DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Thyrsus - To Franz Liszt
by Charles Baudelaire

What is a thyrsus? According to the moral and poetical sense, it is a sacerdotal emblem in the hand of the priests or priestesses celebrating the divinity of whom they are the interpreters and servants. But physically it is no more than a baton, a pure staff, a hop-pole, a vine-prop; dry, straight, and hard.
Around this baton, in capricious meanderings, stems and flowers twine and wanton; these, sinuous and fugitive; those, hanging like bells or inverted cups.
And an astonishing complexity disengages itself from this complexity of tender or brilliant lines and colours.
Would not one suppose that the curved line and the spiral pay their court to the straight line, and twine about it in a mute adoration? Would not one say that all these delicate corollse, all these calices, explosions of odours and colours, execute a mystical dance around the hieratic staff? And what imprudent mortal will dare to decide whether the flowers and the vine branches have been made for the baton, or whether the baton is not but a pretext to set forth the beauty of the vine branches and the flowers?
The thyrsus is the symbol of your astonishing duality, O powerful and venerated master, dear bacchanal of a mysterious and impassioned Beauty. Never a nymph excited by the mysterious Dionysius shook her thyrsus over the heads of her companions with as much energy as your genius trembles in the hearts of your brothers. The baton is your will: erect, firm, unshakeable; the flowers are the wanderings of your fancy around it: the feminine element encircling the masculine with her illusive dance. Straight line and arabesque intention and expression the rigidity of the will and the suppleness of the word a variety of means united for a single purpose the allpowerful and indivisible amalgam that is genius what analyst will have the detestable courage to divide or to separate you?
Dear Liszt, across the fogs, beyond the flowers, in towns where the pianos chant your glory, where the printing-house translates your wisdom; in whatever place you be, in the splendour of the Eternal City or among the fogs of the dreamy towns that Cambrinus consoles; improvising rituals of delight or ineffable pain, or giving to paper your abstruse meditations; singer of eternal pleasure and pain, philosopher, poet, and artist, I offer you the salutation of immortality!
The March Of The Workers
by William Morris

What is this, the sound and rumour?    What is this that all men hear,
Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near,
Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear?
'Tis the people marching on.
Whither go they, and whence come they?    What are these of whom ye tell?
In what country are they dwelling 'twixt the gates of heaven and hell?
Are they mine or thine for money?    Will they serve a master well?
Still the rumour's marching on.
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder
Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and
mirth,
All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the earth.
Buy them, sell them for thy service!    Try the bargain what 'tis worth,
For the days are marching on.
These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat,
Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet,
All for thee this day--and ever.    What reward for them is meet
Till the host comes marching on?
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder
Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
Many a hundred years passed over have they laboured deaf and blind;
Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil might find.
Now at last they've heard and hear it, and the cry comes down the wind,
And their feet are marching on.
O ye rich men hear and tremble! for with words the sound is rife:
"Once for you and death we laboured; changed henceforward is the strife.
We are men, and we shall battle for the world of men and life;
And our host is marching on."
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder
Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
"Is it war, then?    Will ye perish as the dry wood in the fire?
Is it peace?    Then be ye of us, let your hope be our desire.
Come and live! for life awaketh, and the world shall never tire;
And hope is marching on.
"On we march then, we the workers, and the rumour that ye hear
Is the blended sound of battle and deliv'rance drawing near;
For the hope of every creature is the banner that we bear,
And the world is marching on."
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder
Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
Song's Eternity
by John Clare

What is song's eternity?
Come and see.
Can it noise and bustle be?
Come and see.
Praises sung or praises said
Can it be?
Wait awhile and these are dead--
Sigh, sigh;
Be they high or lowly bred    They die.
What is song's eternity?
Come and see.
Melodies of earth and sky,
Here they be.
Song once sung to Adam's ears
Can it be?
Ballads of six thousand years
Thrive, thrive;
Songs awaken with the spheres
Alive.
Mighty songs that miss decay,
What are they?
Crowds and cities pass away
Like a day.
Books are out and books are read;
What are they?
Years will lay them with the dead--
Sigh, sigh;
Trifles unto nothing wed,
They die.
Dreamers, mark the honey bee;
Mark the tree
Where the blue cap "tootle tee"
Sings a glee
Sung to Adam and to Eve
Here they be.
When floods covered every bough,
Noah's ark
Heard that ballad singing now;
Hark, hark,
"Tootle tootle tootle tee"--
Can it be
Pride and fame must shadows be?
Come and see--
Every season own her own;
Bird and bee
Sing creation's music on;
Nature's glee
Is in every mood and tone
Eternity.
Life's Grandest Things.
by Jean Blewett

