DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Love's Service.
by Jean Blewett

Your presence is a psalm of praise,
And as its measure grandly rings
God's finger finds my heart and plays
A te deum upon its strings.
I never see you but I feel
That I in gratitude must kneel.
Your head down-bent, the brow of snow
Crowned with the shining braids of hair,
To me, because I love you so,
Is in itself a tender prayer,
All faith, all meekness, and all trust - 
"Amen!" I cry, because I must.
Your clear eyes hold the text apart,
And shame my love of place and pelf
With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart,
And love thy neighbor as thyself!"
Dear eyes and true, - I sorely need
More knowledge of your gracious creed.
About your lips the summer lies - 
Who runs may read each subtle lure
To draw me nearer to the skies,
And make me strong, and keep me pure.
I loathe my worldliness and guile
Each time your red lips on me smile.
The benediction of your face - 
Your lifted face - doth make a road
For white-robed peace and golden grace
To reach my heart and take its load.
Dear woman saint, I bow the knee,
And give God thanks for love and thee!
Rhymes for Gloriana - III.  On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters
by Vachel Lindsay

Your pen needs but a ruffle
To be Pavlova whirling.
It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The morning buds uncurling.
And then the white sweet Russian,
The dancer of the age.
Your pen's the Queen of Sheba,
Such serious questions bringing,
That merry rascal Solomon
Would show a sober face: - 
And then again Pavlova
To set our spirits singing,
The snowy-swan bacchante
All glamour, glee and grace.
The Amulet
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Your picture smiles as first it smiled;
The ring you gave is still the same;
Your letter tells, O changing child!
No tidings since it came.
Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you,--
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not, pale and blue.
Alas! that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.
Father William
by William F. Kirk

"Yu ban old, Fader Olaf," a young geezer
say, "yure hair it ban whiter sum snow;
Ay lak yu to tal me how yu keep so young.
By Yudas! Ay ant hardly know."
"Ven ay ban a young kid," Fader Olaf he
say, "ay never hang out in saloon;
Ay never ban smoking dese har cigarettes, or
sitting on sofa and spoon!"
"Yu ban slim, Fader Olaf," the young faller
say: "old fallers ban mostly dam fat.
Yu measure 'bout tventy-sax inches reund
vaist, vat for ban the reason of dat?"
"In the days of my youth," Fader Olaf
reply, "ay ant drenk no lager from cup;
Ay let all my frends fight dis bourbon and
rye, and alvays pass breakfast fude up!"
"Fader Olaf, yure eyes ban so bright sum a
star, yu ant vear no glasses at all;
Ay lak yu to tal me gude reason for dis;
ay hope yu don't give me no stall."
"All the days of my life," Fader Olaf den
say, "ay never ban going to shows,
And straining my eyes vatching dese chorus
girls vich ant veering wery much clo'es!"
Den young faller say, "Fader Olaf, ay tenk
yu ban full of yinger, old pal;
But yu had to be missing gude times all yure
life, so ay skol keep on raising hal!"
Roses And Pearls
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.
How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.
Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.
On A Bust
by Edgar Lee Masters

Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce,
They do not justify your head in bronze!
Your essays! talent's failures were to you
Your philosophic gamut, but things true,
Or beautiful, oh never! What's the pons
For you to cross to fame? Your head in bronze?
What has the artist caught? The sensual chin
That melts away in weakness from the skin,
Sagging from your indifference of mind;
The sullen mouth that sneers at human kind
For lack of genius to create or rule;
The superficial scorn that says "you fool!"
The deep-set eyes that have the mud-cat look
Which might belong to Tolstoi or a crook.
The nose half-thickly fleshed and half in point,
And lightly turned awry as out of joint;
The eyebrows pointing upward satyr-wise,
Scarce like Mephisto, for you scarcely rise
To cosmic irony in what you dream,
More like a tomcat sniffing yellow cream.
The brow! 'Tis worth the bronze it's molded in
Save for the flat-top head and narrow thin
Backhead which shows your spirit has not soared.
You are a Packard engine in a Ford,
Which wrecks itself and turtles with its load,
Too light and powerful to keep the road.
The master strength for twisting words is caught
In the swift turning wheels of iron thought.
With butcher knives your hands can vivisect
Our butterflies, but you can not erect
Temples of beauty, wisdom. You can crawl
Hungry and subtle over Eden's wall,
And shame half grown up truth, or make a lie
Full grown as good. You cannot glorify
Our dreams, or aspirations, or deep thirst.
To you the world's a fig tree which is curst.
You have preached every faith but to betray;
The artist shows us you have had your day.
A giant as we hoped, in truth a dwarf;
A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf,
Which seemed at first a vessel with sweet wine
For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline
You went through sloven spirit, craven heart
And cynic indolence. And here the art
Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce
And made your shame our shame - your head in bronze!
Some day this bust will lie amid old metals
Old copper boilers, wires, faucets, kettles.
Some day it will be melted up and molded
In door knobs, inkwells, paper knives, or folded
In leaves and wreaths around the capitals
Of marble columns, or for arsenals
Fashioned in something, or in course of time
Successively made each of these, from grime
Rescued successively, or made a bell
For fire or worship, who on earth can tell?
One thing is sure, you will not long be dust
When this bronze will be broken as a bust
And given to the junkman to re-sell.
You know this and the thought of it is hell!
A Confession To A Friend In Trouble
by Thomas Hardy

Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles with listlessness -
Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.
A thought too strange to house within my brain
Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
- That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and sharing them, renew my pain . . .
It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!
1866.
To Virginia (on Her Birthday)
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Your past is past and never to return,
The long bright yesterday of life's first years,
Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn.
Some held for you a chalice for your tears,
And other days strewed flowers upon your way.
They all are gone beyond your reach,
And thus they are beyond my speech.
I know them not, so that your first gone times
To me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes.
But I can bless your soul and aims to-day,
And I can ask your future to be sweet,
And I can pray that you may never meet
With any cross, you are too weak to bear.
Virginia, Virgin name, and may you wear
Its virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er.
I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer.
"Your Riches Taught Me Poverty."
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Your riches taught me poverty.
Myself a millionnaire
In little wealths, -- as girls could boast, --
Till broad as Buenos Ayre,
You drifted your dominions
A different Peru;
And I esteemed all poverty,
For life's estate with you.
Of mines I little know, myself,
But just the names of gems, --
The colors of the commonest;
And scarce of diadems
So much that, did I meet the queen,
Her glory I should know:
But this must be a different wealth,
To miss it beggars so.
I 'm sure 't is India all day
To those who look on you
Without a stint, without a blame, --
Might I but be the Jew!
I 'm sure it is Golconda,
Beyond my power to deem, --
To have a smile for mine each day,
How better than a gem!
At least, it solaces to know
That there exists a gold,
Although I prove it just in time
Its distance to behold!
It 's far, far treasure to surmise,
And estimate the pearl
That slipped my simple fingers through
While just a girl at school!
Olaf
by William F. Kirk

Yust two years ago last venter
Ay meet Olaf op in camp;
Ve ban lumberyacks togedder.
Every morning we skol tramp
'Bout sax miles yust after breakfast
Till we come to big pine-trees;
Den our straw boss he skol make us
Vork lak little busy bees.
Olaf, he ban yolly faller,
He skol taling yoke all day;
Sometimes he sing dis har ragtime,
Yust to passing time avay.
And at night, ven we ban smoking
After supper, he skol make
All us lumberyacks to laughing
Till our belts skol nearly break.
Me and Olaf bunked together,
And sometimes he taling me
'Bout his vife and little Torger,
Who ban living cross big sea.
"Ay ban saving dough," say Olaf;
"And next summer, ef ay can,
Ay skol send for vife and baby;
Den ay ban a happy man!"
One night Olaf getting letter
Ven we coming back to camp;
He yust tal me, "Little Torger,"
And his eyes ban gude and damp.
Dis ban how ay know vy Olaf
Never taling no more yoke, - 
Vy he yust sit down at night-time,
Close by me, var he skol smoke.
What Grandfather Said
by Alfred Noyes

