DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Lines Written Amidst The Ruins Of A Church On The Coast Of Suffolk.
by Susanna Moodie

"What hast thou seen in the olden time,
Dark ruin, lone and gray?"
"Full many a race from thy native clime,
And the bright earth, pass away.
The organ has pealed in these roofless aisles,
And priests have knelt to pray
At the altar, where now the daisy smiles
O'er their silent beds of clay.
"I've seen the strong man a wailing child,
By his mother offered here;
I've seen him a warrior fierce and wild;
I've seen him on his bier,
His warlike harness beside him laid
In the silent earth to rust;
His plumed helm and trusty blade
To moulder into dust!
"I've seen the stern reformer scorn
The things once deemed divine,
And the bigot's zeal with gems adorn
The altar's sacred shrine.
I've seen the silken banners wave
Where now the ivy clings,
And the sculptured stone adorn the grave
Of mitred priests and kings.
"I've seen the youth in his tameless glee,
And the hoary locks of age,
Together bend the pious knee,
To read the sacred page;
I've seen the maid with her sunny brow
To the silent dust go down,
The soil-bound slave forget his woe,
The king resign his crown.
"Ages have fled--and I have seen
The young--the fair--the gay--
Forgot as if they ne'er had been,
Though worshipped in their day:
And school-boys here their revels keep,
And spring from grave to grave,
Unconscious that beneath them sleep
The noble and the brave.
"Here thousands find a resting place
Who bent before this shrine;
Their dust is here--their name and race,
Oblivion; now are thine!
The prince--the peer--the peasant sleeps
Alike beneath the sod;
Time o'er their dust short record keeps,
Forgotten save by God!
"I've seen the face of nature change,
And where the wild waves beat,
The eye delightedly might range
O'er many a goodly seat;
But hill, and dale, and forest fair,
Are whelmed beneath the tide.
They slumber here--who could declare
Who owned those manors wide!
"All thou hast felt--these sleepers knew;
For human hearts are still
In every age to nature true,
And swayed by good or ill:
By passion ruled and born to woe,
Unceasing tears they shed;
But thou must sleep, like them, to know
The secrets of the dead!"
No Loathsomeness In Love.
by Robert Herrick

What I fancy I approve,
No dislike there is in love.
Be my mistress short or tall,
And distorted therewithal:
Be she likewise one of those
That an acre hath of nose:
Be her forehead and her eyes
Full of incongruities:
Be her cheeks so shallow too
As to show her tongue wag through;
Be her lips ill hung or set,
And her grinders black as jet:
Has she thin hair, hath she none,
She's to me a paragon.
Upon Watts' Picture Sic Transit
by John McCrae

"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."
But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,
The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife;
To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.
( One sings within.)
But yesterday the glory and the prize,
And best of all, to lay it at her feet,
To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes:
I grudge them not, they pass, albeit sweet.
The ring of spears, the winning of the fight,
The careless song, the cup, the love of friends,
The earth in spring to live, to feel the light
'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.
Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done,
The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that fall
In kindliness upon some outcast one,
They seemed so little: now they are my All.
The Bird At Dawn
by Harold Edward Monro

What I saw was just one eye
In the dawn as I was going:
A bird can carry all the sky
In that little button glowing.
Never in my life I went
So deep into the firmament.
He was standing on a tree,
All in blossom overflowing;
And he purposely looked hard at me,
At first, as if to question merrily:
'Where are you going?'
But next some far more serious thing to say:
I could not answer, could not look away.
Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye:
Little mirror of all sky! -
And then the after-song another tree
Held, and sent radiating back on me.
If no man had invented human word,
And a bird-song had been
The only way to utter what we mean,
What would we men have heard,
What understood, what seen,
Between the trills and pauses, in between
The singing and the silence of a bird?
The Dog With His Ears Cropped (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