What is the greatest work of all?
The work that comes every day;
The work that waits us on ev'ry hand
Is work that, for us, is truly grand,
And the love of work is our pay.
What is the highest life of all?
It is living, day by day,
True to ourselves and true to the right,
Living the truth from dawn till the night,
And the love of truth for our pay.
What is the grandest thing of all - 
Is it winning Heaven some day?
No, and a thousand times say no;
'Tis making this old world thrill and glow
With the sun of love till each shall know
Something of Heaven here below,
And God's well done for our pay.
Growing Old
by Matthew Arnold

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes, but not for this alone.
Is it to feel our strength,
Not our bloom only, but our strength, decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?
Yes, this, and more! but not,
Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be!
'Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day's decline!
'Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion -none.
It is last stage of all,
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
Success.
by W. M. MacKeracher

What is success? In mad soul-suicide
The world's vain spoils rapaciously to seize,
To pamper the base appetite of pride,
And live a lord in luxury and ease?
Is this success, whereof so many prate? -
To have the Midas-touch that turns to gold
Earth's common blessings? to accumulate,
And in accumulation to grow old?
Nay, but to see and undertake with zest
The good most in agreement with our powers,
To strive, if need be, for the second best,
But still to strive, and glean the golden hours,
With eyes for nature, and a mind for truth,
And the brave, loving, joyous heart of youth.
A Counting-Out Song
by Rudyard Kipling

What is the song the children sing,
When doorway lilacs bloom in Spring,
And the Schools are loosed, and the games are played
That were deadly earnest when Earth was made?
Hear them chattering, shrill and hard,
After dinner-time, out in the yard,
As the sides are chosen and all submit
To the chance of the lot that shall make them "It."
(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Catch a nigger by the toe!
(If he hollers let him go!
Eenee, Meenee. Mainee, Mo!
You-are-It!"
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, and Mo
Were the First Big Four of the Long Ago,
When the Pole of the Earth sloped thirty degrees,
And Central Europe began to freeze,
And they needed Ambassadors staunch and stark
To steady the Tribes in the gathering dark:
But the frost was fierce and flesh was frail,
So they launched a Magic that could not fail.
(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Hear the wolves across the snow!
Some one has to kill 'em, so 
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make, you, It!"
Slowly the Glacial Epoch passed,
Central Europe thawed out at last;
And, under the slush of the melting snows
The first dim shapes of the Nations rose.
Rome, Britannia, Belgium, Gaul, 
Flood and avalanche fathered them all;
And the First Big Four, as they watched the mess,
Pitied Man in his helplessness.
(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Trouble starts When Nations grow,
Some one has to stop it, so
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Make-you-It!"
Thus it happened, but none can tell
What was the Power behind the spell,
Fear, or Duty, or Pride, or Faith,
That sent men shuddering out to death,
To cold and watching, and, worse than these,
Work, more work, when they looked for ease,
To the days discomfort, the nights despair,
In the hope of a prize that they never could share,
(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Man is born to Toil and Woe. 
One will cure another-so 
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make-you-It!"
Once and again, as the Ice went North
The grass crept up to the Firth of Forth.
Once and again, as the Ice came South
The glaciers ground over Lossiemouth.
But, grass or glacier, cold or hot,
The men went out who would rather not,
And fought with the Tiger, the Pig and the Ape,
To hammer the world into decent shape.
(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
What's the use of doing so?
Ask the Gods, for we don't know;
But Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make-us-It!"
Nothing is left of that terrible rune
But a tag of gibberish tacked to a tune
That ends the waiting and settles the claims
Of children arguing over their games;
For never yet has a boy been found
To shirk his turn when the turn came round;
Nor even a girl has been known to say
"If you laugh at me I shan't play."
For, "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo,
(Don't you let the grown-ups know! )
You may hate it ever so,
But if you're chose you're bound to go,
When Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make-you-It!"
The Letter.
by Charlotte Bronte

What is she writing? Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow
Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,
Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress,
Falls glittering at her feet;
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Pursues her labour sweet.
The very loveliest hour that shines,
Is in that deep blue sky;
The golden sun of June declines,
It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
The white road, far away,
In vain for her light footsteps wait,
She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass
Close by that lady's chair,
From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
Around the threshold grow;
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance
Between the clustering flowers,
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again!    Still fixed her eye,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Urged by her eager will.
Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
To whom, then, doth she write?
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
Her own eyes' serious light;
Where do they turn, as now her pen
Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
Did in their dark spheres shine?
The summer-parlour looks so dark,
When from that sky you turn,
And from th'expanse of that green park,
You scarce may aught discern.
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade
Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive head,
A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
A brow high, broad, and white,
Where every furrow seems to speak
Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
Her eye a moment met
Th'impending picture, then it fell
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done,
And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting sun
She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not,
For by the inscription see
In what a strange and distant spot
Her heart of hearts must be!
Three seas and many a league of land
That letter must pass o'er,
Ere read by him to whose loved hand
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
Her husband, loved though stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
Weeps for his wished return.
The Gray Sisters
by Madison Julius Cawein

