DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Holy War
by Rudyard Kipling

"For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul, that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto." - BUNYAN'S Holy War.
A tinker out of Bedford,
A vagrant oft in quod,
A private under Fairfax,
A minister of God,
Two hundred years and thirty
Ere Armageddon came
His single hand portrayed it,
And Bunyan was his name!
He mapped for those who follow,
The world in which we are,
"This famous town of Mansoul"
That takes the Holy War.
Her true and traitor people,
The Gates along her wall,
From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,
John Bunyan showed them all.
All enemy divisions,
Recruits of every class,
And highly-screened positions
For flame or poison-gas;
The craft that we call modern,
The crimes that we call new,
John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed
In Sixteen Eighty-two.
Likewise the Lords of Looseness
That hamper faith and works,
The Perseverance-Doubters,
And Present-Comfort shirks,
With brittle intellectuals
Who crack beneath a strain,
John Bunyan met that helpful set
In Charles the Second's reign.
Emmanuel's vanguard dying
For right and not for rights,
My Lord Apollyon lying
To the State-kept Stockholmites,
The Pope,the swithering Neutrals
The Kaiser and his Gott,
Their roles, their goals, their naked souls,
He knew and drew the lot.
Now he hath left his quarters,
In Bunhill Fields to lie,
The wisdom that he taught us
Is proven prophecy,
One watchword through our Armies,
One answer from our Lands:
"No dealings with Diabolus
As long as Mansoul stands!"
A pedlar from a hovel,
The lowest of the low,
The Father of the Novel,
Salvation's first Defoe,
Eight blinded generations
Ere Armageddon came,
He showed us how to meet it,
And Bunyan was his name!
To The Women Of Australia
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A toast to the splendid daughters
Of the New World over the waters,
A world that is great as new;
Daughters of brave old races,
Daughters of heights and spaces,
Broad seas and broad earth places - 
Hail to your land and you!
The sun and the winds have fed you;
The width of your world has led you
Out into the larger view;
Strong with a strength that is tender,
Bright with a primal splendour,
Homage and praise we render - 
Hail to your land and you!
Sisters and daughters and mothers,
Standing abreast with your brothers,
Working for things that are true;
Thinking and doing and daring,
Giving, receiving, and sharing,
Earning the crowns you are wearing - 
Hail to your land and you!
The Price Of Victory.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

"A Victory! --a victory!"
Is flashed across the wires;
Speed, speed the news from State to State,
Light up the signal fires!
Let all the bells from all the towers
A joyous peal ring out;
We've gained a glorious victory,
And put the foe to rout!
A mother heard the chiming bells;
Her joy was mixed with pain.
"Pray God," she said, "my gallant boy
Be not among the slain!"
Alas for her! that very hour
Outstretched in death he lay,
The color from his fair, young face
Had scarcely passed away.
His nerveless hand still grasped the sword.
He never more might wield,
His eyes were sealed in dreamless sleep
Upon that bloody field.
The chestnut curls his mother oft
Had stroked in fondest pride,
Neglected hung ia clotted locks,
With deepest crimson dyed.
Ah! many a mother's heart shall ache,
And bleed with anguish sore,
When tidings come of him who marched
So blithely forth to war.
Oh! sad for them, the stricken down
In manhood's early dawn,
And sadder yet for loving hearts.
God comfort them that mourn!
Yes, victory has a fearful price
Our hearts may shrink to pay,
And tears will mingle with the joy
That greets a glorious day.
But he who dies in freedom's cause,
We cannot count him lost;
A battle won for truth and right
Is worth the blood it cost!
O mothers! count it something gained
That they, for whom you mourn,
Bequeath fair Freedom's heritage
To millions yet unborn;--
And better than a thousand years
Of base, ignoble breath,
A patriot's fragrant memory,
A hero's early death!
Reading The Tides: Petroglyph Park
by Paul Cameron Brown

