,
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with Thee, my Lord,
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book, that is not Thine.
But if, 'mongst all, Thou find'st here one
Worthy thy benediction,
That one of all the rest shall be
The glory of my work, and me.
John Drew
by Oliver Herford

For Perfect Form there are but few
That can compare with Mr. Drew;
A Form most fittingly displayed
In r'les from London, tailor-made
By Messrs. Maughn, Pinero, Jones,
In quiet, gentlemanly tones.
The Nouveaux-Riches flock, day by day,
To learn from John how to display
(Without unnecessary gloom)
The manners of the drawing-room.
This possibly may be the cause
(Or one of them) why John Drew draws.