What is that which walks by night
In flying tatters of leaves and weeds,
When the clouds rush by like daemon steeds,
And the moon is a jack-o'-lantern light
Low in the pool's dark reeds?
What is that, like a soul who sinned?
Is it a witch? or the Autumn wind?
What is that which sits and glowers
Under the trees by the forest pool?
With a cloak of moss whence the raindrops drule,
Chilling the air with a sense of showers
And touch of the cold toadstool:
What is that, with its breath of gloom?
Is it a witch? or the Fall perfume?
What is that in a mantle of gray,
With rags, like water, that wreathe and wind?
That gropes the forest, as if to find
A path, long-lost, on its midnight way,
Shadowy, old and blind:
What is that, so white and whist?
Is it a witch? or the Autumn mist?
You may have met them; you may have heard;
As I have heard them; as I have met:
The three gray sisters of wind and wet
Each With a spell or a cryptic word
Working her magic yet:
The three gray sisters, the witches old,
Daughters of Autumn, who haunt the wold.
Several Questions 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.
The look of love alarms
Because 'tis fill'd with fire;
But the look of soft deceit
Shall Win the lover's hire.
Soft Deceit and Idleness,
These are Beauty's sweetest dress.
He who binds to himself a joy
Dot the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity's sunrise.
The Poet's Theme
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What is the explanation of the strange silence of American poets
concerning American triumphs on sea and land?
Literary Digest.
Why should the poet of these pregnant times
Be asked to sing of war's unholy crimes?
To laud and eulogize the trade which thrives
On horrid holocausts of human lives?
Man was a fighting beast when earth was young,
And war the only theme when Homer sung.
'Twixt might and might the equal contest lay,
Not so the battles of our modern day.
Too often now the conquering hero struts
A Gulliver among the Liliputs.
Success no longer rests on skill or fate,
But on the movements of a syndicate.
Of old men fought and deemed it right and just.
To-day the warrior fights because he must,
And in his secret soul feels shame because
He desecrates the higher manhood's laws
Oh! there are worthier themes for poet's pen
In this great hour, than bloody deeds of men
Or triumphs of one hero (though he be
Deserving song for his humility):
The rights of many - not the worth of one;
The coming issues - not the battle done;
The awful opulence, and awful need;
The rise of brotherhood - the fall of greed,
The soul of man replete with God's own force,
The call "to heights," and not the cry "to horse," - 
Are there not better themes in this great age
For pen of poet, or for voice of sage
Than those old tales of killing?    Song is dumb
Only that greater song in time may come.
When comes the bard, he whom the world waits for,
He will not sing of War.
Discovery
by Madison Julius Cawein

What is it now that I shall seek
Where woods dip downward, in the hills? - 
A mossy nook, a ferny creek,
And May among the daffodils.
Or in the valley's vistaed glow,
Past rocks of terraced trumpet vines,
Shall I behold her coming slow,
Sweet May, among the columbines?
With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes,
Big eyes, the homes of happiness,
To meet me with the old surprise,
Her wild-rose hair all bonnetless.
Who waits for me, where, note for note,
The birds make glad the forest trees? - 
A dogwood blossom at her throat,
My May among th' anemones.
As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,
And dews caress the moon's pale beams,
My soul shall drink her lips' perfumes,
And know the magic of her dreams.
The Rainbow.
by H. P. Nichols

"What is the rainbow, mother dear,
With many-colored light?
Have the clouds parted just to show
The floor of heaven so bright?
"Or is it wings of angels pure
That touch along the sky?
And do they come that we may see
How fair is all on high?
"Or, mother, on that shining arch
Do spirits rise above?
And on that bended bow ascend
Where all is light and love?
"How beautiful must be that road!
Why should we call those back,
Who travel to the better land
On such a sunny track?
"Why did you weep when brother died?
Did you not know that he
On that delightful path must tread,
Ere he in heaven could be?"
"My dearest child, we cannot know,
Or trace the spirit's flight,
For sin and sorrow draw their veil
Across our mortal sight.
"If--as the rainbow takes its hues
Of beauty from the sun--
We strive to live like Christ our Lord,
The meek and holy One,--
"Then shall we dwell in Heaven's clear day,
Which knows nor night nor moon,
For, ever, from the Father's throne
Beams high and cloudless noon."
Napoleon
by Walter De La Mare