"What have I done to be treated in this way? Mutilated by my own master! A nice state to be in! Dare I present myself before other dogs? O ye kings over the animals, or rather tyrants of them, would any creature do the same to you?"
Such were the lamentations of poor Fido, a young house-dog, whilst those who were busy cropping his ears remained quite untouched by his piercing and dolorous howls.
Fido believed himself to be ruined for life; but he very shortly found that he was a gainer by the maiming. For being by nature disposed to pilfer from his companions, it would come within his experience to have many misadventures wherein his ears would be torn in a hundred places.
Aggressive dogs always have ragged ears. The less they have for other dogs' teeth to fasten upon the better.
When one has but a single weak place to defend, one protects it against an onset. Witness Master Fido armed with a spiked collar, and having no more ears to catch hold of than are on my hand. Even a wolf would not have known where to take him.
The People
by William Butler Yeats

'What have I earned for all that work,' I said,
'For all that I have done at my own charge?
The daily spite of this unmannerly town,
Where who has served the most is most defamed,
The reputation of his lifetime lost
Between the night and morning. I might have lived,
And you know well how great the longing has been,
Where every day my footfall should have lit
In the green shadow of Ferrara wall;
Or climbed among the images of the past'
The unperturbed and courtly images'
Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino
To where the duchess and her people talked
The stately midnight through until they stood
In their great window looking at the dawn;
I might have had no friend that could not mix
Courtesy and passion into one like those
That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn;
I might have used the one substantial right
My trade allows: chosen my company,
And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.'
Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof,
'The drunkards, pilferers of public funds,
All the dishonest crowd I had driven away,
When my luck changed and they dared meet my face,
Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me
Those I had served and some that I had fed;
Yet never have I, now nor any time,
Complained of the people.'
All I could reply
Was: 'You, that have not lived in thought but deed,
Can have the purity of a natural force,
But I, whose virtues are the definitions
Of the analytic mind, can neither close
The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.'
And yet, because my heart leaped at her words,
I was abashed, and now they come to mind
After nine years, I sink my head abashed.
What Have The Cavalry Done?
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

What have the cavalry done?
Cantered and trotted about,
Routin' the enemy out,
Causin' the beggars to run!
And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,
Over the veldt on our weary feet.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
Under the blazin' sun,
With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,
'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before,
That's what the cavalry done!
What have the gunners done
Battlin' every day,
Battlin' any way.
Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?
"Shoot and be damned," said the R.H.A.!
See! when the fight grows hot,
Under the rifles or not,
Always the order runs,
"Fetch up the bloomin' guns!"
And you'd see them great gun horses spring
To the "action front", and around they'd swing.
Find the range with some queer machine
"At four thousand with fuse fourteen.
Ready! Fire number one!"
Handled the battery neat and quick!
Stick to it, too! How did they stick!
Never a gunner was seen to run!
Never a gunner would leave his gun!
Not though his mates dropped all around!
Always a gunner would stand his ground.
Take the army, the infantry,
Mounted rifles, and cavalry,
Twice the numbers I'd give away,
And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,
For they showed us how a corps should be run,
That's what the gunners done!
The Question Answered
by William Blake

What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire
Transcendentalism.
by Edwin C. Ranck

What is transcendentalism?
Merely sentimentalism
With a dash of egotism
Somewhat mixed with mysticism.
Not at all like Socialism,
Nor a bit like Atheism,
Hinges not on pessimism,
Treats of man's asceticism,
Quite opposes anarchism.
Can't you name another "Ism?"
Yes, it's transcendentalism.
Fragment IV
by Alan Seeger

What is Success? Out of the endless ore
Of deep desire to coin the utmost gold
Of passionate memory; to have lived so well
That the fifth moon, when it swims up once more
Through orchard boughs where mating orioles build
And apple flowers unfold,
Find not of that dear need that all things tell
The heart unburdened nor the arms unfilled.
O Love, whereof my boyhood was the dream,
My youth the beautiful novitiate,
Life was so slight a thing and thou so great,
How could I make thee less than all-supreme!
In thy sweet transports not alone I thought
Mingled the twain that panted breast to breast.
The sun and stars throbbed with them; they were caught
Into the pulse of Nature and possessed
By the same light that consecrates it so.
Love! - 'tis the payment of the debt we owe
The beauty of the world, and whensoe'er
In silks and perfume and unloosened hair
The loveliness of lovers, face to face,
Lies folded in the adorable embrace,
Doubt not as of a perfect sacrifice
That soul partakes whose inspiration fills
The springtime and the depth of summer skies,
The rainbow and the clouds behind the hills,
That excellence in earth and air and sea
That makes things as they are the real divinity.
Life.
by Thomas Frederick Young