(An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of superior intellect and intense realism.)
Your thoughts are for the poor and weak?
Ah, no, the picturesque's your passion!
Your tongue is always in your cheek
At poverty that's not in fashion.
You like a ploughman's rugged face,
Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;
But bowler hats are commonplace,
And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.
The clerk that sings "God save the King,"
And still believes his Tory paper,--
You hate the an'mic fool? I thought
You loved the weak! Was that all vapour?
Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,
At such a shiny-trousered Tory
Because he doffs his poor old hat
To what he thinks his country's glory,
To you it's just a coloured rag.
You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.
Well, my Ulysses, there's a flag
That lifts men in Republics also.
No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;
And, where those linen folds are shaking,
Perhaps he sees a kind of star
Because his eyes are tired and aching.
Banal enough! Banal as truth!
But I'm not thinking of his banners.
I'm thinking of his pinched white youth
And your disgusting "new art" manners.
His meek submission stirs your hate?
Better, my lad, if you're so fervent,
Turn your cold steel against the State
Instead of sneering at the servant.
He does his job. He draws his pay.
You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;
And then you write a snobbish play
For democrats, in which you play him.
Ah, yes, you like simplicity
That sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.
But this domestic bourgeoisie
You hate,--because it's all too simple.
You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,
You hate the heavens that bend above them.
Your simple folk must all run wild
Like jungle-beasts before you love them.
You own a house in Cheyne Walk,
(You say it costs three thousand fully)
Where subtle snobs can talk and talk
And play the intellectual bully.
Yes. I say "snobs." Are names alone
Free from all change? Your word "Victorian"
Could bite and sting in ninety one
But now--it's deader than the saurian.
You think I live in yesterday,
Because I think your way the wrong one;
But I have hewed and ploughed my way,
And--unlike yours--it's been a long one.
I let Victoria toll her bell,
And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.
I've fought through your own day as well,
And come out on the other side, sir,--
The further side, the morning side,
I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.
But I've decided (you'll decide)
That there is room for song on Monday.
I've seen the new snob on his way,
The intellectual snob I mean, sir,
The artist snob, in book and play,
Kicking his mother round the scene, sir.
I've heard the Tories talk like fools;
And the rich fool that apes the Tory.
I've seen the shopmen break your rules
And die like Christ, in Christ's own glory.
But, as for you, that liberal sneer
Reminds me of the poor old Kaiser.
He was a "socialist," my dear.
Well, I'm your grandson. You'll grow wiser.
To Her
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Your presence like a benison to me
Wakes my sick soul to dreamful ecstasy,
I fancy that some old Arabian night
Saw you my houri and my heart's delight.
And wandering forth beneath the passionate moon,
Your love-strung zither and my soul in tune,
We knew the joy, the haunting of the pain
That like a flame thrills through me now again.
To-night we sit where sweet the spice winds blow,
A wind the northland lacks and ne'er shall know,
With clasped hands and spirits all aglow
As in Arabia in the long ago.
Last Words To Miriam
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Yours is the shame and sorrow
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.
I was diligent to explore you,
Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore you
Shrivelling down in the final dour
Anguish - then I suffered a balk.
I knew your pain, and it broke
My fine, craftsman's nerve;
Your body quailed at my stroke,
And my courage failed to give you the last
Fine torture you did deserve.
You are shapely, you are adorned,
But opaque and dull in the flesh,
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast
In a lovely illumined mesh.
Like a painted window: the best
Suffering burnt through your flesh,
Undrossed it and left it blest
With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now
Who shall take you afresh?
Now who will burn you free
From your body's terrors and dross,
Since the fire has failed in me?
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough
The shrieking cross?
A mute, nearly beautiful thing
Is your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening,
Warping the perfect image of God,
And darkening my eternal fame.
Ianthe's Troubles
by Walter Savage Landor