" ... A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun
itself out in his brain ... a promise
that the rock of the world was founded
securely on a faery's wing."
THE GREAT GATSBY
Perceiving the universe
as an orchid stem,
wild hibiscus
crane & heron breaking water
- voyage of elliptical, pea-shaped
canoe down dancing images of
the underworld.
This temperature charged,
climate-controlled glass
geode designed to war on
moss and stone munching
aphid lichens seems everybit as
fanciful as any animal totem.
Grim crevice in the rock
(animistic female orifice)
fertility turtle swollen with
eggs carrying Earth thru
gorged labours of darting
salamander & the spaceman snake.
And coming to that rushing sound,
(subterranean, evocative stream)
or so Algonkians, pensive & puzzled,
paused for a thought encased in
deep, riverine bowels.
Glass slipper, blue guitar
- Silent Lake with something
of wild dimensions in Warsas Caves
(Cyclopean boulders), Serpent Mounds,
this runic enchantment with
glyphs & a cabalistic moon of May.
Memory
by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

A treasured link of shining pearls,
A by-gone melody,
A shower of tears with smiles between--
And this is memory.
A thing so light a breath of air
May waft its life away;
A thing so dark that moments of pain
Seem like some endless day.
A careless word may wound the heart,
And quickly it may die;
Yet in the seas of memory
Forever it will lie.
And sometimes when the tide rolls back
Its waves of joy and pain,
That careless word, though long forgot,
Will wound the heart again.
The restless seas of memory
Are vast and deep and wide;
And every deed that we can know
Sleeps in that tireless tide.
Upon the thoughtless lives of men
Its waves in mockery roll;
And sweep a might of bitter pain
Across each human soul.
And few can stand upon the sands
Beside this boundless sea,
And say with calm unfaltering voice
"It has no grief for me."
The passing wave may bear away
Our deeds and words untrue;
Yet surely as the tide comes in
The wrecks will follow too.
A Chameleon.
by Oliver Herford

A USE-FUL les-son you may con,
My Child, from the Cha-me-le-on:
He has the gift, ex-treme-ly rare
In an-i-mals, of sav-oir-faire.
And if the se-cret you would guess
Of the Cha-me-le-on's suc-cess,
A-dapt your-self with great-est care
To your sur-round-ings ev-er-y-where;
And then, un-less your sex pre-vent,
Some day you may be Pres-i-dent.
A Rover Chanty
by Arthur Conan Doyle

A trader sailed from Stepney town -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail!
A trader sailed from Stepney town
With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown:
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Waiting with his yard aback
Out upon the Lowland sea!
The trader he had a daughter fair -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresail
The trader he had a daughter fair,
She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair:
All for bully rover Jack,
Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!
'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!' -
Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail!
'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!
Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!'
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Reaching on the weather tack,
Out upon the Lowland sea!
'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail!
'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried,
But comelier men I never have spied!'
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Reaching on the weather tack,
Out upon the Lowland sea!
There's a wooden path that the rovers know -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails!
There's a wooden path that the rovers know,
Where none come back, though many must go:
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Lying with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!
Where is the trader of Stepney town? -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending!
Where is the trader of Stepney town?
There's gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown:
Ho for bully rover Jack,
Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!
Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing!
Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?
We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride:
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Reaching on the weather tack,
Right across the Lowland sea!
So it's up and its over to Stornoway Bay,
Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails!
It's off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,
Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay:
Waiting for their bully Jack,
Watching for him sailing back,
Right across the Lowland sea.
The Jaffa And Jerusalem Railway
by Eugene Field

A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there;
A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair;
Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make;
With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake--
This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem:
The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.
Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell;
Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell;
And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare,
Beware the fiend that peddles books--the awful peanut-boy beware.
Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to condemn
The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.
And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will wax the state
From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"!
From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea,
Will rise profuse anathemas against "that ---- monopoly!"
And F.M.B.A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them,
Will swamp that corporation line 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.
Meeting In Summer
by Madison Julius Cawein

A tranquil bar
Of rosy twilight under dusk's first star.
A glimmering sound
Of whispering waters over grassy ground.
A sun-sweet smell
Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.
A lazy breeze
Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.
A vibrant cry,
Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.
And faintly now
The katydid upon the shadowy bough.
And far-off then
The little owl within the lonely glen.
And soon, full soon,
The silvery arrival of the moon.
And, to your door,
The path of roses I have trod before.
And, sweetheart, you!
Among the roses and the moonlit dew.
The Old House
by Walter De La Mare

