DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Take It Fightin'
by Henry Lawson

When you've got no chance at all,
Take it fightin'.
When you're driven to the wall,
Take it fightin'.
There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin' or the rightin',
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin'.)
When you're down an' out an' utter,
Take it fightin';
When they've put you in the gutter,
Take it fightin'.
There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin' or the rightin',
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin'.)
Horace And Lydia Reconciled
by Eugene Field

HORACE
When you were mine in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I'll not deny,
Fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a Persian mogul.
LYDIA
Before she came--that rival flame!--
(Was ever female creature sillier?)
In those good times,
Bepraised in rhymes,
I was more famed than Mother Ilia!
HORACE
Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace
Does she at song or harp employ her!
I'd gladly die
If only I
Might live forever to enjoy her!
LYDIA
My Sybaris so noble is
That, by the gods! I love him madly--
That I might save
Him from the grave
I'd give my life, and give it gladly!
HORACE
What if ma belle from favor fell,
And I made up my mind to shake her,
Would Lydia, then,
Come back again
And to her quondam flame betake her?
LYDIA
My other beau should surely go,
And you alone should find me gracious;
For no one slings
Such odes and things
As does the lauriger Horatius!
Out Of Sorts
by William Schwenck Gilbert

When you find you're a broken-down critter,
Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,
With your palate unpleasantly bitter,
As if you'd just bitten a pill -
When your legs are as thin as dividers,
And you're plagued with unruly insiders,
And your spine is all creepy with spiders,
And you're highly gamboge in the gill -
When you've got a beehive in your head,
And a sewing machine in each ear,
And you feel that you've eaten your bed,
And you've got a bad headache DOWN HERE -
When such facts are about,
And these symptoms you find
In your body or crown -
Well, it's time to look out,
You may make up your mind
You had better lie down!
When your lips are all smeary - like tallow,
And your tongue is decidedly yallow,
With a pint of warm oil in your swAllow,
And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest -
When you're down in the mouth with the vapours,
And all over your new Morris papers
Black-beetles are cutting their capers,
And crawly things never at rest -
When you doubt if your head is your own,
And you jump when an open door slams -
Then you've got to a state which is known
To the medical world as "jim-jams."
If such symptoms you find
In your body or head,
They're not easy to quell -
You may make up your mind
You are better in bed,
For you're not at all well!
Solitude
by Harold Edward Monro

When you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.
The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
'Some one must be away.'
The little dog rolls over half awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.
A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.
Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.
You bend your head and wipe away a tear.
Solitude walks one heavy step more near.
To Jean Ingelow
by Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

When youth was high, and life was new
And days sped musical and fleet,
She stood amid the morning dew,
And sang her earliest measures sweet, - 
Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair
To touch and taste the purer air,
To gain a nearer view of Heaven;
'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven."
Now, farther on in womanhood,
With train'd voice and ripened art,
She gently stands where once she stood,
And sings from out her deeper heart.
Sing on, dear Singer! sing again;
And we will listen to the strain,
Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven,
And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven.
Rhymes And Rhythms - XVIII
by William Ernest Henley

(To M. E. H.)
When you wake in your crib,
You, an inch of experience,
Vaulted about
With the wonder of darkness;
Wailing and striving
To reach from your feebleness
Something you feel
Will be good to and cherish you,
Something you know
And can rest upon blindly:
O then a hand
(Your mother's, your mother's!)
By the fall of its fingers
All knowledge, all power to you,
Out of the dreary,
Discouraging strangenesses
Comes to and masters you,
Takes you, and lovingly
Woos you and soothes you
Back, as you cling to it,
Back to some comforting
Corner of sleep.
So you wake in your bed,
Having lived, having loved:
But the shadows are there,
And the world and its kingdoms
Incredibly faded;
And you grope in the Terror
Above you and under
For the light, for the warmth,
The assurance of life;
But the blasts are ice-born,
And your heart is nigh burst
With the weight of the gloom
And the stress of your strangled
And desperate endeavour:
Sudden a hand,
Mother, O Mother!
God at His best to you,
Out of the roaring,
Impossible silences,
Falls on and urges you,
Mightily, tenderly,
Forth, as you clutch at it,
Forth to the infinite
Peace of the Grave.
Benediction
by Charles Baudelaire