"What is life?" I asked a lad,
As on with joyful bound,
He went to join the merry troop,
Upon the cricket ground.
He paus'd at once with pleasant look,
This bright-ey'd, laughing boy,
"Why, life," said he, "is sport and mirth;
With me 'tis mostly joy.
"The tasks which I receive at school,
I feel to be unkind;
But when I get my ball and bat,
I drive them from my mind.
"With other boys I run and shout,
I throw and catch the ball,
Oh, life is a right jolly thing,
To take it all in all."
"And what is life?" I asked a maid,
Who trod, as if on air,
So lightly she did trip along,
So bright she look'd, and fair.
The maiden stopp'd her graceful steps,
And to my words replied,
"Oh, life's a lovely dream," she said,
With some slight boons denied.
"But love, and health, and beauty crowns
My lot so filled with cheer,
That joy beams forth from ev'rything,
To favor'd mortals here.
"The birds and flow'rs are fill'd with joy,
With joy the birds do sing;
The very rain that comes from heav'n,
Seems loads of joy to bring.
"And when I look to future years,
The view seems brighter still,
And brighter grow the perfum'd flow'rs,
As I go up the hill."
"And what is life?" I asked a man,
A man of middle years.
"This world is truly call'd," he said,
"A vale of bitter tears.
"I thought this earth a bright, fair spot,
But that was long ago;
I view it now, with truer sight,
And see a world of woe.
"With disappointment and regret,
And hopes thrown to the ground,
I live, but with an aching heart
I tread life's weary round."
"And what is life?" This time a man
With hoary hair replied:
"This life consists of gracious boons,
With evils by their side.
"To leave the bad, and choose the good,
Is done but by the few,
And that is why mankind are such
A discontented crew.
"With greed, the pleasure now is grasp'd,
Or what they deem is so,
Not thinking that each pleasure now,
May bring a future woe.
"My son, take heed to what I say,
And see thou mark it well,
All earthly joys, too much indulg'd
Will lead you down to hell.
"For Heaven's sake, I pray you now
To curb your youthful will,
Nor give your headstrong passions play,
To use their deadly skill.
"There's joy, my son, all through this life,
To meet, as well as woe,
And if mankind would act aright,
Much more of it they'd know.
"With prudence, virtue, for your friends,
And caution by your side,
And faith in God's o'erruling pow'r,
Your life will calmly glide.
"Content to bear the ills you meet,
Mix'd always with your joy,
For human prudence can't avert
Some woes, which still annoy.
"Pray that your mind be strong and clear,
And vigorous your frame,
Your heart inspir'd with love and fear
For your Creator's name."
The Magic Purse
by Madison Julius Cawein

What is the gold of mortal-kind
To that men find
Deep in the poet's mind!
That magic purse
Of Dreams from which
God builds His universe!
That makes life rich
With, many a vision;
Taking the soul from out its prison
Of facts with the precision
A wildflower dons
When Spring comes knocking at the door
Of Earth across the windy lawns;
Calling to Joy to rise and dance before
Her happy feet:
Or with the beat
And bright exactness of a star,
Hanging its punctual point afar,
When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor,
Leaving a gate ajar.
That leads the Heart from all its aching
Far above where day is breaking;
Out of the doubts, the agonies,
The strife and sin, to join with these
Hope and Beauty and Joy that build
Their golden walls
Of sunset where, with spirits filled,
A Presence calls,
And points a land
Where Love walks, silent; hand in hand
With the Spirit of God, and leads Man right
Out of the darkness into the light.
The Eternal Greeting
by Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