A very, very old house I know-
And ever so many people go,
Past the small lodge, forlorn and still,
Under the heavy branches, till
Comes the blank wall, and there's the door.
Go in they do; come out no more.
No voice says aught; no spark of light
Across that threshold cheers the sight;
Only the evening star on high
Less lonely makes a lonely sky,
As, one by one, the people go
Into that very old house I know.
The Turk
by Alfred Lichtenstein

A totally perverse Turk bought for himself,
Out of grief for the recent death
Of plump Fatme, his favorite wife,
From his white-slaver, two former mannequins, in quite good
condition - 
You could almost say: brand new - 
Just imported from France.
When he had them, he sang, in celebration of himelf:
Sit down on my thighs.
Hold me around my loins.
With your sweet tongues
Stroke my tearful cheeks.
Ah, you have such beautifully bejeweled
Eyes and such clear hands,
Weariest of my wives,
And such long, gentle legs.
Tomorrow I buy six pairs of new
Stockings of the thinnest silk
As well as very small, black silk shoes.
And in the evening you will dance
Soft, false dances
In the new silk shoes
And new silk stockings.
In the garden.    In the sun.
Close to the water.
But at night I'll have you whipped
By four smiling eunuchs.
In Memoriam. - Henrietta Selden Colt,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.
THE MOURNING MOTHER.
A tomb for thee, my babe!
Dove of my bosom, can it be?
But yesterday in all thy charms,
Laughing and leaping in my arms,
A tomb and shroud for thee!
A couch for thee mine own,
Beneath the frost and snow!
So fondly cradled, soft and warm,
And sheltered from each breath of storm,
A wintry couch for thee!
Thy noble father's there,
But the last week he died,
He would have stretched his guarding arm,
To shelter thee from every harm,
Nestle thee to his side.
Thy ruby lip skill'd not
That father's name to speak,
Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play
To kiss his picture when away,
The love smile on thy cheek.
Thy brother slumbereth there,
Our first-born joy was he,
Thy little sister sweetly fair,
Most like a blessed bird of air;
A goodly company.
Only one left with me,
One here and three above,
Be not afraid my precious child!
The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,--
Sleep in His love.
Thou never saw'st our Spring
Unfold the blossoms gay;
But thou shalt see perennial bowers,
Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,
That cannot fade away.
And thou shalt join the song,
That happy cherubs pour,
In their adoring harmonies:
I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise
To that celestial shore.
Yes, there's a Saviour dear,--
Keep down, oh tears, that swell!
A righteous God who reigns above,
Whose darkest ways are truth and love,
He doeth all things well.
Buffalo Creek
by John Le Gay Brereton

A timid child with heart oppressed
By images of sin,
I slunk into the bush for rest,
And found my fairy kin.
The fire I carried kept me warm:
The friendly air was chill.
The laggards of the lowing storm
Trailed gloom along the hill.
I watched the crawling monsters melt
And saw their shadows wane
As on my satin skin I felt
The fingers of the rain.
The sunlight was a golden beer,
I drank a magic draught;
The sky was clear and, void of fear,
I stood erect and laughed.
And sudden laughter, idly free,
About me trilled and rang,
And love was shed from every tree,
And little bushes sang.
The bay of conscience' bloody hound
That tears the world apart
Has never drowned the silent sound
Within my happy heart.
A Sentiment
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

A triple health to Friendship, Science, Art,
From heads and hands that own a common heart!
Each in its turn the others' willing slave,
Each in its season strong to heal and save.
Friendship's blind service, in the hour of need,
Wipes the pale face, and lets the victim bleed.
Science must stop to reason and explain;
ART claps his finger on the streaming vein.
But Art's brief memory fails the hand at last;
Then SCIENCE lifts the flambeau of the past.
When both their equal impotence deplore,
When Learning sighs, and Skill can do no more,
The tear of FRIENDSHIP pours its heavenly balm,
And soothes the pang no anodyne may calm
May 1, 1855.
The Miller And His Son
by Walter De La Mare