When, by an edict of the powers supreme,
The Poet in this bored world comes to be,
His daunted mother, eager to blaspheme,
Rages to God, who looks down piteously:
'Rather than have this mockery to nurse
Why not a nest of snakes for me to bear!
And may that night of fleeting lust be cursed,
When I conceived my penance, unaware!
Since from all women you chose me to shame,
To be disgusting to my grieving spouse,
And since I can't just drop into the flames
Like an old love-note, this misshapen mouse,
1'1l turn your hate that overburdens me
Toward the damned agent of your spiteful doom,
And I will twist this miserable tree
So its infected buds will never bloom!'
She swallows thus her hatred's foaming spit
And, never grasping the divine design,
She makes herself within Gehenna's pit
The pyre suited to a mother's crimes.
Still, with an angel guarding secretly,
The misfit child grows drunk on sunny air;
In all he drinks or eats in ecstasy
He finds sweet nectar and ambrosia there.
Free as a bird, he plays with clouds and wind,
Sings of the Passion with enraptured joy;
Tending his pilgrimage, his Guardian
Must weep to see the gladness of the boy.
Those he would love watch him with jaundiced eye,
Or, growing bold with his tranquillity,
Look for a certain way to make him cry,
Testing on him their own ferocity.
In bread and wine intended for his mouth
They muddle filthy spit with dirt and ash;
Hypocrites, all that he touches they throw out,
And blame their feet for walking in his path.
His woman cries to all the countryside:
'Since he has found me worthy to adore
I'll let the heathen idols be my guide
And gild myself, as they have done before;
I'll sate myself with incense, myrrh, and nard,
With genuflections, meats and wines galore,
To prove I can in that admiring heart
Laughingly claim the homage due the Lord!
I'll set on him my frail, determined hand
When I am bored with this blasphemous farce;
My fingemails, like harpies' talons, can
Claw out a bloody pathway to his heart.
I'll dig the bright red heart out of his breast,
A pitiful and trembling baby bird;
To satisfy the dog I like the best
I'll toss it to him, with a scornful word!'
Toward Heaven, where he sees a throne of gold,
The Poet lifts his arms in piety,
And brilliant flashes from his lucid soul
Block from his sight the people's cruelty:
'Be praised, my God, who gives us suffering
As remedy for our impurities,
And as the best and purest nurturing
To fit the strong for holy ecstasies!
I know in Heaven there's a place for me
Kept for the poet in celestial zones,
And that I'll feast throughout eternity
With Virtues, Powers, Dominations, Thrones.
Man's sorrow is a nobleness, I trust,
Untouchable by either earth or he11;
I know to weave my mystic crown I must
Tax a11 the times, the universe as we11.
But treasure lost from old Palmyra's wealth,
The unknown metals, pearls out of the sea,
Can't equal, though you mounted them yourself,
This diadem of dazzling clarity,
Since it is perfect luminosity,
Drawn from the holy hearth of primal rays,
Of which men's eyes, for a11 their majesty,
Are only mournful mirrors, dark and crazed!'
In The Matter Of One Compass
by Rudyard Kipling

When, foot to wheel and back to wind,
The helmsman dare not look behind,
But hears beyond his compass-light,
The blind bow thunder through the night,
And, like a harpstring ere it snaps,
The rigging sing beneath the caps;
Above the shriek of storm in sail
Or rattle of the blocks blown free,
Set for the peace beyond the gale,
This song the Needle sings the Sea;
Oh, drunken Wave! Oh, driving Cloud!
Rage of the Deep and sterile Rain,
By Love upheld, by God allowed,
We go, but we return again!
When leagued about the 'wildered boat
The rainbow Jellies fill and float,
And, lilting where the laver lingers,
The Starfish trips on all her fingers;
Where, 'neath his myriad spines ashock,
The Sea-egg ripples down the rock,
An orange wonder dimly guessed
From darkness where the Cuttles rest,
Moored o'er the darker deeps that hide
The blind white Sea-snake and his bride,
Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost Ships
Let down through darkness to their lips,
Safe-swung above the glassy death,
Hear what the constant Needle saith:
Oh, lisping Reef! Oh, listless Cloud,
In slumber on a pulseless main!
By Love upheld, by God allowed,
We go, but we return again!
E'en so through Tropic and through Trade,
Awed by the shadow of new skies,
As we shall watch old planets fade
And mark the stranger stars arise,
So, surely, back through Sun and Cloud,
So, surely, from the outward main
By Love recalled, by God allowed,
Shall we return, return again!
Yea, we return, return again!
Waverley
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