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down and up again as blithe as ever;
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples in a sunny river.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXI
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Your words, my friend, (right healthfull caustiks), blame
My young mind marde, whom Loue doth windlas so;
That mine owne writings, like bad seruants, show
My wits quicke in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;
That Plato I read for nought but if he tame
Such coltish yeeres; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame:
For since mad March great promise made of mee,
If now the May of my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop'd my haruest-time will be?
Sure, you say well, Your wisedomes golden myne
Dig deepe with Learnings spade. Now tell me this:
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?
The Old Man's Lament
by John Clare

Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed,
But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom:
The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed,
The root also is withered; I no more can look for bloom.
So I have said my say, and I have had my day,
And sorrow, like a young storm, creeps dark upon my brow;
Hopes, like to summer clouds, have all blown far away,
And the world's sunny side is turned over with me now,
And I am left a lame bird upon a withered bough.
I look upon the past: 't is as black as winter days,
But the worst is not yet over; there are blacker, days to come.
O, I would I had but known of the wide world's many ways,
But youth is ever blind, so I e'en must meet my doom.
Joy once gave brightest forecasts of prospects that are past,
But now, like a looking glass that's turned to the wall,
Life is nothing but a blank, and the sunny shining past
Is overcast in glooms that my every hope enthrall,
While troubles daily thicken in the wind ere they fall.
Life smiled upon me once, as the sun upon the rose;
My heart, so free and open, guessed in every face a friend:
Though the sweetest flower must fade, and the sweetest season close,
Yet I never gave it thought that my happiness would end,
Till the warmest-seeming friends grew the coldest at the close,
As the sun from lonely night hides its haughty shining face,
Yet I could not think them gone, for they turned not open foes,
While memory fondly mused, former favours to retrace,
So I turned, but only found that my shadow kept its place.
And this is nought but common life, which everybody finds
As well as I, or more's the luck of those that better speed.
I'll mete my lot to bear with the lot of kindred minds,
And grudge not those who say they for sorrow have no need.
Why should I, when I know that it will not aid a nay?
For Summer is the season; even then the little fly
Finds friends enow, indeed, both for leisure and for play;
But on the winter window it must crawl alone to die:
Such is life, and such am I--a wounded, stricken fly.
Mabel Osborne
by Edgar Lee Masters