"What is the world, O soldiers?
It is I:
I, this incessant snow,
This northern sky;
Soldiers, this solitude
Through which we go
Is I."
At Parting.
by Madison Julius Cawein

What is there left for us to say,
Now it has come to say good-by?
And all our dreams of yesterday
Have vanished in the sunset sky - 
What is there left for us to say,
Now different ways before us lie?
A word of hope, a word of cheer,
A word of love, that still shall last,
When we are far to bring us near
Through memories of the happy past;
A word of hope, a word of cheer,
To keep our sad hearts true and fast.
What is there left for us to do,
Now it has come to say farewell?
And care, that bade us once adieu,
Returns again with us to dwell - 
What is there left for us to do,
Now different ways our fates compel?
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And look the love that shall remain - 
When severed so by many a mile - 
The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And trust in GOD to meet again.
What Is Flirtation?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What is flirtation?    Really,
How can I tell you that?
But when she smiles I see its wiles,
And when he lifts his hat.
'Tis walking in the moonlight,
'Tis buttoning on a glove,
'Tis lips that speak of plays next week,
While eyes are talking love.
'Tis meeting in the ball-room,
'Tis whirling in the dance;
'Tis something hid beneath the lid
More than a simple glance.
'Tis lingering in the hallway,
'Tis sitting on the stair,
'Tis bearded lips on finger-tips,
If mamma isn't there.
'Tis tucking in the carriage,
'Tis asking for a call;
'Tis long good-nights in tender lights,
And that is - no, not all!
'Tis parting when it's over,
And one goes home to sleep;
Best joys must end, tra la, my friend,
But one goes home to weep!
Distant Hills
by John Clare

What is there in those distant hills
My fancy longs to see,
That many a mood of joy instils?
Say what can fancy be?
Do old oaks thicken all the woods,
With weeds and brakes as here?
Does common water make the floods,
That's common everywhere?
Is grass the green that clothes the ground?
Are springs the common springs?
Daisies and cowslips dropping round,
Are such the flowers she brings?
*    *    *    *    *
Are cottages of mud and stone,
By valley wood and glen,
And their calm dwellers little known
Men, and but common men,
That drive afield with carts and ploughs?
Such men are common here,
And pastoral maidens milking cows
Are dwelling everywhere.
If so my fancy idly clings
To notions far away,
And longs to roam for common things
All round her every day,
Right idle would the journey be
To leave one's home so far,
And see the moon I now can see
And every little star.
And have they there a night and day,
And common counted hours?
And do they see so far away
This very moon of ours?
*    *    *    *    *
I mark him climb above the trees
With one small [comrade] star,
And think me in my reveries--
He cannot shine so far.
*    *    *    *    *
The poets in the tales they tell
And with their happy powers
Have made lands where their fancies dwell
Seem better lands than ours.
Why need I sigh far hills to see
If grass is their array,
While here the little paths go through
The greenest every day?
Such fancies fill the restless mind,
At once to cheat and cheer
With thought and semblance undefined,
Nowhere and everywhere.
Knowledge.
by Archibald Lampman

What is more large than knowledge and more sweet;
Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs,
Of passions and of beauties and of songs;
Knowledge of life; to feel its great heart beat
Through all the soul upon her crystal seat;
To see, to feel, and evermore to know;
To till the old world's wisdom till it grow
A garden for the wandering of our feet.
Oh for a life of leisure and broad hours,
To think and dream, to put away small things,
This world's perpetual leaguer of dull naughts;
To wander like the bee among the flowers
Till old age find us weary, feet and wings
Grown heavy with the gold of many thoughts.
What Is It?
by John Hartley

What is it maks a crusty wife
Forget to scold, an leeave off strife?
What is it smoothes th' rooad throo life?
It's sooap.
What is it maks a gaumless muff
Grow rich, an roll i' lots o' stuff,
Woll better men can't get enough?
It's sooap.
What is it, if it worn't theear,
Wod mak some fowks feel varry queer,
An put em i' ther proper sphere?
It's sooap.
What is it maks fowk wade throo th' snow,
To goa to th' church, becoss they know
'At th' squire's at hooam an sure to goa?
It's sooap.
What is it gains fowk invitations,
Throo them at live i' lofty stations?
What is it wins mooast situations?
It's sooap.
What is it men say they detest,
Yet allus like that chap the best
'At gives em twice as mich as th' rest?
It's sooap.
What is it, when the devil sends
His agents raand to work his ends,
What is it gains him lots o' friends?
It's sooap.
What is it we should mooast despise,
An by its help refuse to rise,
Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?
It's sooap.
What is it, when life's wasting fast,
When all this world's desires are past,
Will prove noa use to us at last?
It's sooap.