What is the welcoming word I hear
When I reach home at the close of day?
"Glad you are with us, daddy, dear?"
Something I'd like to hear you say?
No, it is this, invariably:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"
"Deep affection," I might reply;
What would it profit if I did?
I might answer: "The price to buy
Clothes and edibles for you, kid."
You would repeat, insistently:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"
Isn't my Self enough for you?
Doesn't my Presence satisfy?
No, that spelling would never do;
You want Presents, a new supply,
When you inquire so eagerly:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"
'Twould be much nicer and cheaper, son,
If I were welcome without a toy,
But as I'm not, I must purchase one
And take my reward from your look of joy
When you open the bundle and cry: "O, see!
See what daddy has got for me!"
Answers
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What is the end of each man's toil,
Brother, O Brother?
A handful of dust in a bit of soil - 
His name forgotten as centuries roll,
Though blazoned to-day on Glory's scroll;
For the lordliest work of brain or hand
Is only an imprint made on sand;
When the tidal wave sweeps over the shore
It is there no more,
Brother, my Brother.
Then what is the use of striving at all,
Brother, O Brother?
Because each effort or great or small
Is a step on the long, long road that leads
To the Kingdom of Growth on the River of Deeds:
And that is the kingdom no man can gain
Till he uses his hand and his mind and brain,
And when he has used them and learned control
He finds his soul,
Brother, my Brother.
And after he finds it, what is the end,
Brother, O Brother?
Upward ever its course and trend;
For this is the purpose and aim and plan
To seek in the soul for the Super-man - 
The man who is conscious that Heaven is near - 
A bulletin bearer from There to Here,
Finding God dwells in the spirit within
Where He ever has been,
Brother, my Brother.
And what will the God-man do when He comes,
Brother, O Brother?
He will better the world or in courts or slums,
He will do in gladness his nearest duty:
He will teach the religion of love and beauty
In field or factory, mine or mart,
While He tells the world of the larger part
And the wider life that is yet to be
When spirit is free,
Brother, my Brother.
When spirit is free, then where will it go,
Brother, O Brother?
Its uttermost summit no man may know,
For it goes up to God in His holy Tower
To gather more knowledge and force and power;
Like a ray of the sun it shall shine again
To brighten new planets and races of men.
Life had no beginning, life has no end,
Brother and friend - 
Brother, my Brother.
Jam - A Hymn Of Hate
by Edward Dyson

What is meant by active service
'Ere where sin is leakin' loose,
'N' the oldest 'and's as nervis
As a dog-bedevilled goose,
Has bin writ be every poet
What can rhyme it worth a dam,
But the 'orror as we know it
Is jist jam, jam, Jam!
Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it,
Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary jam!
There's the 'fearful roar iv battle,'
What gets underneath yer 'at,
Mooin' like a million cattle
Each as big as Ararat;
There's the red field green 'n' slippy
(And I'm cleaner where I am),
But the thing that's got me nippy
It is jam, jam, Jam!
Druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy,
Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin' jam!
Of the mud that's in the trenches
Writers make a solemn fuss;
For the vermin 'n' the stenches
Little ladies pity us;
But the yearn that's honest dinkum,
'N' the prayer what ain't a sham
Is that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em
Ships of jam, jam, Jam!
For we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em,
Million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin' clammy jam!
We are sorry-sick of peaches,
'N' we're full right up of plum,
'N' innards fairly screeches
When the tins of apple come.
Back of Blighty piled in cases,
Jist as close as they can cram,
Fillin' all the open spaces,
Is the 'jam, jam, Jam!
Oh, the woe the soldiers face is,
Monday, Sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless bogs of jam.
The Runners
by Rudyard Kipling