A twangling harp for Mary,
A silvery flute for John,
And now we'll play the livelong day,
'The Miller and his Son.'
'The Miller went a-walking
All in the forest high,
He sees three doves a-flitting
Against the dark blue sky:
'Says he, "My son, now follow
These doves so white and free,
That cry above the forest,
And surely cry to thee."
"I go, my dearest Father,
But O! I sadly fear,
These doves so white will lead me far,
But never bring me near."
'He kisses the Miller,
He cries, "Awhoop to ye!"
And straightway through the forest
Follows the wood-doves three.
'There came a sound of weeping
To the Miller in his Mill;
Red roses in a thicket
Bloomed over near his wheel;
'Three stars shone wild and brightly
Above the forest dim:
But never his dearest son
Returns again to him.
'The cuckoo shall call "Cuckoo!"
In vain along the vale,
The linnet, and the blackbird,
The mournful nightingale;
'The Miller hears and sees not,
A-thinking of his son;
His toppling wheel is silent;
His grinding done.
'"Ye doves so white," he weepeth,
"Ye roses on the tree,
Ye stars that shine so brightly,
Ye shine in vain for me!"
'I bade him follow, follow,
He said, "O Father dear,
These doves so white will lead me far
But never bring me near!"'
A twangling harp for Mary,
A silvery flute for John,
And now we'll play the livelong day,
'The Miller and his Son.'
The Ingratitude And Injustice Of Men Towards Fortune.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A trader on the sea to riches grew;
Freight after freight the winds in favour blew;
Fate steer'd him clear; gulf, rock, nor shoal
Of all his bales exacted toll.
Of other men the powers of chance and storm
Their dues collected in substantial form;
While smiling Fortune, in her kindest sport,
Took care to waft his vessels to their port.
His partners, factors, agents, faithful proved;
His goods - tobacco, sugar, spice - 
Were sure to fetch the highest price.
By fashion and by folly loved,
His rich brocades and laces,
And splendid porcelain vases,
Enkindling strong desires,
Most readily found buyers.
In short, gold rain'd where'er he went - 
Abundance, more than could be spent - 
Dogs, horses, coaches, downy bedding - 
His very fasts were like a wedding.
A bosom friend, a look his table giving,
Inquired whence came such sumptuous living.
'Whence should it come,' said he, superb of brow,
'But from the fountain of my knowing how?
I owe it simply to my skill and care
In risking only where the marts will bear.'
And now, so sweet his swelling profits were,
He risk'd anew his former gains:
Success rewarded not his pains - 
His own imprudence was the cause.
One ship, ill-freighted, went awreck;
Another felt of arms the lack,
When pirates, trampling on the laws,
O'ercame, and bore it off a prize.
A third, arriving at its port,
Had fail'd to sell its merchandize, - 
The style and folly of the court
Not now requiring such a sort.
His agents, factors, fail'd; - in short,
The man himself, from pomp and princely cheer,
And palaces, and parks, and dogs, and deer,
Fell down to poverty most sad and drear.
His friend, now meeting him in shabby plight,
Exclaim'd, 'And whence comes this to pass?'
'From Fortune,' said the man, 'alas!'
'Console yourself,' replied the friendly wight:
'For, if to make you rich the dame denies,
She can't forbid you to be wise.'
What faith he gain'd, I do not wis;
I know, in every case like this,
Each claims the credit of his bliss,
And with a heart ingrate
Imputes his misery to Fate.[2]
At The Grave Of A Young Mother
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