1814-1914
When, on a novel's newly printed page
We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,
And read of ways that harlots wander in,
And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;
Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,
Taps on her desk and bids the class begin
To con the problems that have always been
Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;
Then in what robes of honor habited
The laureled wizard of the North appears!
Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,
Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,
And formed that shining legion at whose head
Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!
On A Midge
by George MacDonald

Whence do ye come, ye creatures? Each of you
Is perfect as an angel! wings and eyes
Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes
In feathery fields of purple and of blue!
Would God I saw a moment as ye do!
I would become a molecule in size,
Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise
Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view
The pearly secret which each tiny fly--
Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs
Hides in its little breast eternally
From you, ye prickly, grim philosophers
With all your theories that sound so high:
Hark to the buz a moment, my good sirs!
Gehazi
by Rudyard Kipling

Whence comest thou, Gehazi, 
So reverend to behold, 
In scarlet and in ermines 
And chain of England's gold?" 
"From following after Naaman 
To tell him all is well, 
Whereby my zeal hath made me 
A Judge in Israel." 
Well done, well done, 
Gehazi! 
Stretch forth thy ready hand, 
Thou barely 'scaped from judgment, 
Take oath to judge the land 
Unswayed by gift of money 
Or privy bribe, more base, 
Of knowledge which is profit 
In any market-place. 
Search out and probe,
Gehazi,
As thou of all canst try, 
The truthful, well-weighed answer 
That tells the blacker lie.
The loud, uneasy virtue, 
The anger feigned at will, 
To overbear a witness 
And make the Court keep still. 
Take order now, 
Gehazi, 
That no man talk aside 
In secret with his judges 
The while his case is tried. 
Lest he should show them reason 
To keep a matter hid, 
And subtly lead the questions 
Away from what he did. 
Thou mirror of uprightness, 
What ails thee at thy vows? 
What means the risen whiteness 
Of the skin between thy brows? 
The boils that shine and burrow, 
The sores that slough and bleed. 
The leprosy of Naaman 
On thee and all thy seed? 
Stand up, stand up, 
Gehazi, 
Draw close thy robe and go, 
Gehazi, 
Judge in Israel, 
A leper white as snow!
The Mystic.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

When, wild and spent, I fly before
Some steadfast Fate, serene, malign,
Let me not think, Lord, I implore
Those dark and awful eyes are thine!
Oh, when the dogs of life are loose,
And, raging, follow on my track.
Let me not dream, by chance or use.
The leash was thine that held the pack!
Nay, hunted, breathless, faint and prone.
With my last gaze, ah, let me see
The shape I know, nor shall disown.
Thy shape, oh Grod, that runs with me!
On The Queen's Visit To London. The Night Of The Seventeenth Of March 1789.
by William Cowper

When, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign,
Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.
'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.
So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.
Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd,
For no such sight had England's queen
Forsaken her retreat,
Where George, recover'd, made a scene
Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.
Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design'
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er called before
To veil a deed of thine!
On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes
That night except her own.
Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.
Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.
Unlike the enigmatic line,
So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine
The night his city fell.
Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,
And, through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear'd,
Convey'd her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene,
Her peaceful bosom laves.
With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen, suffice,
Heaven grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!
Upon The Same Event
by William Wordsworth