News!
What is the word that they tell now, now, now!
The little drums beating in the bazaars?
They beat (among, the buyers and the sellers)
'Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
God tends a gnat against Nimrud!'
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand!
News!
At the edge of the crops, now, now, where the well-wheels are halted,
One prepares to loose the bullocks and one scrapes his hoe,
They beat (among the Bowers and the reapers)
'Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
God prepares an ill day far Nimrud!'
Watchers, O Watchers ten thousand.
News!
By the fires of the camps, now, now, where the travellers meet,
Where the camels come in and the horses: their men conferring,
They beat (among the packmen and the drivers)
'Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
Thus it befell last noon to Nimrud!'
Watchers, O Watchers an hundred thousand!
News!
Under the shadow of the border-peels, now, now, now!
In the rocks of the passes where the expectant shoe their horses,
They beat (among the rifles and the riders)
'Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
Shall we go up against Nimrud?'
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand thousand!
News!
Bring out the heaps of grain, open the account-books again!
Drive forward the well-bullocks against the taxable harvest!
Eat and lie under the trees, pitch the police-guarded fair-grounds, O dancers!
Hide away the rifles and let down the ladders from the watch-towers!
They beat (among all the peoples)
'Now, now, now!
God has reserved the Sword for Nimrud!
God has given Victory to Nimrud!
Let us abide under Nimrud!'
O Well-disposed and Heedful, an hundred thousand thousand
What Is Right Living?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What is right living?    Just to do your best
When worst seems easier.    To bear the ills
Of daily life with patient cheerfulness
Nor waste dear time recounting them.
To talk
Of hopeful things when doubt is in the air.
To count your blessings often, giving thanks,
And to accept your sorrows silently,
Nor question why you suffer.    To accept
The whole of life as one perfected plan,
And welcome each event as part of it.
To work, and love your work; to trust, to pray
For larger usefulness and clearer sight.
This is right living, pleasing in God's eyes,
Though you be heathen, heretic or Jew.
Illusion
by George William Russell

What is the love of shadowy lips
That know not what they seek or press,
From whom the lure for ever slips
And fails their phantom tenderness?
The mystery and light of eyes
That near to mine grow dim and cold;
They move afar in ancient skies
Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.
O, beauty, as thy heart o'erflows
In tender yielding unto me,
A vast desire awakes and grows
Unto forgetfulness of thee.
Nursery Rhyme. XXIII. Historical
by Unknown

[Written on occasion of the marriage of Mary, the daughter of James duke of York, afterwards James II, with the young Prince of Orange. The song from which these lines are taken may be seen in 'The Jacobite Minstrelsy,' 12mo, Glasgow, 1828, p. 28.]
What is the rhyme for poringer?
The king he had a daughter fair,
And gave the Prince of Orange her.
Earth To Earth
by John Frederick Freeman

What is the soul? Is it the wind
Among the branches of the mind?
Is it the sea against Time's shore
Breaking and broken evermore?
Is it the shore that breaks Time's sea,
The verge of vast Eternity?
And in the night is it the soul
Sleep needs must hush, must needs kiss whole?
Or does the soul, secure from sleep,
Safe its bright sanctities yet keep?
And oh, before the body's death
Shall the confined soul ne'er gain breath,
But ever to this serpent flesh
Subdue its alien self afresh?
Is it a bird that shuns earth's night,
Or makes with song earth's darkness bright?
Is it indeed a thought of God,
Or merest clod-fellow to clod?
A thought of God, and yet subdued
To any passion's apish mood?
Itself a God--and yet, O God,
As like to earth as clod to clod?
The Bird's Nest.
by H. P. Nichols

What is Harry thinking of,
Sitting on that mossy stone?
All his brothers are at play;
Why is he so still and lone?
He is musing earnestly;
And the flutterings of the bird
And its pleading, feeble chirp
Fall upon his ear unheard.
Well may little Harry think!
From the pear-tree's withered bough
He has brought the pretty nest,
Placed within his hat-crown now.
That is why he sits alone;
And he hears a voice within,
Louder than the Robin's note,
Crying, "Harry, this is sin!"
Then put back the nest, my boy,
So you will be glad and free,
Nor will hasten by in shame,
When you pass that withered tree.