A transient day,
A troubled night,
The swift decay,
The certain blight,
And death and dust; - 
And are these all? - 
Nay: those are past;
And she who sleeps
Shall wake at last
Among the just!
Shakespeare
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A vision as of crowded city streets,
With human life in endless overflow;
Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow
To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats,
Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below
Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw
O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!
This vision comes to me when I unfold
The volume of the Poet paramount,
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;--
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,
And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.
The Pashaw And The Merchant.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A trading Greek, for want of law,
Protection bought of a pashaw;
And like a nobleman he paid,
Much rather than a man of trade - 
Protection being, Turkish-wise,
A costly sort of merchandise.
So costly was it, in this case,
The Greek complain'd, with tongue and face.
Three other Turks, of lower rank,
Would guard his substance as their own,
And all draw less upon his bank,
Than did the great pashaw alone.
The Greek their offer gladly heard,
And closed the bargain with a word.
The said pashaw was made aware,
And counsel'd, with a prudent care
These rivals to anticipate,
By sending them to heaven's gate,
As messengers to Mahomet - 
Which measure should he much delay,
Himself might go the self-same way,
By poison offer'd secretly,
Sent on, before his time, to be
Protector to such arts and trades
As flourish in the world of shades.
On this advice, the Turk - no gander - 
Behaved himself like Alexander.[2]
Straight to the merchant's, firm and stable,
He went, and took a seat at table.
Such calm assurance there was seen,
Both in his words and in his mien,
That e'en that weasel-sighted Grecian
Could not suspect him of suspicion.
'My friend,' said he, 'I know you've quit me,
And some think caution would befit me,
Lest to despatch me be your plan:
But, deeming you too good a man
To injure either friends or foes
With poison'd cups or secret blows,
I drown the thought, and say no more.
But, as regards the three or four
Who take my place,
I crave your grace
To listen to an apologue.
'A shepherd, with a single dog,
Was ask'd the reason why
He kept a dog, whose least supply
Amounted to a loaf of bread
For every day. The people said
He'd better give the animal
To guard the village seignior's hall;
For him, a shepherd, it would be
A thriftier economy
To keep small curs, say two or three,
That would not cost him half the food,
And yet for watching be as good.
The fools, perhaps, forgot to tell
If they would fight the wolf as well.
The silly shepherd, giving heed,
Cast off his dog of mastiff breed,
And took three dogs to watch his cattle,
Which ate far less, but fled in battle.
His flock such counsel lived to rue,
As doubtlessly, my friend, will you.
If wise, my aid again you'll seek - '
And so, persuaded, did the Greek.
Not vain our tale, if it convinces
Small states that 'tis a wiser thing
To trust a single powerful king,
Than half a dozen petty princes.
The Wolf And The Lean Dog.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A troutling, some time since,
Endeavour'd vainly to convince
A hungry fisherman
Of his unfitness for the frying-pan.
That controversy made it plain
That letting go a good secure,
In hope of future gain,
Is but imprudence pure.
The fisherman had reason good - 
The troutling did the best he could - 
Both argued for their lives.
Now, if my present purpose thrives,
I'll prop my former proposition
By building on a small addition.
A certain wolf, in point of wit
The prudent fisher's opposite,
A dog once finding far astray,
Prepared to take him as his prey.
The dog his leanness pled;
'Your lordship, sure,' he said,
'Cannot be very eager
To eat a dog so meagre.
To wait a little do not grudge:
The wedding of my master's only daughter
Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter;
And then, as you yourself can judge,
I cannot help becoming fatter.'
The wolf, believing, waived the matter,
And so, some days therefrom,
Return'd with sole design to see
If fat enough his dog might be.
The rogue was now at home:
He saw the hunter through the fence.
'My friend,' said he, 'please wait;
I'll be with you a moment hence,
And fetch our porter of the gate.'
This porter was a dog immense,
That left to wolves no future tense.
Suspicion gave our wolf a jog, - 
It might not be so safely tamper'd.
'My service to your porter dog,'
Was his reply, as off he scamper'd.
His legs proved better than his head,
And saved him life to learn his trade.
Misty Sky
by Charles Baudelaire

A vapour seems to hide your face from view;
Your mystic eye (is it green, grey, or blue?)
Tender by turns, dreamy or merciless,
Reflects the heavens' pallid indolence.
You call to mind white, mild, enshrouded days
That make enchanted hearts dissolve away,
When, agitated by a twisting ache,
The taut nerves call the spirit to awake.
Sometimes you're like horizons set aglow
By suns in rainy seasons here below...
Like you superb, a watery countryside
That rays enflame out of a misty sky!
O weather! woman! - both seduce me so!
Will I adore as well your frost and snow,
And will I draw from winter's ruthless vice
Pleasures more keen than iron or than ice?