Your red blossoms amid green leaves
Are drooping, beautiful geranium!
But you do not ask for water.
You cannot speak!
You do not need to speak - 
Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst,
Yet they do not bring water!
They pass on, saying:
"The geranium wants water."
And I, who had happiness to share
And longed to share your happiness;
I who loved you, Spoon River,
And craved your love,
Withered before your eyes, Spoon River - 
Thirsting, thirsting,
Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love,
You who knew and saw me perish before you,
Like this geranium which someone has planted over me,
And left to die.
The Woodman And Mercury.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
To M. The Chevalier De Bouillon.[2]
Your taste has served my work to guide;
To gain its suffrage I have tried.
You'd have me shun a care too nice,
Or beauty at too dear a price,
Or too much effort, as a vice.
My taste with yours agrees:
Such effort cannot please;
And too much pains about the polish
Is apt the substance to abolish;
Not that it would be right or wise
The graces all to ostracize.
You love them much when delicate;
Nor is it left for me to hate.
As to the scope of Aesop's plan,[3]
I fail as little as I can.
If this my rhymed and measured speech
Availeth not to please or teach,
I own it not a fault of mine;
Some unknown reason I assign.
With little strength endued
For battles rough and rude,
Or with Herculean arm to smite,
I show to vice its foolish plight.
In this my talent wholly lies;
Not that it does at all suffice.
My fable sometimes brings to view
The face of vanity purblind
With that of restless envy join'd;
And life now turns upon these pivots two.
Such is the silly little frog
That aped the ox upon her bog.
A double image sometimes shows
How vice and folly do oppose
The ways of virtue and good sense;
As lambs with wolves so grim and gaunt,
The silly fly and frugal ant.
Thus swells my work - a comedy immense - 
Its acts unnumber'd and diverse,
Its scene the boundless universe.
Gods, men, and brutes, all play their part
In fields of nature or of art,
And Jupiter among the rest.
Here comes the god who's wont to bear
Jove's frequent errands to the fair,
With winged heels and haste;
But other work's in hand to-day.
A man that labour'd in the wood
Had lost his honest livelihood;
That is to say,
His axe was gone astray.
He had no tools to spare;
This wholly earn'd his fare.
Without a hope beside,
He sat him down and cried,
'Alas, my axe! where can it be?
O Jove! but send it back to me,
And it shall strike good blows for thee.'
His prayer in high Olympus heard,
Swift Mercury started at the word.
'Your axe must not be lost,' said he:
'Now, will you know it when you see?
An axe I found upon the road.'
With that an axe of gold he show'd.
'Is't this?' The woodman answer'd, 'Nay.'
An axe of silver, bright and gay,
Refused the honest woodman too.
At last the finder brought to view
An axe of iron, steel, and wood.
'That's mine,' he said, in joyful mood;
'With that I'll quite contented be.'
The god replied, 'I give the three,
As due reward of honesty.'
This luck when neighbouring choppers knew,
They lost their axes, not a few,
And sent their prayers to Jupiter
So fast, he knew not which to hear.
His winged son, however, sent
With gold and silver axes, went.
Each would have thought himself a fool
Not to have own'd the richest tool.
But Mercury promptly gave, instead
Of it, a blow upon the head.
With simple truth to be contented,
Is surest not to be repented;
But still there are who would
With evil trap the good, - 
Whose cunning is but stupid,
For Jove is never dup'd.
The Expert
by Rudyard Kipling

Youth that trafficked long with Death,
And to second life returns,
Squanders little time or breath
On his fellow man's concerns.
Earned peace is all he asks
To fulfill his broken tasks.
Yet, if he find war at home
(Waspish and importunate),
He hath means to overcome
Any warrior at his gate;
For the past he buried brings
Back unburiable things.
Nights that he lay out to spy,
Whence and when the raid might start;
Or prepared in secrecy
Sudden blows to break its heart,
All the lore of No-Man's Land
Steels his soul and arms his hand.
So, if conflict vex his life
Where he thought all conflict done,
He, resuming ancient strife,
Springs his mine or trains his gun;
And, in mirth more dread than wrath,
Wipes the nuisance from his path!
At A Banquet For Professor Ludv. Kr. Daa
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 58)
Youthful friends here a circle form,
Elder foes now surrender.
Feel among us in safety, warm,
Toward you our hearts are tender.
Once again on a hard-fought day
Hero-like you have led the way,
Smiting all that before you stood; - 
But now be good!
With no hubbub, without champagne,
Dress-suit, and party-collar,
We would honor o'er viands plain
Grateful our "grand old scholar"!
When all quiet are wind and wave,
Seldom we see this pilot brave; - 
When storm-surges our ship might whelm,
He takes the helm!
- Takes the helm and through thick and thin
(Clear are his old eyes burning),
Steers the course with his trusty "grin,"
Straight, where the others are turning!
Thanks gave to him I know not who,
For he scolded the skipper, too! - 
Back he went to his home right soon:
We had the boon.
He has felt what it is to go
Hated, till truth gains the battle;
He has felt what it is to know
Blows that from both sides rattle.
He has felt what the cost is, so
Forward the present its path to show:
He, whose strength had such heights attained,
Stood all disdained.
Would that Norway soon grew so great
That it with justice rewarded
Heroes who its true weal create,
Who are no laggards sordid.
Shall we always so slowly crawl,
Split forever in factions small,
Idly counting each ill that ails? - 
No! Set the sails!
Set the sails for the larger life,
Whereto our nation has power!
Daily life is with death but rife,
If there's not growth every hour.
Rally to war for the cause of right,
Sing 'neath the standard of honor bright,
Sail with faith in our God secure,
And strong endure