When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings past of servitude repealed,
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn.
"'Tis known," cried they, "that he, who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows. Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon,
Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top."
To Julia In Shooting Togs
by Owen Seaman

and a Herrickose vein.
Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,
Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows
That rare arrangement of her clothes!
So shod as when the Huntress Maid
With thumping buskin bruised the glade,
She moveth, making earth afraid.
Against the sting of random chaff
Her leathern gaiters circle half
The arduous crescent of her calf.
Unto th' occasion timely fit,
My love's attire doth show her wit,
And of her legs a little bit.
Sorely it sticketh in my throat,
She having nowhere to bestow't,
To name the absent petticoat.
In lieu whereof a wanton pair
Of knickerbockers she doth wear,
Full windy and with space to spare.
Enlarged by the bellying breeze,
Lord! how they playfully do ease
The urgent knocking of her knees!
Lengthways curtailed to her taste
A tunic circumvents her waist,
And soothly it is passing chaste.
Upon her head she hath a gear
Even such as wights of ruddy cheer
Do use in stalking of the deer.
Haply her truant tresses mock
Some coronal of shapelier block,
To wit, the bounding billy-cock.
Withal she hath a loaded gun,
Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
Do make a fair diversi'n.
For very awe, if so she shoots,
My hair upriseth from the roots,
And lo! I tremble in my boots!
To The Rev. J. Gilpin, On His Improved Edition Of The "Pilgrim'S Progress."
by Patrick Bronte

When, Reverend Sir, your good design,
To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine,
And give him gentler mien and gait,
First reached my ear, his doubtful fate
With dread suspense my mind oppressed,
Awoke my fears, and broke my rest.
Yet, still, had England said, "You're free,
Choose whom you will," dear sir, to thee,
For dress beseeming modest worth,
I would have led our pilgrim forth.
But when I viewed him o'er and o'er,
And scrutinized the weeds he wore,
And marked his mien and marked his gait,
And saw him trample sin, elate,
And heard him speak, though coarse and plain,
His mighty truths in nervous strain,
I could not gain my own consent
To your acknowledged good intent.
I had my fears, lest honest John,
When he beheld his polished son
(If saints ought earthly care to know),
Would take him for some Bond Street beau,
Or for that thing, it wants a name,
Devoid of truth, of sense and shame,
Which smooths its chin and licks its lip,
And mounts the pulpit with a skip,
Then turning round its pretty face,
To smite each fair one in the place,
Relaxes half to vacant smile,
And aims with trope and polished style,
And lisp affected, to pourtray
Its silly self in colours gay,
Its fusty moral stuff t' unload,
And preach itself, and not its God.
Thus, wishing, doubting, trembling led,
I oped your book, your Pilgrim read.
As rising Phoebus lights the skies,
And fading night before him flies,
Till darkness to his cave is hurled
And golden day has gilt the world,
Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen
To sully all the pure serene:
So, as I read each modest line,
Increasing light began to shine,
My cloudy fears and doubts gave way,
Till all around shone Heaven's own day.
And when I closed the book, thought I,
Should Bunyan leave his throne on high;
He'd own the kindness you have done
To Christian, his orphan son:
And smiling as once Eden smiled,
Would thus address his holy child:
"My son, ere I removed from hence,
I spared nor labour nor expense
To gain for you the heavenly prize,
And teach you to make others wise.
But still, though inward worth was thine,
You lay a diamond in the mine:
You wanted outward polish bright
To show your pure intrinsic light.
Some knew your worth, and seized the prize,
And now are throned in the skies:
Whilst others swilled with folly's wine,
But trod the pearl like the swine,
In ignorance sunk in their grave,
And thence, where burning oceans lave.
Now polished bright, your native flame
And inward worth are still the same;
A flaming diamond still you glow,
In brighter hues: then cheery go,
More suited by a skilful hand
To do your father's high command:
Fit ornament for sage or clown,
Or beggar's rags, or kingly crown.
A Fragment. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone: [2]
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
Sonnet CLXXXIV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Onde tolse Amor l' oro e di qual vena.
THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.
Whence could Love take the gold, and from what vein,
To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could grow
Those roses? And what mead that white bestow
Of the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain?
Whence came those pearls that modestly restrain
Accents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow?
And whence those charms that so divinely show,
Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain?
Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,
Was that celestial song, which doth dispense
Such potent magic to the ravish'd ear?
What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,
Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;
Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?
NOTT.
Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould?
What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told
Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?
Whence came so many graces to adorn
That brow more fair than summer skies unfold?
Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control
The song divine which wastes my life away?
(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)
What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul
Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray
To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?
WROTTESLEY.